The humans' drums sounded in the afternoon, pounding a staccato beat that set the elves on edge. Scouts were sent to their perches -- among them Pine, Volann, Kaylamale, Glow, Whitefox, Tracer, Snakecatcher, and Longbow near the village, others along the riverbank. When dusk fell, and reports came back that furtive, cat-footed humans had been slipping in and out of the gates, Sharpwit selected four of the elders to go into the human village to learn what they could. It was clear to Tilvah that the chief wished with all his heart another alternative were possible, but the drums changed rhythm too quickly to discern their message. And spies would see firsthand what the Sky People were about.

The moons rose without the drums' ceasing for a moment. The night crawled on, and still the drumming continued. By the time the mother moon reached her zenith, Tilvah had to drink a small skin of a willowbark infusion to stop the pounding in her temples, and then Sharpwit compounded her discomfort by asking her to await the return of the elders with him and Feathersilk.

She sat in a hollow beneath the Grandfather Tree's thick roots with the chief and chieftess, waiting for the spies' return. Greywolf, Mountainhowl, Whitefox, and Moonwing were together, using their skills to infiltrate the village. They were cunning hunters, wise to the Tall Ones' ways, yet each of them bore grudges against the humans. Mountainhowl and Moonwing had lost Glimmerwater, their one child; Greywolf held himself responsible for the death of Whitefox's son Gale. Tilvah hoped none of them would give in to the urge for vengeance. The humans would need no more incentive than to lose another of their number.

It was a restless, huntless night. Darkcloud and Nighthawk crouched together, their eyes fixed on their chief-brother, who was so tightly strung that Tilvah feared he would break. Feathersilk sat near her lifemate, bow in hand as she listened to the drums that beat faster, then slowed to jarring, heartbeat rhythms. Brightsun, Soulsinger, and Starfall were playing toss-stone on the other side of the Grandfather Tree, their laughter breaking in on the tense adults' conversation, and the booming drums.

"Listen." Feathersilk cocked an ear. "The drums have stopped. Do you think they've found the scouts?"

Sharpwit listened. "No," he said curtly. "We'd hear their alarm-beat then."

"What is this?" Darkcloud insisted, dropping down from her branch to the floor of the clearing. She glared accusingly at Sharpwit. "The Tall Ones are calling for our blood even as we speak! Will you sit there and do nothing?"

"I know what they're doing. Get back on your branch."

"We have to fight!" Darkcloud clenched her fists. "Or would you rather wait until they swarm into the holt?"

"They're not going anywhere," Sharpwit said.

"Hah!"

"We should have an armed group on the river," Nighthawk replied, "instead of seven scouts and two lovestruck pairs who are more concerned about their warm furs than -- "

"I am chief here, not you! Now get back on your branch!"

Nighthawk scowled at her brother, but hung her head and climbed back up to her perch. Darkcloud strode away from the clearing -- perhaps to find Treesniffer, her latest lovemate. Feathersilk smiled archly as the maiden left.

"What pretty farewells she makes, beloved." She laid a hand to Sharpwit's cheek; the chief sighed, nuzzling his cheek against her palm. "I wish we had a holt-full of such angry hunters. We'd frighten the humans with a glare!"

"Odd beats even, I win!" Starfall yelled gleefully from the ferns.

"You always win this game," Soulsinger complained. "Let's go play on the vines. I can swing higher than you."

"Can not!"

Sharpwit looked over his shoulder and ordered, "You cublings stay here! We have enough of our own wandering around the forest."

"But, Uncle -- " Soulsinger began.

"Don't argue, Soulsinger!"

The two girls ran into the clearing. Starfall had grass in her pale hair, and Soulsinger was wearing a wreath she'd made of early spring blossoms. They dropped down on a gnarled root, looking as bored and out-of-sorts as only ten-year-old cubs knew how.

"I want to play on the vines," Soulsinger asserted.

"It's so boring," Starfall whined. "Nobody wants to let us do anything. We can't even go frog-hunting."

Tilvah beckoned to the little girls. "Come here, cubs. If you sit quietly, I'll tell you a tale."

