Chapter 9

Kristophan, the Imperial League

The spell will be impregnable for two hours," Nalaran explained. "Then it will begin to weaken. After that, the moment you strike a blow against anyone, the magic will fail."

Shedara nodded—she already knew this—and glanced at Eldako to make sure he understood. The merkitsa's face was pinched, his eyes narrow. He didn't like the idea of trusting magic, particularly from a wizard he didn't know. Shedara knew Nalaran, though. He had been Armach's greatest archmage, before doom fell upon the kingdom. His magic had served the Voice—but it hadn't saved the Voice, or many other Silvanaes, and Eldako had confessed that failure worried him. To be honest, it had worried Shedara as well.

But Quivris had told her that Nalaran hadn't been with Thalaniya when the shadows attacked. The survivors had found him a week later, hiding in the wilds, hungry and exhausted. Since then, the wizard had proven his worth again and again. Quivris swore on his sword that Nalaran was reliable.

Besides, there weren't many ways to infiltrate a minotaur city without being noticed, if you were an elf. And they were running out of time.

They had traveled west through the woods, avoiding the shadows, until they came to the shore: Eldako, Shedara, Quivris, Nalaran, and thirty other elves, half of those who dwelt in Quivris's secret caves. There, in a sheltered, rocky cove, they had found three small boats, left there in case the Silvanaes had to flee Armach. They took one of them up the coast, nearly a hundred leagues, moving at night and finding places to hide during the day. This, and a few judicious spells to make the vessel invisible, let them slip past the formidable minotaur navy and make landfall a few leagues south of what remained of Kristophan.

Shedara knew the fabled city of the bull-men well: its tremendous sprawl of white marble, once home to half a million people. Its bustling markets sold goods from all over Taladas, its thriving harbor used to be a forest of masts flying sails of every color imaginable, and the streets of Kristophan were packed with humans and minotaurs, all jostling and bumping to get somewhere else. What she hadn't yet seen, however, was that half of that grand metropolis was gone, smashed to rubble and sunk beneath the sea by an earthquake earlier that year. The emperor's palace, the grand halls of the senate, and the mighty temples to Sargas, Jolith, and Zai were all gone, swallowed by the great rift that had opened beneath the city. Its walls ended in jagged stubs atop cliffs of raw, rough stone. Mourning-fires still burned in great, bronze bowls atop the jagged islands where Kristophan's northern half had been. They would keep burning for years to come.

Now the League was recovering. A new throne had been made. A new emperor sat upon it, a warlord unloved by the people: Rekhaz. Soldiers were everywhere. It would make things even more difficult than they imagined.

They hid in a grotto along the seashore, four miles from the city. The moons were not in the same phase now, so their shelter stayed dry even in high tide. Nalaran went into the city alone, hidden by magic, to find out what he could. He was gone a long time, long enough for both Quivris and Shedara to worry. But he returned, his face pale and grim, and told them what he'd discovered: Forlo and Hult were being held at the gladiatorial arena. They were to fight for their freedom—or, rather, Forlo's; Hult's life was forfeit either way. It would happen tomorrow.

Shedara saw the grim look on Eldako's face and knew hers held the same expression. "We're out of options," she said. "Now we have to act."

"We can't take them from the arena!" Quivris protested. "There'll be thousands of minotaurs there. There'll be hundreds of guards!"

Shedara shook her head. "You promised to do this, Brother. Are you afraid to keep your word?"

Quivris fell silent, fuming: she had challenged him in front of his men. Shaking his head, he turned and walked away. Shedara closed her eyes, her mouth pinching with pain. She and Quivris had been friends as well as close siblings, but things had changed. Grief and need were driving a wedge between them. Their kinship would remain, but it would never be the same.

She opened her eyes and saw Eldako looking at her—then his eyes shifted away, as if he believed she might think he just happened to be glancing in her direction for a moment. She knew better. She could feel the wild elf's stare, even when she wasn't looking at him. In truth, she wasn't sure she minded.

