She shook the vial and unstoppered it, shook a few drops onto a square of linen, and hurried over to the centaur captain.
"Nesstiss, give me your hoof," she demanded. The centaur looked surprised, hut he obligingly bent one leg. Arilyn stooped and wiped a bit of the potion on the hoof. "Now put it down, as gently as possible."
Nesstiss eased down his hoof. The crunch of a pebble beneath it was magnified to a startling rattle. He looked at Arilyn with wonder.
"Five centaurs, charging the camp from either flank," she said with a grin. "It'll sound like a cavalry charge. That ought to wake up the mercenaries!"
She caught Zoastria's eyes upon her. The elf woman nodded in solemn approval. "Anoint the hoofs of the others, quickly," she said. "Centaurs, do as Arilyn suggests. Attack from both sides, startle the humans, and send them toward us. Then circle around to the back of their camp and continue to press them."
Arilyn motioned for the centaurs to get into position; then she handed another bit of linen to the nearest elf and indicated that he should help. When the centaurs were ready, she went over to Zoastria.
"There's a drop or two left in the vial. You have heard how it increases sound. Drink it, and your commands will be heard over any battle," Arilyn said softly.
The tiny elven warrior took the potion without hesitation and tipped back her head. Arilyn reclaimed the empty vial and stepped back into the ranks of elves.
Zoastria faced the assembled forces. Her eyes blazed as they swept the lines, connecting briefly but intensely with each one there. Then she drew the moonblade with a slow, deliberate flourish. The centaurs lifted their long spears into position, each looking very much like a lance-bearing knight and fearful warhorse, combined into one being.
The elven battle leader spun toward the encampment and whipped the sword forward, signaling the attack with a battle cry that rang over the hills like a dragon's roar.
Immediately the centaurs kicked into a charge. Hooves pounding, the two small bands swept out wide and descended upon the camp like summer thunder. The ground shook beneath them, magnifying their charge into that of a vast army.
In response, the mercenaries poured from their tents, half dressed and fumbling for their weapons. Again Zoastria shouted, and the first wave of elves ran
through the deforested grounds toward the still-bemused humans.
As he ran, Foxfire fitted an arrow to his bow and sighted down the nearest and most deadly target. Two hideous ore-human hybrids charged forward to meet the elves. Their speed was astonishing, their battle-axes held high. Foxfire aimed for the slower runner. His arrow took the creature through the throat. The half-ore plunged to the ground, and as he fell his up-held axe bit deep into the back of his comrade.
"One arrow, two half-ores," Arilyn commended him as she passed, her hands empty but for a single long dagger.
The half-elf was not skilled enough with the bow to shoot while running, but she was the only one there who knew of that lack. Every member of the Elmanesse tribe was a hunter trained to shoot with deadly accuracy while running down prey. Black arrows rained down upon the mercenaries, sending them fleeing for cover.
But there was none to be found. Already the centaurs had circled around to the back of the camp and were pressing the humans forward. The cries of men who died on the ends of centaur spears mingled with the clash of swords against the oak-staffed spears as their comrades sparred against the centaur warriors.
A tall human stalked through the encampment, his dark cloak flowing behind him and a large, broad-bladed sword in his hand. He smacked a retreating fighter with the flat of his blade, roaring out orders until the chaos settled into some semblance of order. His mercenaries formed into ranks and raced forward to meet the elves hand to hand.
Arilyn picked her first opponent, a large man who was equipped with a fine Cormyran sword and very little else. Shiftless from slumber and clad only in woolen trews, he had managed to pull on only his boots before battle. She charged straight at him, her dagger held level before her. The man saw the charge and the gleaming hilt in her hand, but he could not judge the length
of the weapon. Ten inches of steel, held at just the right angle, could give the illusion of a sword.
The man parried with an upward sweep-one that fell several inches short of Arilyn's oncoming blade. She hurled herself at him, thrust the dagger into his belly with one hand, and grabbed the wrist of his sword arm with the other. Tearing the dagger free, she twisted her body toward him. She yanked his arm down, bringing her knee up hard to meet it just behind the wrist. The bones of his forearm gave way with a brutal crack.
Arilyn rolled clear of the falling man and came up with his sword in her hand. She whirled and lifted the sword high to meet the downward sweep of a battle-axe. At the last moment she remembered that the weapon in her hands was not elven steel. She pushed the direction of the parry closer in toward her opponent, so that she blocked the wooden haft of the axe, rather than its blade.
It was a well-done impulse, for surely the axe would have shattered the slender Cormyran sword. As it was, the force of the blow pushed her borrowed blade to the ground. Before the axeman could lift his weapon for another sword-shattering blow, Arilyn kicked out hard over their joined blades and caught him just above the belt. The man folded; she danced aside and finished him with a quick stroke.
Nearby, one of the elves was fighting toe-to-toe with a much larger human, a rough street fighter who wielded two long knives. One of the blades slashed through the elf s defenses and tore open his shoulder. The human grinned wildly and drew back his other knife for a killing stroke.
Arilyn's first lunge knocked the attacking knife out wide. She body-blocked the wounded and much smaller elf, sending him reeling out of the line of battle so that she might take his place. Facing the street fighter, she feinted high. He crossed his blades before his face to ward off the blow. Arilyn continued the attack, her borrowed sword diving in over the joined blades, pinning them into place, and pressing them down. The man jerked his knives free of the sword with a shriek of metal, a movement that sent both arms out wide and left his torso unprotected. The half-elf's sword plunged deep between his ribs. She lifted one foot high and kicked the impaled fighter off her blade, then turned to find another foe.
Not all the forest people were faring so well. Some of the humans had broken through their ranks and were forming a line between the elves and the cover of the forest. They had apparently learned the danger of engaging the forest folk amid the trees and did not intend to be pressed that far northward.
Seeing this, Foxfire looked about for the mercenary captain. He caught a glimpse of a swirling dark cloak. The human was battling one of the centaurs who, although bleeding from several wounds and bereft of half his spear, still parried the man's broadsword with a broken length of oaken shaft.
The elven archer lifted his bow for the shot. The black bolt skimmed between the combatants and grazed Bunlap's face-as Foxfire had intended for it to do. The human let out a roar of anger and pain. He clapped one hand to his bleeding, scarred cheek.
The centaur made use of this opportunity to clobber the man across the shoulders with bis staff. Unfortunately, the creature's wounds had stolen most of his strength. Bunlap whirled back toward the centaur, swinging his sword viciously as he went. The blade sank deep into the centaur's body, cutting a deep and deadly furrow between his manlike torso and his equine body. Seeing that this particular battle was over, the mercenary turned to search for his elven tormentor-and his long-sought prey