"This is a council, not the cublings' tale-time," Nighthawk sneered.

"We could all do with one," The strain of waiting showed in Feathersilk's sharp voice. "Brightsun, heartling! Come here to Mother, don't eat the ferns."

Brightsun scrambled over the thick roots; Tilvah smiled as the cubling, all wide eyes and infectious grin, burrowed into his mother's side. Feathersilk folded him into a bear hug, making him giggle as she growled against his neck. Sharpwit smiled, and caressed the little boy's head.

The drums started again in a rolling tempo. Brightsun squealed and clutched Feathersilk's tunic in both hands. Tilvah saw Starfall grope uncertainly for Soulsinger's hand; the two girls clung to each other, faces white and fearful in the moonlight.

"Are the humans coming here, Chief Sharpwit?" Starfall whispered, turning huge gray eyes to him.

Sharpwit's lips thinned. "No, Starfall," he answered. "The humans aren't coming here."

"Uncle, we have to do something," Soulsinger insisted. "Make Thorntoe apologize to the humans' chief. I'll go with them and explain that he wouldn't have done it if Skyblade hadn't died."

Poor innocent child, Tilvah thought.

"I wish we could, Soulsinger. But that's not going to help a bit." Sharpwit motioned to the Grandfather Tree. "Go find Leafdance, keep her company. We have to finish the council."

"I should be taking part in council, too. My father's gone, so I'm chief in his place," Soulsinger said.

From her perch, Nighthawk sniggered. "You, a chief? Hah! Whitemane's idiocy was handed down, I see."

"Shut up, Nighthawk," Sharpwit warned. He turned back to his niece, whose face revealed hurt as well as rebellion. "She-cub, if it wasn't so serious, you would sit on the council. But you're too young to understand war." He tousled her golden hair, and was rewarded with an icy look.

"I think," Soulsinger said loftily, "that I know more than some people think they do." She raised an eyebrow at Nighthawk, who suddenly blushed in embarrassment. Soulsinger walked away, followed by a troubled Starfall.

Tilvah gaped at Sharpwit's words. War against the humans? Over the actions of Thorntoe? Surely it was madness. Sharpwit was overreacting to the Sky People's nerve-racking clamor. Any sane creature would soon run riot if subjected to that seemingly endless noise. Humans could not be defeated, and it was madness to think they could. They must breed like rabbits in secret places, for there were so many tribes of them dotting the Abode.

"Tilvah," Sharpwit said softly. "I think we'll need dreamberries this night. Call the holt together for a howl. Some things need remembering."

"Such as?" Tilvah looked closely at him. "Sharpwit... you will not lead the tribe into war, will you?"

The young elf -- young to her eyes, which had seen so many chiefs of the Wolfriders -- lowered his head. "I won't promise anything, Firstborn. But understand this: I won't spill first blood going after the humans. They'll have to come to me." He pounded a fist on his chest, his eyes slits of blue fire, and stalked off to the other side of the Grandfather Tree.

Tilvah watched as Feathersilk followed her lifemate and Nighthawk climbed down from her perch. Only she did not follow Sharpwit. The huntress turned on her heel and walked away in the direction of the holt's willow grove.

The Wolfriders arranged themselves in a circle, lifemates, lovemates, parents and children. Snowberry sat on the farthest edge with Moth, ignoring the gestures of her friends to sit closer. The two-year-old cubling clung to his mother, trembling as most of them were at the sound of the drums.

The scouts had not come, so the circle was bare of a few. Flintpoint and Timekeeper were present, as was Purewolf and Crosstrail, Kyliera, Treesniffer, Darkcloud, Allim, Yharren and Firelark, Windpiper, Kaylamale and Mistweaver (who looked very annoyed as her lifemate insisted on leading her by the arm), Moonblossom, Pine and Silkfur and Flint, Soulsayer, Trapsnapper . . .Tilvah bit her tongue hard as Thorntoe swaggered into the circle. The elves around him threw him hard glances; on one side, Waterfall and Navah edged away, while on the other Orelan and Greenthorn both laid hands on knife-hilts. Thorntoe ignored the blatant hint and kept his place. After a moment, Greenthorn took her sister Snowbell to the other side of the circle, and Orelan dropped back by Kestrel, whose gray eyes bored into Thorntoe's back.

