Howling her fury, Larajin dived at the archer. She raked him with all four feet, claws tearing at his face. Above her, she heard a hoarse caw, and from behind her came a stranger sound-the snarl of an angry dog. She risked a glance back, and saw Tal rising to his feet, getting ready to run. There was no time to see if he made it, however. She had to avoid the archer, who flailed at her, cursing.
Larajin scratched his arm, but her claws slid harmlessly off the thick leather bracer that protected it. His fist connected with her head, knocking her spinning through the air. She crashed into a wooden rail in front of the building opposite Ilmeth’s Manor, and felt something crack in one wing, then she fell heavily to the ground. Shaky, unable to rise, she looked up and saw the archer aiming his arrow at her.
So this is how I’m going to die, she thought, vision blurring from the pain of her injured wing. Silently, she began to pray. Goddess enfold my soul in your love, I-
A heartbeat before the archer loosed his arrow, a large dark shape streaked up the street. Leaping into the air, it struck the archer full in the chest, knocking him down.
The other two soldiers-Ilmeth’s men-were also in trouble. Leifander, still in crow form, had landed on the rooftop above Larajin and was flapping his wings furiously. The blast of magical wind he summoned caught the two full on, tumbling them backward like blown leaves against the steps of Ilmeth’s Manor. Inside the manor, Red Plumes officers shouted orders, drew steel, and tried to join the fight. The wind howled in through the open doorway, driving them back.
At last able to rise to her feet but still unable to straighten her injured wing, Larajin looked around. She saw no sign of Tal-she prayed that meant he’d escaped-but she did finally get a good look at her savior. It was an enormous wolf that stared back at her with bright green eyes. Amazingly, the wolf reared up and walked like a man on its two hind legs. Bending at the waist, he reached down with paws that looked like elongated, hairy hands, picked her up, and gently cradled her to his chest, then he ran.
The pain of her injured wing nearly made Larajin faint. Gentle though he was, the wolf-creature couldn’t help but jostle her as he ran. Larajin had a dim sense of buildings flashing past, then a gate, and shouting soldiers, and arrows singing past. Head lolling, she happened to look up and saw Leifander flying low and hard after them, then trees were on either side and the wolf-creature’s run became a series of leaps and zigzags as he made his way deeper into the forest.
The pain in her wing was intense, all consuming. Larajin tried to cast a healing spell, but the prayer would not come to her lips. She found herself unable to maintain concentration, and she began slipping out of tressym form. Her torso and limbs elongated, fur and feathers shrank back into her skin, and her injured wing became an injured left arm. The wolf-creature, suddenly finding his burden increased tenfold, staggered under the increased weight and nearly dropped her. Sagging to his knees, he lowered her to the forest floor.
Behind him, Leifander settled onto a branch, then hopped along it, his head cocked.
The wolf-creature crouched for a moment in silence, still panting from his run. Then, in a voice that was part growl, part yip, he barked out a single word.
“Larajin?”
Larajin peered up at the creature, whose face was thrown into shadow by the moonlight that streamed down from above. The wolf lifted his head to glance up at Leifander, and she got a better look at his features. They were those of a wolf indeed, with pointed ears and a mouth filled with sharp white fangs, but there was something about those green eyes, the way they sparkled with intelligence-and recognition. Larajin suddenly realized that she was looking not at some strange forest creature but at a product of a magical contagion that had shifted an ordinary man into a werewolf-and not just any man.
“Tal?” she asked.
The werewolf nodded.
Behind him, Leifander had shifted back to elf form. He hopped lightly down from the branch.
“I didn’t know your brother could skinwalk,” he said.
Tal spun in place and snarled, exposing teeth and claws. Larajin reached out to stop him with her good arm-then gasped as a fresh wave of pain wracked her body. Tal, however, must have recognized Leifander, for his hands relaxed, then dropped to his side. He grinned, tongue lolling.
“Leifander,” Tal said. “I see my sister found you.”
Leifander dipped his head in a slight bow.
Dizzy with pain, Larajin was also reeling from having learned Tal’s secret. Suddenly, all of Tal’s strange ways made sense: his constant obsession with shaving, his monthly bouts with the “flu” that supposedly confined him to bed, his wolfish appetite, and his reluctance to handle the silver dagger he’d given her-all were explained by the fact that he was infected with lycanthropy.
Larajin hadn’t been the only one in the Uskevren household with a secret. Maybe it was time to share hers.
“Tal,” she began. “There’s something I…”
Moving sent a shock of pain through her injured arm. Before she did anything else, she needed to heal it. Cradling the arm against her chest, she touched her locket and began to pray to both goddesses. Healing a cracked bone wasn’t easy.
“Sune and Hanali Celanil, grant me your blessing. Lend me a little of your healing magic.” The locket began to warm under her fingers, and a hint of floral scent rose from it. “Heal my-”
She gasped as a sharp pain lanced through her foot. It felt as though something sharp had gotten inside the boot, and Larajin had trod upon it. She recognized it as the sharp sting of the thorn.
Tal kneeled by her side, his wide green eyes brimming with concern. “What’s wrong, Larajin? Your face has gone ashen.”
Leifander was a heartbeat behind him. He too kneeled at Larajin’s side. “Isn’t it obvious? Her arm’s injured. Larajin, do you want me to try to-”
“Get away from me, both of you,” Larajin gasped, looking wildly around the forest and groping for the magic dagger in its sheath at her hip. “It’s Drakkar. He’s coming for-”
Before she could complete her warning, a bolt of magical energy hissed through the night. Streaking a line of silvery sparks, it wound its way in a tight spiral around Tal’s torso, solidifying into a sparkling coil that pinned his arms against his sides. Howling, he leaped to his feet, but the coil of energy had rooted itself in the ground like a vine. It tightened around his body, creasing his skin, and the smell of burning flesh filled the air. Crashing to the ground, Tal lay, panting, eyes wide.
“It’s … silver.” he gasped. “It burns like … poison.”
Leifander had reacted swiftly, braid flying out behind as he whipped around to face the spot from which the magical attack had originated. In a voice tight with urgency, he began chanting the words to a spell in the flowing language of the forest elves.
Speedy though his reaction had been, it wasn’t fast enough. A voice in the woods barked three quick, chittering words, and Leifander’s prayer suddenly stopped. His eyes glazed and his tattooed face fell into a slack-jawed expression. A moment later, he started to drool. He stared stupidly around, a confused look on his face. His lips moved, trying to form words, but all that came out was a soft grunt.
As soon as she had seen the magic energy streaking toward Tal, Larajin began to pray. The glow around the locket intensified, and the smell of Hanali’s Heart filled the air. Larajin abandoned her healing spell. Instead she beseeched her goddesses for one of the first spells they’d ever bestowed upon her.
As Drakkar stepped out of the forest, she shouted at him with all of the power she could muster: “Flee!”
Though the floral smell intensified and the glow from the locket became as bright as a small campfire, nothing happened. Drakkar stared down at her, unperturbed, then flicked his fingers in her direction. She found herself unable to move, save for blinking and breathing. She resisted his spell with all of her willpower, but though sweat broke out on her brow and her fingers trembled, her body remained rigid. Her jaw was locked shut and her lips wouldn’t even twitch. There would be no more prayers. She looked wildly around, heart hammering in her chest, silently hoping that Rylith, Doriantha-or even Goldheart-would appear to rescue her.