Tiger Ty folded his arms. “Depends on who’s asking. There’s a lot of people not to be trusted these days. Are you one of them?”
The black-bearded man flushed and started forward a step, but a glance from the other stopped him in his tracks. “No,” he answered, lifting an eyebrow quizzically. “Are you?”
Tiger Ty smiled. “Guess this game could go on awhile, couldn’t it? Are you free-born?”
“Now and forever,” said the tall man.
“Then you’re who I’m looking for. I’m called Tiger Ty. I’ve been sent by Wren Elessedil, Queen of the Land Elves.”
“Then the Elves are truly back?”
Tiger Ty nodded.
The tall man smiled in satisfaction. “I’m Padishar Creel, leader of the free-born. My friend is called Chandos. Welcome back to the Four Lands, Tiger Ty. We need you.”
Tiger Ty grunted. “We need you worse. Where’s your army?”
Padishar Creel looked confused. “My army?”
“The one that’s supposed to be marching to our rescue! We’re under attack by a Federation force ten times our size—cavalry, foot soldiers, archers, siege equipment—well, not so much of that anymore, but enough armor and weapons to roll us up like ants under a broom. The boy said you were on your way to help us with five thousand men. Not enough by half, but any help would be welcome.”
Chandos frowned darkly, rubbing at his beard. “Just a minute. What boy are you talking about?”
Tiger Ty stared. “The one with the war shrike.” A sudden uneasiness gripped the Wing Rider. “Tib Arne.” He looked from one face to the other. “Blue eyes, towheaded, kind of small. You did send him, didn’t you? ”
The men across from him exchanged a hurried glance. “We sent a man who was forty if he was a day. His name was Sennepon Kipp,” Chandos said carefully. “I should know. I made the choice myself.”
Tiger Ty went cold all the way through. “But the boy? You don’t know the boy at all?”
Padishar Creel’s hard eyes fixed him. “Not before this, Tiger Ty. But I’d be willing to bet we know him now.”
Bright light seared the slits of Wren’s eyes as she regained consciousness, and she turned her head away, blinking. A fist knotted in her hair and jerked her upright, and the voice that whispered in her ear was filled with hatred and disdain.
“Awake, awake, Queen of the Elves.”
The hand released, letting her slump forward on her knees, her head aching from the blow that had felled her. A gag filled her mouth, secured so tightly that she could only breathe through her nose. Her hands were tied behind her back, her wrists lashed with cord that cut the flesh. Dust and the smell of her own sweat and fear filled her nostrils.
“Ah, lady, my lady, the fairest of the fair, ruler of the Westland Elves—you are such a fool!” The voice became a hiss. “Sit up and look at me!”
She was struck a blow to the side of the head that spilled her back to the ground, and again the fist closed on her hair and yanked her upright. “Look at me!”
She lifted her head and stared into Tib Arne’s blue eyes. There was no laughter in them now, nothing of the boy that he had seemed. They were hard and cold and filled with menace.
“Cat got your tongue?” he sneered, and gave her a mirthless smile. There was blood on his hands. “Cat got your tongue, and I’ve got the rest. But what to do with you? What duty shall I render to the Queen of the Elves?”
He wheeled away, laughing softly, shaking his head, hugging himself with glee. Wren looked around in dismal recognition. Erring Rift lay dead on the ground next to her, the killing blade still jammed to the hilt in his back. Grayl lay a little further off, lifeless as well, most of his head missing. Towering over him was Gloon, grown somehow as large as the Roc, feathers bristling from his sinewy body like quills. Talons and beak already red with blood ripped at the dead Roc, tearing out new chunks of flesh. In the midst of eating, Gloon paused and stared directly at her, crested brows furrowing, and what she saw in the war shrike’s eyes was an undisguised hunger.
Her breath caught in her throat, and she could not look away.
“Larger than you remember him, isn’t he?” Tib Arne said, suddenly very close again, his shadow enveloping her as he bent down. His boyish voice was all wrong for the hardened face. “That was your first mistake—thinking that we were what we seemed. You were very stupid.”
He seized her neck and twisted her to face him. “It was easy, really. I could have come into the camp at any time, could have told you I was anyone. But I waited, patient and smart. I saw the free-born messenger, and I intercepted him. He told me everything before he died. Then I took his place. All I needed to do was to get you alone for a few moments, you see. That was all.”
His eyes danced. Suddenly he began hitting her with his free hand, holding her upright as he did so that she would not fall. “But you wouldn’t give me that!” He stopped hitting her, jerking her bloodied face about so that she could see him again. His blond hair was awry and his blue eyes sparkled, but the winning boy could not conceal the monster that seethed just beneath the surface of the skin, tensed to break forth. “You tried to send me away, and while I was gone you led that night attack on the Federation army! Stupid, stupid girl! They’re nothing! All you did was slow things up a bit, force us to bring the Creepers just that much sooner, require us to work just that much harder!”
He dropped to his knees in front of her, hand still clenched about her neck in a grip of iron. A single word repeated itself over and over in her pain-fogged mind. Shadowen.
“But I killed those men—or rather Gloon did for me. Tore them to shreds, and I listened to them scream and did nothing to quicken their death. But it was your fault they died, not mine. I sent Gloon to hide and came back—too late to stop your foolish night raid, but soon enough to make certain it would not happen again. And then I waited, knowing a chance would come to get you alone, knowing it must!”
He gave her his little-boy look of pleading, and his voice grew mocking. “Oh, Lady, please, please take me with you? You promised you would? Please? I won’t be any trouble?”
She breathed sharply through her nose, fighting to clear the blood and dust, struggling to stay conscious.
“Oh, I’m sorry. Are you uncomfortable?” He slapped her lightly on one cheek and then the other. “There! Is that better?” He laughed. “Where was I? Oh, yes—waiting. And today marks the end of that, doesn’t it? You turned your back, I whistled in Gloon to finish the Roc, kept your attention fixed on the Creepers while I stabbed the Wing Rider, then knocked you out. So quick, so easy. Over and done with in seconds.”
He released her and stood up. Wren slumped but refused to fall, to give him the satisfaction. Her own rage was building, fighting through the weariness and pain, giving her strength enough to focus on the boy.
The Shadowen.
Tib Arne snickered. “No hope for you now, is there, Queen of the Elves? Not the least. They’ll hunt for you, but they won’t find you. Not you, not the Wing Rider, not the Roc. You will all simply disappear.” He smiled. “Want to know where? Of course you do. Doesn’t matter with the other two, but you...”
He put his hands on his hips and cocked his head, his casual stance betrayed by the hardness in his eyes and the malice in his voice. “You will go to Southwatch and Rimmer Dall—with these!”
He reached into his pocket and pulled out the leather pouch that held the Elfstones. Her heart lurched. The Elfstones, her only weapon against the Shadowen.
“We’ve known about them since you killed our brother at the Wing Hove. Such power—but it is no longer yours. It belongs to the First Seeker now. And so will you, my lady. Until he’s done with you, and then I’ll ask that you be given back to me!”
He shoved the pouch back into his pocket. “You should have let things be, Elf Queen. It would have been better for you if you had. You should have remembered that we are all of a common origin—Elves, come out of the old world where we were kings. You should have asked to be one of us. Your magic would have let you. Shadowen are what Elves were destined to become. Some of us knew. Some of us listened to the earth’s whisper!”