The dreamberries were the last of last year's crop, dried to keep their sweetness and potency. Tilvah took one and handed the bowl to Sharpwit, who sat beside her. As the chieftain took two berries, the wolves started to sing.

These were Anlari's Wolf-Children, attuned to the minds and hearts of their elfin bondmates -- and their song was an icy challenge to the throbbing drums. Come and find us, the keening chorus called. We are the ones you seek, the demons of your dreams. Only come. For we have our own grievances with you.

Tilvah sat immobile, tasting bile on her tongue, wanting to leap up and run far from the chilling music of wolf-howl and drum.

Sharpwit drew his knife and traced a line across his palm with the tip. As the blood welled up, he let it drip upon the blade, and the Wolfriders chanted the names of their chieftains.

"Anlari Firstmother . . . Arran Half-Wolf . . . Nimor . . . Tarryl Moonstalker . . . One-Howl . . .Firstmoon . . . Lightheart . . . ." Tilvah swallowed, struggling against the flood of memories each name evoked, each carrying a face, a scent, a voice echoing on a dreamberry mist. "Wanderer . . . Darkarrow . . . Starwing!"

Sharpwit pressed the blade to his lips, taking back the precious blood that still flowed after so many thousands of years. So many thousands of years . . . and they still lived. The Children of the High Ones they were -- they all were -- and they had survived the Slaughter, the Long Death, the coming of Humans. But survive is all we've done, Tilvah told herself. There must be something more than survival. We cannot live like this. We are not like beasts, not even the Wolfriders; they need more, even more than we who are true-elves do.

A tale rose up out of her. Tilvah found she spoke now without conscious thought, the power of memory unlocking her tongue. Truth -- and dreamberries -- was a potent inspiration. She told them of Firstmoon, the first Wolfrider chieftess to make war on the humans.

Firstmoon had been brave and bright, and more wolf than elf -- a throwback in those days. She was strong-willed, a skilled huntress, a heroic figure when the tribe sagged under the degrading leadership of One-Howl and his timid chieftess. She led the tribe from humid, treeless plains to a mountain valley where the deer were as numerous as grains of dust, and the sight of a deep, sheltering forest caressed the eye, soothed the soul. The first years -- joyful indeed, with a joy that put their first days in Grey Falls to shame. Joy that here was food at last, a place to rear children in peace -- a peace born of tranquillity, and not one craven Wolfrider's flight from conflict.

And then the humans had come --

"What rot! What absolute rot!"

The words shattered Tilvah's tale-spell, left her sitting cold and hollow with her stomach sinking down to the ground beneath her. There was an intake of breath as the tribe, as one, looked at the one who had spoken.

Windsilver.

"Peace? Tranquillity? Where have you been, pureblood?" She snarled the word as if it fought to stay in her mouth. "What have we ever done except fight? We came here to speak of defending what's ours, and you give us this swill about some long-lost peaceful age!"

"Your history, Wolfrider!" Tilvah snapped. "Not all of it is bloody and torn. Some of those years were indeed peaceful; some of our holts were havens, even as this one can still be!"

"Go back to your cave, weakling!" Windsilver sneered. "We need warriors at this howl, not prattlers of everlasting content! Your precious peace is a worthless, worm-eaten dream!"

The Wolfrider's eyes bored into Tilvah's. The pureblood met the gaze, hardening herself against the raw strength of Windsilver's challenge. Windsilver trembled; clearly she had not expected Tilvah to resist.

**Fool! I'll rip you in half!**

*You'll do nothing!* Sharpwit's sending cut the link between the two females. Tilvah groped for support; meeting that challenge had cost her. She was surprised when Allim came to her, propping her against his shoulder so that she could rest. Windpiper came up on her other side, her wordless sending refreshing Tilvah just as her music would have done.

