It seemed like only a few seasons since Lanithaine had taken Shanhaevel in, had begun to teach the orphaned elf child his craft of magic. Shanhaevel felt as though he had barely scratched the surface of his studies, that it was only a few short months ago he had tried his first simple cantrips. Lanithaine had worn a much younger face then, and there had been no stooped shoulders, no limp.
Lanithaine had spent most of his life with his pupil. The older man had devoted himself to teaching, and the student had been there since nearly the beginning. Older man, Shanhaevel thought with wry amusement. He’s not really that much older—perhaps a decade or so. Not really old at all. And yet, Lanithaine was old. It made Shanhaevel sad to look at the man in front of him, hunched low on his horse as they rode through the rain and the last remnants of the day. He realized that their roles had reversed. Now he was taking care of the old man, looking out for Lanithaine just as Lanithaine had done for him years ago. We don’t have many of those too-short years left to spend together, the elf thought. He’ll be gone soon. I should make the most of the time we do still have left.
Shanhaevel forced his thoughts back to the present. He can’t ride in the dark, the elf told himself. We’ll have to stop soon, or I’ll have to lead him. He shook himself, sending a cascade of droplets spraying into the near-darkness. At that moment, a vague half-voice, little more than a thought, intruded into his mind, and he realized it had been there for several moments, nudging him, trying to get his attention.
Bad things.
A branch snapped somewhere ahead, near the trail, and Shanhaevel froze, pulling his mount to a stop.
“Lanithaine, hold on,” he called. As his teacher reined in, the elf listened, barely breathing.
Such a fool! Shanhaevel berated himself as he watched and waited. Letting your guard down to listen to nostalgic tales and to argue. Where? he thought, sending his silent question to the trees above, speaking to the mind that had spoken to him.
Hiding. In the trees.
The back of his neck prickled, but Shanhaevel heard nothing more, so he raised himself in his stirrups and shoved his hood back for a better look around. His eyes shimmered and glowed faintly, reflecting the faintest remnants of western light, revealing the unmistakable shape and lavender hue of his gray-elven heritage. Having stared so long at nothing more than the back of Lanithaine’s horse and the muddy road, those eyes now scanned the purple gloom without difficulty, spying shape where there should be darkness, grayish light where only deep shadow should hang.
“What is it?” Lanithaine asked as he guided his horse beside Shanhaevel’s.
“Ormiel spotted something ahead,” the elf replied, his voice low. “He said there were ‘bad things’. I don’t see anything, but I heard a twig pop.”
“You did? I haven’t heard a thing.”
“That’s because you’re as deaf as a newel post,” Shanhaevel whispered, still watching. He saw no menace, but he caught scent of something—something foul. His horse must have smelled it as well, for it whickered and tossed its head.
“Shh,” Shanhaevel whispered, running his hand along the horse’s mane to calm it. He was straining to see and hear but was still unable to detect anything. Long moments passed, but there was only the patter of rain as it pelted the broad leaves of the ipps towering around him.
After a moment, Shanhaevel mentally commanded, Show me. From overhead, there was the briefest rustle, and as the elf looked up, a red-tailed hawk, its wings spread wide, glided down, shooting past his shoulder and ahead, following the road. It pulled up near a large tree perhaps thirty paces further down, settling onto a large branch about fifteen feet above the ground. As its taloned feet grasped the rough bark of the tree limb, it screeched loudly.
Here, it whispered into Shanhaevel’s mind. Hiding.
The elf was just about to open his mouth and suggest that they turn their horses and head back the way they had come when he heard another fallen branch crack, and then there was the unmistakable sound of a bow being drawn tight. At the same time, something crashed out from the underbrush.
Fly! Shanhaevel cried as he heard the twang of an arrow, but the hawk was already in motion, lunging off the branch and diving low to gain speed rapidly, then gliding inches off the ground. It was past the two riders and up into the branches above in a heartbeat. The arrow lanced through the oak leaves where the hawk had been, slicing a few free of the branch and sending them floating wetly to the ground.
Shanhaevel caught a glimpse of several shapes swarming out from where they had been hiding behind the trunks of trees. The elf caught a glimpse of tall bodies with oddly shaped heads. A broad-bladed axe was in the hands of the nearest attacker, but Shanhaevel was already dismounting, tossing his staff down to the muddy road and cursing as he swung out of the saddle.
“Come on!” he growled at Lanithaine as he tugged the reins, swinging his horse around to use it as a shield between the two of them and the ambush. Lanithaine was leaning low in the saddle and trying to swing a frail leg back, but his horse was panicked, and with a frightened whinny it reared up on its hind legs and dumped its rider to the ground. Lanithaine toppled into the mud and rolled to one side.
“Run!” Shanhaevel shouted as he fought to maintain control of his own frightened mount, at the same time reaching to grab hold of the reins of Lanithaine’s horse.
The approaching figures, fully a half dozen of them, had fanned out along the road and were closing. At least two wielded bows and were taking aim. Shanhaevel felt an arrow whisk past his shoulder, and he detected a soft grunt of pain from Lanithaine.
Dread filled the elf. Let him be all right, he prayed. Abandoning his efforts to control the horses, Shanhaevel released them both, letting them charge away in terror. Lanithaine’s mount reared and lunged forward, colliding with one of the creatures, which shouted what sounded like a curse.
Gnolls! Shanhaevel recognized the creatures language. This close to the edge of the forest? This near civilization? He shook his head and dismissed the thought as he spun toward where Lanithaine had rolled, seeking to aid the injured man—and went sprawling into the mud. He had stepped squarely on his own staff, and it had rolled out from underneath him. He landed awkwardly on both hands and wrenched one shoulder, while the other arm slipped in the slick dampness of the road and shot out from beneath him. He went facedown into the mud.
Shanhaevel rolled, sputtering and trying to wipe the mud free from his eyes with the hem of his cloak. Move! he screamed silently. The gnolls had to be almost on him. He managed to clean his face enough to open his eyes, just in time to see one of the gnolls looming over him with a huge axe raised high overhead. Gasping in near-panic, Shanhaevel felt for his staff as he scrambled to avoid being split in two.
Above Shanhaevel, the gnoll leered and hefted the axe even higher. Boccob! the elf prayed again as he rolled to the side. Time seemed to come to a near standstill as he kicked himself away from impending slaughter. No matter how hard and fast he tried to churn his legs, the gnoll was never far away, striding inexorably closer to him. A second creature moved beside the first and peered down at Shanhaevel, watching the elf with an ominous grin on its doglike face. The elf’s cloak and clothes were now soaked in thick, wet mud and tangled about his legs and arms. He slipped again and flopped on his back, staring skyward as the gnoll hesitated, apparently savoring the moment.
The burst of light that shot across Shanhaevel’s field of vision at that moment wasn’t nearly as jarring as the concussive blast that accompanied it, leaving the elf flailing in the mud, blind and deaf, his whole body buzzing painfully. He panicked, although he knew what had happened, for he had seen Lanithaine’s magical bolts of lightning often enough. Blinded, Shanhaevel had no idea if the gnolls had been felled by the bolt or were still standing over him about to carve him into tiny, mud- and blood-covered bits.