They made a plan. It was risky. Quivris insisted it wouldn't work: it relied too much on sorcery, and he was a warrior. Those who couldn't use the Art would never trust it, not fully. Eldako felt even worse about relying on magic—from the look on his face, he might have taken a bite of an unripe ishka-fruit. But both Shedara and Nalaran were confident that, if fortune smiled on them, they could rescue Forlo and Hult from the sands. And there was no time to devise anything better. They went ahead, the mages staying up all night to study their spells while the rest of the elves found what sleep they could. An hour before dawn, they gathered in the mouth of the grotto, and Nalaran cast the seeming spell upon them.

"Once the magic is gone," he explained, weaving his hands before Eldako and the Silvanaes, "it will not come back. You also will keep your own voice, and will not sound like one of them, a minotaur, so do not speak. Try not to stray too close to anyone who looks like a priest or a sorcerer, either. They might see through the guise, if they're looking for trickery."

Quivris scowled. "But other than all that, don't worry."

"Brother…" Shedara warned.

Smiling slightly, Nalaran turned to Shedara and cast the spell. Though she understood the words he spoke, they still seemed to crawl like beetles across her mind. The air shimmered, and for a heartbeat every hair on her body stood erect—and then, with a rushing sensation that made her feel like her head was suddenly full of blood, her body changed. She grew almost two feet. Coarse, gray fur sprouted from limbs that writhed with iron-hard muscle. Her neck thickened, her face lengthened, and long horns burst from her forehead. She swayed on her feet, dizzy from the change, and shut her eyes to steady herself. When she opened them again, her heart lurched with instinctive alarm before reason slowed it down again. She was surrounded by minotaurs: huge, hulking brutes of many different colors, some in armor, others in the short robes commoners wore in Kristophan. Every single elf in the cave had changed shape—except Nalaran himself, who now leaned against the stone wall, looking at once pleased with himself and extremely frail. He wouldn't be going with them; he had other things to do.

Shedara's gaze roved across the group, seeking out Eldako. There he was, rusty brown and battle-worn, a scar running from his snout to his left ear. He had a wide-eyed look on his face that made her want to laugh. She stifled the urge: she knew the merkitsa's pride.

Another minotaur, a towering, black-furred beast in segmented mail, stepped onto a stone outcrop and faced the rest. Quivris.

"You know the plan," Quivris said. In other, less grave circumstances his elf voice would have seemed hilarious, coming from that sharp-toothed snout. "Get into the arena. Find your places. Wait for Eldako to fire the first shot. Then move."

The minotaurs all nodded. And that was it. A few minutes later, they began to leave the cave—gradually, in ones and twos and threes. They split up, moving into the city, making their way to the arena. Shedara was one of the last to go, with Eldako. Quivris had already left, without a word to her. That hurt, but she thrust her feelings aside.

"Do you think this will really work?" the wild elf whispered as they walked along the dusty, cobbled road toward the haze of Kristophan.

She shrugged. "We have to make it work. No other choice, really."

A few minutes later, they met up with a larger group of bull-men and fell in with them. After that, they no longer spoke. When they'd passed through the city gates—where minotaurs and men alike were thronging—they made their way to the arena. Shedara felt at home, untroubled by the danger. This wasn't the first time she'd entered Kristophan this way. Seeming spells were a primary tool of a moon-thief, second only to invisibility as a means of infiltration.

Eldako, however, was clearly overwhelmed. He was trying not to stare at the looming marble buildings, towering on either side of him. Born and bred in the Dreaming Green, he had never seen a place like this. Shedara recalled her own awe, the first time she came to the metropolis—and she had seen paintings of it beforehand. She'd tried to describe it for Eldako, but that could accomplish only so much. Words were one thing; being crammed into crowded streets with thousands more people than dwelt in the largest merkitsa village was another. To his credit, though, Eldako stayed calm amid the press of bodies, the noise, the stink.

The arena towered before them, huge, its fortified walls ringed with colorful banners and statues of minotaur heroes. Everyone was making their way toward it, and Shedara and Eldako followed the river of bodies until they reached the broad plaza surrounding the stadium. Then they broke away from the crowd and found a nearby street lined with taverns. The reek of the city was worse there, and became almost unbearable when they ducked behind one of the alehouses into an alley. Garbage was everywhere; a dog lay dead, swarming with flies.

"Welcome to the city," she murmured, flashing a crooked smile.