Windsilver hunched her shoulders as Sharpwit continued his silent tongue-lashing, but then her face darkened in a scowl. "Oh, so cowering in our dens is the wisest course?" she demanded. "A fine example to set for our cubs, oh mighty chief! Hide from your enemies, and never face a challenge!"

"Well, you needn't worry about setting an example for your cubs, Windsilver! Whitefox rears them for you!"

Loaded with sarcasm, Kestrel's voice lashed at Windsilver. The other's slate-grey eyes narrowed, and she retorted, "At least my cubs are Wolfriders! That's more than I can say for your half-human mongrel!"

Many of the tribe rose to defend Kestrel -- among them Stone, Sharpwit, Kaylamale, Windpiper, Flint, Leafdance, and Greenthorn -- but Kestrel waved them back. Silently, she arose and walked into the circle, her face deadpan, her eyes bright with anger.

"So you say," Kestrel said, as she came to a halt. "So you wish to believe. Deny the truth if you wish, but you can neither deny nor beat a challenge if I choose to give you one."

"Challenge!" sneered the pale-haired wanderer, "You, cub? Challenge me?" She barked a laugh. "You're an outcast female, a human-lover, a disgusting, piddling, runty little whep."

She laughed again, but alone. The other Wolfriders were silent.

"Outcast?" Kestrel said. "I sit in the bosom of the tribe, as tanner and treeshaper. Where do you sit, there on the edge? Where is your place, bottom female?"

Windsilver drew back her lips in a snarl of rage and launched herself at Kestrel. The taller Wolfrider stood impassively, at the ready. Her hands shot up and gripped her attacker's hands. Their foreheads met as the challenge burned between them. Windsilver shuddered. Her snarl of rage fell, melting into an expression of fear. For any other Wolfrider, the challenge would have been over, but Windsilver's stubborn pride would not allow her to break it off.

*Not enough?* Kestrel sent, *Then let me convince you that you should never say such things to me or about me again.*

Kestrel released her opponent's hands. She flung herself forward, knocking the smaller huntress flat on her back, and clenched both hands around her throat.

"Yay!" Hilltop shouted. "Get her, Mama!"

Stone and Treesniffer grabbed hold of Kestrel's arms and tried to pull her off, but the elf tightened her grip. Windsilver's eyes bulged as she clawed and beat at Kestrel's face; Kestrel ignored every blow.

**Half-human! You know that's impossible.** Kestrel's private send was cold as death, and oddly calm as her hands deliberately tightened. **And even if it weren't, I would raise her as a mother should, not abandon her for selfishness. It is you who are the unnatural one among us.**

**You loved a human, filth.** Windsilver's send was as choked as her voice.

**I loved. You still haven't figured out what love means.**

Allim snorted in disgust. "Typical," he muttered. "Try to have a serious council, and they turn it into a free-for-all. Somebody might attempt to separate those two."

*Somebody tried, for all the good it did,* Windpiper retorted.

Tilvah mused, knowing how long it would take for Kestrel to throttle Windsilver, and finally decided enough was enough. **Kitling, let go,** she lock-sent. **You don't want the blood of an elf on your hands. And her death would grieve Whitefox greatly.**

"When she knows her place in the pack," Kestrel growled. A moment later she let go, panting, and allowed Stone help her back to her place in the circle.

**If you hadn't, I would have, even if she is my half-sister,** Stone lock-sent, with half-smile.

Leafdance bent by Windsilver, laying her hands on her throat as she caught her breath. Coughing, Windsilver shoved her backwards, and Leafdance fell back on her tailbone, landing with a curse. The huntress ignored her as she pushed herself up painfully. Angry red welts crossed her throat like a collar. She glared around the circle and spat in Tilvah's direction.

**Coward!** she sent, to no one in particular.

Tilvah remained silent. Windsilver staggered down the River Trail and disappeared in the darkness.

"And good riddance," Timekeeper added, scowling with annoyance. "She ruined a fine telling of that tale."

"That tale, " drawled Darkcloud, "is older than Allim's birthcord." She ignored the treeshaper's sneer. "Peace isn't what we're after -- we need a plan to deal with the humans!"

