Chapter 8

Veren Redmorning jerked upright on his pallet, every sense alert. He groped for his sword harness as he listened for the sound that had awakened him.

There. The twang of arrows being fired from the watchtowers was clearly audible. And others. That's not an Orc bow I hear now. No time to waste putting on a tunic. Veren snapped the harness in place, drew his swords, and windwalked out of the burrow and into the night.

He supposed he should not have been entirely surprised to see the two Night Elves using the shadow of his burrow for cover. They were certainly surprised to see him.

An arrow whistled past his head a couple of seconds after he broke cover, but it was entirely too late. Veren left the bodies and dodged behind the burrow himself. A moment later, he risked a glance around one edge.

Darts flew periodically from slits in the other burrows, with limited accuracy due to the peons' limited vision. A number of raiders seemed to be embroiled in a running engagement with some Elves mounted on black panthers. As he watched, a raider leaned half out of her saddle and neatly stabbed the nearest Elf's thigh. The enemy rider shrieked and tried to throw a glaive, but blood spurted from the second-largest artery in her body and she was forced to withdraw toward the edge of the camp.

A number of archers like the two Veren had killed stood back out of range, shooting at the raiders and trying to avoid watchtower fire. Then a giant arrow hit one of the towers and it appeared to catch fire. The occupant kept right on firing, apparently undeterred.

Brave Orc, Redmorning thought. And probably dead.

Behind the archers stood two very large Elves in feathered robes. As Veren watched, one clapped his hands together over his head, and the wounded woman's leg suddenly stopped bleeding as yellow light swirled around her.

Demons. They do have healers. Veren drew up his invisibility again, and ran out through the camp. It was difficult to see through the haze of windwalk at all, and even more so at night. Consequently, Shel'yin almost lost an arm when he seized Veren's shoulder on the way by.

Redmorning stopped just in time. "Kill the spellcasters!" he said, and ran on.

"Yes, Chieftain," Shel'yin said.

Redmorning heard a faint hiss behind him as the warlock threw a crippling spell at an Elf. Then there was another cry as the attacker was brained with a staff. Veren smiled grimly and dodged around the edge of the cavalry fight.

Running out of mana. Save some for a bladestorm. Veren snapped out of the windwalk as he ducked under the wooden supports of the nearest tower.

He glanced back and was surprised to see a small shape running after him. Kev'ran. Shel'yin seemed to have gone around the other side of the riders, tripping up a panther in passing and allowing Kerd Bladeleaper to gut it with an economical stroke.

A clear space already began to grow around the raiders' commander. All of the Night Elves were undoubtedly older than Kerd Bladeleaper, but none of them had grown up in Outland, Veren thought with grim humor. A thousand years of sporadic combat is nothing to forty years of fighting everything in sight. And we've had no magic healers for generations. If you can't avoid getting hurt, you die.

The wolf was smaller than the panthers, and Kerd wore less armor than the Elves. It made no difference at all. Glaives missed as Kerd and the wolf Lightrunner dodged and leaped smoothly through the fracas. Those who attacked the Bladeleaper almost invariably fell.

Veren Redmorning looked back toward his targets and discovered one of them was still there. The other seemed to have been replaced by a very large and angry bear. It turned and started toward him as he watched, opening its mouth to bellow a challenge. The other Elves seemed to redouble their efforts as they heard its roar.

"I am here, Chieftain," Kev'ran's voice said.

Something hissed behind Veren, and he smelled the sharp tang of mana in the air. Then the unholy frenzy took hold, and his heart jumped in his chest as everything snapped into sharp focus. The animal in front of him seemed to move with dreamlike deliberation, lifting one foot after another as if it swam through mud.

Veren darted forward and to his right. The bear turned to slash at him, but it was far too slow. He spun and stabbed with his left sword behind the bear's left shoulder, burying it to the haft. The creature snarled and started to swat at him anyway. He leaped backward, then slashed at its eyes. He had to stab it twice more before it fell over.

Blood pulsed from the wound twice as Redmorning retrieved his other sword. At least one blow must have connected, because he seemed to have three parallel cuts across his bare chest and shoulder. It did not hurt, though he knew it would later.

Redmorning turned toward the other spellcaster, but it was already dead. Shel'yin stood over the body and used his staff as a club whenever a rider came near. Behind him, Lev Darksun was making splinters of what seemed to be some kind of arrow-throwing device.

"Kev'ran, go and help Shel'yin," he said, his own voice distant in his ears, and then he turned and ran back toward the inexplicable pile of bodies in front of the great hall.

A panther leaped past Redmorning's shoulder, seemingly hovering in the air. He hamstrung it with his right blade. It shrieked, spilling its rider at his feet. Redmorning sank the blade in the Elf's throat and started to run on.

Then he heard a crackle of unfamiliar mana and threw himself to the ground. He moved obscenely fast, but the nimbus of the spell still caught him as it flew over his head.

Veren Redmorning hissed as the frenzy dissipated abruptly. The weight of the world crashed down on his head, leaving him dizzy and weak. He struggled up to one knee, fighting to keep a grip on his swords – they seemed suddenly to weigh a hundred pounds each - and turned to see a new kind of Night Elf trotting toward him.

At least, her top half was Elf. The bottom half seemed to be some kind of deer. Veren watched her artfully spin a spear in her hands as he labored to raise his weapons, to fend off the blow, but he knew he would be too slow.

He had no gods to invoke, and if he had, there was no time. As he watched the Elf raise her weapon to finish him he thought, I hope Shel'yin leads them well.

Then the Night Elf dropped her spear. Veren Redmorning blinked, uncomprehending, as the Elf wheezed and fell to all four knees. He looked without understanding at the broken glaive buried in her throat as she toppled over.

Someone snatched the sword from his unresisting left hand. It was the last thing he felt before he fell.