Eldako shook his head, trying to blink away the stench's sting. "I am trying to think of meadows and streams. I am trying to think of leaves… ."

Fortunately, they didn't have to wait long. The back door of a taproom swung open, and a pair of minotaur soldiers came staggering out, half-drunk and needing to piss. Shedara eyed their garb: it matched the armor worn by the archers who kept watch over the sands. This was where they came to drink, a run-down place called the Shivered Spar. It was a dive, but it had good ale, and didn't water its wine. She'd known a few of the archers would be indulging when they should be on duty: not all minotaurs prized honor equally. Some had appetites.

The bull-men weren't completely inebriated, but they were tipsy enough that they didn't realize they weren't alone until it was too late. Eldako stepped toward them, swift as a panther, and crushed one archer's throat with a swift chop from the side of his hand. The soldier dropped to his knees, choking and clutching, and Eldako drew a knife from his belt and plunged it into his neck, just behind his jaw. A jet of blood pierced the air, and the minotaur fell forward with a grunt.

The second minotaur was too shocked to react. Wits numbed by beer, he stared as his partner collapsed—a moment too long. Shedara flicked her wrist, drawing a dagger and throwing it with a single motion. It hit the bull-man in the eye, and the creature died without ever realizing what was going on. She slid in, catching him so his mail didn't clatter as he fell, and eased his dead weight to the ground.

She felt the seeming spell waver, strained by the violence they'd just committed, and held her breath. It had been less than two hours since Nalaran cast it, though, and in the end it held. She breathed again.

Glancing around, they yanked their blades from the dead bull-men, sheathed them, and stripped off their armor. In moments they wore the archers' breastplates, bracers, and greaves. Shedara also took their bows and arrows, but Eldako kept his own. No one would notice. With luck no one would see anything but the armor and his horns. They dragged the corpses down the alley, next to the dead dog, kicked a few rats away, and heaped trash on them. Then, hearts thundering, they made themselves walk out of the alley again and turned back toward the arena.

They got in with no trouble. The size of the place amazed Eldako. There were nearly as many minotaurs in its stands as there had been riders in Chovuk's whole, vast horde—and the seats were still only three-quarters full. Silently, they chose an empty post around the edges of the sands. Eldako strung his bow, nocked an arrow, and waited.

An hour passed. The seeming spell grew weaker. It would hold out for a day or more, but they were past being able to hold it if they committed violence. From now on, they would get one chance to fight, and then they would he elves again.

The plan could never work. But it had to.

Every now and then, Shedara caught sight of one of the others. A few had also taken positions around the edge of the ring. Others were in the stands. Quivris stood near the emperor's box. Some she couldn't pick out from among the crowd, though; she wondered if any had been caught. If they had, they were dead by now. She knew well enough that an elf spy would simply be killed on the spot. She'd seen it happen. She'd lost friends that way.

She was still lost in those grim memories when brass trumpets blew. All eyes turned toward the arena's great doors as they shuddered open, and she caught her breath. A band of guards escorted Forlo and Hult out onto the sands and made them kneel before the emperor's gallery while Rekhaz pronounced their sentence. Shedara stared, trembling with anger. Forlo looked all right, though Hult had had a rough time of it. He was battered and bruised, stripped to his clout, and his braid was gone. Eldako sucked on his teeth when he saw that, rumbling deep in his throat. He knew the Uigan's ways, knew what an insult that was.

A runner brought the captives' swords, planted them in the sands in the middle of the ring. Hult and Forlo took them up. The trumpets blew again. Shedara held her breath, her hands clenched into fists, and held still as the long, gnashing worms—she knew them as horaxes, though Eldako muttered a slightly different word—came skittering across the sands.

Eldako kept his fingers tense against his bowstring as he watched the fight, ready to draw and loose at any time. But he didn't shoot, even when both swords broke. Shedara held her ground as well, as much as she wanted to leap into the fray and help. It wasn't time—and besides, she had seen Hult and Forlo fight. They were both more than capable… she hoped.