"Agreed!" snapped Crosstrail, who was silenced with a look from his lifemate Purewolf. He subsided, but added defiantly, "Well, we do!"

"High time we started thinking," Flintpoint declared. "We can sit and tell stories all night while the round-ears lay traps in the forest for our cubs."

"We'll make our plans," Sharpwit said sternly. "But let's try to act like we have brains in our heads. We're smarter than any two-eights of humans put together, and we've got several things on our side. We have our magic-users, the forest, the wolves -- and ourselves."

The speech failed to convince Flintpoint, who snorted and stalked off in the same direction Windsilver had taken. Timekeeper looked upset and started to follow, but Feathersilk caught her by the arm and made her sit down again.

"Glow just sent," she informed Sharpwit. "Our scouts are coming back."

"Already?" Sharpwit jumped to his feet.

The four elders strode into the clearing, looking grim. Each elf was in need of a bath; their leathers were ruined with mud, mold, and tears. Moonwing supported Mountainhowl as they entered the circle; Whitefox favored her left foot. Greywolf strode through just as Thorntoe stood up -- ready to demand an explanation, if Tilvah read his contemptuous scowl right.

The wolfling's eyes blazed blue as lightning as he looked at Thorntoe. Tilvah had never seen Greywolf as he was now -- shivering with exhaustion and hate, ears laid flat against his skull as he confronted Thorntoe with a menacing stance.

And for once, Thorntoe could not slap the challenge aside as he was accustomed to doing. For Greywolf did not send. Whatever he thought, Thorntoe saw in the depths of his eyes. The one-time hunt-leader raised his voice. "You wouldn't dare -- "

"Out of my way, you muck-eating liar, before I break you in half." Greywolf's murmur carried in the sudden silence. Thorntoe's eyes widened, but Greywolf raised one hand and the other elf hastily stepped back. Greywolf joined his mates, who looked away from him.

"What is this?" Feathersilk demanded. She turned to Mountainhowl. "What did you see?"

Mountainhowl sent openly. *We saw the cub he attacked.*

"Even younger than Skyblade," Moonwing replied, her piquant face frozen in fury. "A half-starved, knobby-kneed, runt of a human. Maimed for life by this -- this -- " She turned to Thorntoe. "For that, you risked our safety? Our holt?"

"We followed their hunters," Whitefox continued, her features hard and still. "They didn't see or scent us, but neither could we scent them. We tracked them to the skull-stream, but lost the trail."

*They waded upstream,* Mountainhowl sent, leaning heavily on Moonwing's shoulder. *We need scouts on the Rapids Path.*

"Then they could be anywhere!" Darkcloud burst out. "We've got to -- "

"Quiet," Sharpwit ordered. "How many were there in that hunting party?"

"Five double-hands of humans. Perhaps more," Moonwing said. "The rest of the village is asleep now, but some of the humans are sharpening spearheads and muttering between themselves." She turned to Kestrel. "They wear obsidian pendants -- they're the ones we should watch out for, eh?"

"Yes." Kestrel nodded, eyes wide. "But if none of the others -- "

"What is this talk?" Thorntoe was himself again, sneering at the scouts. "If the round-eared filth are ready for war, let's give it to them. We can send Orelan and Glow to set fire to the village -- "

"Not on your life!" Orelan snapped. "I kill at no one's command, least of all yours!"

"We hardly need you to do it, pureblood," Trapsnapper taunted. "We can go to the trolls. They'll give us torches and sleep-dust. We'll blow it into the village and roast them while they sleep!"

His announcement brought responses from all sides.

"Barbarian!"

"Ah, but can we trust the trolls?"

"Let's go then! We can be rid of the humans by twilight!"

"Are you all mad? The humans would slaughter us!"

"Not if we sit and plan this right -- "

"ENOUGH!"

Sharpwit's cry cut through the clamor. He raked over the tribe with a vicious glare. "Roast the humans, eh, Trapsnapper? Hah! And you -- " The chief began singling out one hunter after the other, often meeting sullen defiance. "You all want a plan to rid us of the humans by sunlight. Fools! Do you think they don't have scouts watching for us, just as we have scouts watching them? You'd all end up with your skulls drying on racks, leaving the rest of us to howl for you."