Soon she was proven right. Hult killed one of the horaxes with his bare hands, ripping its armor off and stomping it to death. He ran to help Forlo, who was being gnawed on by the other beast. Together, they pulled free. Then Hult screamed, and even from halfway across the arena Shedara saw his fingers fall onto the sands. The minotaurs, rapt with bloodlust, cheered so loudly her,ears rang. Eldako shut his eyes, his lips tight against his fangs. Shedara knew he was thinking of the Green, keeping his calm. The horax's mandibles locked around Hult's ankle. He screamed and fell. Forlo tried to help but couldn't pry the pincers loose.

Eldako had told Shedara there was no better archer in Northern Hosk than he. She wasn't sure if this was just boasting, but as he brought up his bow and sighted along the arrow, she prayed to Astar. The merkitsa's face turned blank, all emotion draining away. There was only him and the arrow and his target. Lost in that serenity, he exhaled and loosed.

The shaft flashed through the air. It hit the horax and killed it instantly. And the spell lifted. He was a merkitsa again, the stolen armor hanging loose on his body.

A heartbeat later, there were elves everywhere—or so it must have seemed to the bull-men, as startled guards and commoners alike drew blades and bowstrings and attacked those near them. Fifty minotaurs died in the time it took to draw two breaths. Chaos followed.

Eldako nocked arrow after arrow—he'd had time to make new ones on the journey to Kristophan—and loosed them at the minotaur archers. A half dozen of the Silvanaes joined him. Between them, they made short work of the guards, picking them off before they could do more than launch a few weak shots at Forlo and Hult. Two of the Silvanaes fell as well, one run through with a spear and the other with an arrow in his throat. Eldako leaped down onto the sands and aimed his bow up into the crowd. There were armored guards up there too; he started shooting them, one by one.

The Silvanaes were outnumbered by thousands of enemies twice their size. The plan should have failed. Against an arena full of minotaurs, thirty-three elves should have had no chance. But it wasn't a fair fight, either. The elves didn't drop their bull-man forms all at once, but gradually, slowly enough to let the thought sink in, all over the arena: any minotaur might actually be an elf in disguise. The bull-men started eyeing one another suspiciously, not sure who might draw a blade and attack next. Masses pressed anxiously toward the exits.

As for Shedara herself, she didn't move yet, didn't raise her bow. She waited, holding her minotaur form. It pained her to watch her people die, but she had a role to play in this, and fighting wasn't her job… not yet, anyway. She kept back, clutched her arm, and pretended to be hurt while bedlam erupted all around her.

At last, Quivris made his move. The warden of Armach had held his form long enough to push right up to the imperial box, appearing to the confused bull-men to be one of Rekhaz's personal retinue. Now he drew his sword and thrust it through the breast of one of the emperor's courtiers, then whipped it around and extended it toward Rekhaz before anyone knew it was happening. As he did, his form dissolved into the scarred elf, the brother Shedara no longer knew.

The emperor stared at him, his eyes narrow with fury. The tip of Quivris's sword hung, perfectly still, a hand's breadth from his throat. Elven steel glistened in the sunlight, the dead courtier's blood running along its edge. Quivris's blade was enchanted, one of the finest in Armach, an heirloom from the old kingdom across the sea. It could cut through stone as if it were water. Rekhaz didn't seem to care, didn't seem in the least afraid. Shedara watched as his gaze shifted from the blade to her brother, and his lips curled back to reveal his pointed teeth.

Rekhaz laughed, reaching for his own weapon, and Quivris stabbed at him. But he was no longer there—with an agility Shedara never would have expected from one so huge, he twisted aside, and the sword only grazed his shoulder. Bright blood sprayed the imperial box, and a hush fell over the arena.

The emperor had been bloodied.

Now Rekhaz was on the attack himself, whipping a jeweled, broad-bladed sword from his scabbard, batting Quivris's blade away, then leaping back and grabbing a battle axe from the huddled corpse of one of his guards, a warrior who'd taken one of Eldako's arrows through his forehead. He waved the surviving courtiers away, grinning as though he enjoyed himself. All eyes in the arena were now on the battle between Quivris and the minotaur emperor.

Rekhaz hurled himself at the warden of Armach, bringing the weapons down and across, an attack that ought to have carved any foe into pieces. But Quivris was nimble too, throwing himself backward, then spinning his sword in a tight arc that lopped off the axe's head, sent it spinning out onto the sands. Rekhaz's eyes flicked after it, then he pounded Quivris in the side of the head with the broken haft.

Shedara saw her brother reel, saw him stagger, and yearned to go to him. He was going to die up there. Rekhaz was a master swordsman. But she had a duty. Without her, the plan would fail. It could survive the loss of Quivris—maybe—but if she shirked, all this would be for nothing. And they would probably all be killed. So she stayed where she was, sick at heart, and kept waiting.

Quivris spat blood and tried to regain his balance. Rekhaz sneered, dropping the broken axe and shifting his sword to a two-handed grip. He swung it at the elf's neck, but Quivris ducked again, and the blow missed. He came up again, parried another cut, then swept his foot around and kicked the minotaur—hard—in the side of the knee. There was a crunch, and Rekhaz howled, stumbling sideways.

The ancient elven blade snapped around, its swing reversing in the blink of an eye. It struck flesh, just above the emperor's wrists. More blood flowed, and the jeweled sword clattered to the floor of the imperial box… with Rekhaz's hands still gripping it.

Rekhaz bellowed in agony. All around the arena, minotaurs cried out in outrage as he fell to one knee, staring in disbelief at the stumps of his arms. Quivris didn't hesitate, stepping in to lay the edge of his sword against the emperor's throat.

"Be still!" he shouted, even as nearby minotaurs pressed close. "If anyone makes a move toward me, your new emperor loses his head too!"

It worked. The other guards and courtiers, many of whom had been shoving toward him, all froze. Rekhaz's eyes burned with rage as he glared up at the elf who'd bested him. Quivris smiled a glittering smile.

"You know I'll do it, don't you, Your Majesty?" he asked. "And I'll enjoy it, too. So stay where you are, or I'll start with your horns."

Rekhaz glowered, but did not rise.

"You'll never escape," he rumbled through gritted teeth. "You'll die before you can leave this city. Your head will be on a spike before the city gates by nightfall. And then my armies will crush your kingdom and make ashes of its forests."

Quivris shrugged. His kingdom had already fallen. Then he raised his voice so that it carried across the arena. "People of the League! Your emperor is our hostage! If you don't want another interregnum, stand down!"

It was enough: all eyes, spectator and guard alike, were locked on the imperial box. No one noticed a lone minotaur archer step forward, onto the sands—no one but Eldako, who was watching for it. It was Shedara's turn: now she ran toward the center of the ring, where Forlo and Hult stood, dumbstruck and bleeding, by the remains of the horaxes. She shed her minotaur form as she ran, and smiled as she saw the stunned recognition on the gladiators' faces.

She didn't see the second archer, one she'd thought to be dead, rise to his knees and take aim at her—not until Eldako shouted for her to get down. She threw herself into the dust, felt the wind of the shaft passing overhead, then twisted in time to see Eldako pull and loose. The archer clapped a hand to his chest, where a dragon-nocked arrow appeared, then pitched back onto the ground.

"No one else interferes!" Shedara shouted, rising from the ground. "Not if you want your emperor left alive!"

Nobody moved.

Shedara ran the rest of the way to Forlo and Hult. "Hello again," she said. "Didn't think we'd leave you to this rabble, did you?"

"But…" said Forlo. "How? Where—?"

"Explanations later," she said. "We're still in a lot of trouble. Take off your armor."

"What?" Forlo asked.

"No questions. Take it off. Now."

He stripped, shedding plates and chainmail until he wore only the padding underneath.

"It's all about weight," Shedara said. "I can only carry so much, and all that steel's more than I can handle."

"Oh," Forlo said, unbuckling his greaves. "I see—wait, carry?"

"Hold still."

She spared quick glances at Eldako and her brother. Then she began to gesture, drawing in the moons' power. The magic swelled around her as she spoke words to shape it. The air surrounding her body began to glow a soft, golden color. Another guard lurched forward. Eldako put an arrow in his eye. The glow around Shedara grew, and she raised her voice to a shout—then grabbed both Forlo's and Hult's arms at once. There was a flash and a sound like ice breaking on a frozen lake, and then everything vanished.

When the world returned, they were no longer in the arena—but they were still in Kristophan, in a courtyard several blocks away. Shedara handed her shortsword to Forlo, and one of her long, fighting daggers to Hult. Then she drew a pair of slim knives and looked around. The plaza was deserted, a little square with a garden and bubbling fountain in its midst. She nodded toward a shadowy colonnade.

"Hide," she whispered. "Quickly."

"What happens now?" Forlo asked.

"We wait," she said. "The others will be along."

He looked dubious, but did as she asked.

The plan was for everyone to hold their positions until she and the others vanished. Then they were to get to the sands by the imperial box, make their way out together with Rekhaz as hostage, and find Shedara. It was mad, a desperate plan. She wondered how many more of her people would die. She wondered if any of them would make it. If half an hour passed without any sign, she was to continue without them. She wasn't sure if she could do that, just leave Quivris and Eldako and the rest.

Forlo asked questions. She gave answers while inspecting their wounds, explaining who the elves were and telling how they'd convinced Quivris to help. Hult's ankle was in bad shape—he wouldn't be able to travel without help. Forlo's face darkened when she mentioned their promise to stop the shadows, but he didn't contest her decisions. After that, they stayed quiet, listening to the tumult from the direction of the arena—there would be rioting in the city tonight, no matter what happened. There would be death.

Half an hour came and went. Shedara blinked back tears. Motioning for the others to stay put, she crept to the mouth of the alley, moving from shadow to shadow, and peered into the street.

Half a dozen soldiers were standing there, crossbows raised, pointing back toward the arena. She turned to look down the dusty street, and had to bite her tongue to keep from crying out when she saw them: her people, stopped in their tracks. Eldako was still with them—and so was Rekhaz, Quivris still holding a sword to his throat.

Shedara swore under her breath, then turned and waved to Forlo. He crept forward. Hult tried to follow, but his injured leg wouldn't let him. Forlo stopped next to her, saw the crossbowmen, and nodded. He raised two fingers, pointed, then slashed his hand sideways.

She wasn't completely sure what that meant, but all right. "Now," she murmured.

They bolted from the courtyard's mouth. She threw one of her knives as she ran, and it hit the nearest minotaur in the stomach. He howled, his crossbow clattering to the ground, then went down. He bumped the bull-man next to him as he fell.

Then Forlo was upon them, yelling a war-cry in the minotaur tongue. That startled them, and two turned to face him. He cut them down. Shedara, meanwhile, pounced on another, who dropped his arbalest and was reaching for a spiked mace when her knife opened his throat. He crumpled.

Two minotaurs remained. One shot at the elves. Shedara heard a voice shout in pain—and then arrows answered, from Eldako and the other Silvanaes. The last of the crossbowmen collapsed.

The elves came forward, arrows nocked, looking around for more signs of trouble. Shedara tried to get her throwing knife back, but the blade was bent, so she left it in the minotaur's body. She turned to the Silvanaes, counted them, and felt sick to her stomach. There were only nineteen.

"So few," Shedara said. "The others"

"Are dead," Quivris replied. "Eleven lives lost, to spare two."

She shook her head. "Brother, I'm sorry."

He said nothing.

"What about him?" Forlo asked. "Do you need him anymore?"

Everyone looked at Rekhaz. He wasn't in the plan, once they were clear of the city.

"We mean to release you, Your Majesty," said Quivris. "But you must swear not to take any action against Armach, or you will not go free."

The emperor was silent a moment. Then, his lip curling, he spat in Quivris's face.

"I take no oaths for elves," he said.

Quivris nodded, wiping his eye. He stepped back, turned, and handed Forlo his sword.

Rekhaz's eyes widened. He whirled and tried to run, sending two elves flying. It wasn't enough; he hadn't taken three steps before Eldako and four others put arrows in him: two in his left knee, one in his right, and two more in his back. With a roar, the emperor slammed into the marble wall of a building and crashed to the ground.

Forlo stepped forward, weighing the elven blade in his hand. "What do you think, Rekhaz?" he asked. "Would you rather suffer or die fast?"

The emperor glared at him, his face contorted with agony. Blood leaked from his snout. "To the Abyss with you, traitor," he hissed.

Forlo didn't reply. He stared at Rekhaz a long time. Then, his eyes as cold as a corpse's, he stabbed him through the chest.

And twisted the blade.