"We could do it," Thorntoe insisted. "If we had a real leader, not a cowardly whelp -- "

Tilvah gasped. Sharpwit turned his head in Thorntoe's direction, as if he couldn't believe what he'd heard, and Thorntoe actually backed up a step. A lock-sent challenge ripped through the air, filling the night with silent fury. But Thorntoe had miscalculated. The blood of chiefs ran wild through Sharpwit's veins. It was the elder who broke.

"Coward?" Sharpwit demanded. "Coward?" He backhanded Thorntoe, sending the older elf sprawling in the dirt. "Get out, Thorntoe! Leave! I won't have you here where you can contaminate the rest of us! You're moon-mad, you're sick in your soul -- if you have one!"

Thorntoe staggered up, drawing a hand across his mouth; Tilvah saw a smear of blood on the back of his fingers. He started to speak when Mountainhowl, Moonwing, Greywolf, and Whitefox surrounded him.

*Leave,* Mountainhowl sent, *and don't come back.*

"Get out, cub-maimer," Moonwing warned.

Greywolf glared bitterly at him. Thorntoe started to push past him, but Whitefox drew her sword and put the tip to his belly. "Try," she said.

Thorntoe drew himself up, then turned his back on the elders. Tilvah feared he would try to fight them, even now, but at last the elf stalked away from the tribe, taking the path to the willow grove. Mountainhowl sagged against the Grandfather Tree, and Moonwing eased him down on a root.

"We were almost caught," she explained to a shocked Sharpwit. "Some human female came wandering out of the village as we tried to leave, and screamed her head off about 'avenging spirits'. She hit him in the side with a rock."

"Let me see." Stone hurried to the elder's side, pulling his tunic loose to reveal a large, purpling bruise that mottled Mountainhowl's right side. The healer probed it gently. "No broken ribs," he said, grimacing, "but that was a close call."

"Good." Sharpwit looked around his tribemates. "I want all hunters on watch tonight. Keep the cublings here, under the Grandfather Tree. No one is to leave the holt without informing me first. Understand?"

The Wolfriders murmured assent. So did the purebloods. But Tilvah noticed some mutinous looks, heard fierce, argumentive whispers, and wondered if Sharpwit would be obeyed.

*Come, Tilvah,* Windpiper sent. *Let's go back to the caves. Nothing is going to be settled tonight.*

"I have to see Redmane." Ignoring Allim's protest, Tilvah turned to Windpiper. "Would you mind if I took Allim with me? I'll need someone to tend Briarheart while I look after Redmane -- "

Windpiper's lovely face brightened with a teasing smile. *You won't mind going, will you, love?* she sent to the treeshaper. Allim's look would have withered the entire forest. *Oh, come. After you finish playing with the cub, you can chase the stupid cat.*

"Thank you," Allim snarled, getting to his feet. "Come, Tilvah! Or should I carry you up to Redmane's den?" He pulled her to her feet. Exchanging a guilty grin with Windpiper, Tilvah allowed Allim to lead her to her daughter's dwelling.

Windsilver attacked the helpless willow, ripping branches and leaves loose in great handfuls, ignoring how the tough wood and slim twigs cut her fingers and palms. Only when some of the leaves clung to her hands did she notice that the slick wetness was blood, not sweat. Feeling sick, she stumbled to the riverbank and washed her hands in the clear water. Blood swirled like dark smoke and then disappeared.

Kestrel was going to pay. She'd teach that little worm to attack her. That degenerate whelp of Allim's -- how fitting that one of his blood should love a human! -- was begging for a comeuppance. Windsilver wondered if the humans would welcome Kestrel's brat if she dragged it over to their village. Everyone claimed it was Stone's, but Windsilver knew better. The brat was too tall for an elf cub. She stank, too. Maybe that human's smell had seeped inside Kestrel along with his spawn.

"Windsilver, is that you?"

Windsilver whirled about, relaxing when she saw who it was. Darkcloud had been her playmate once. "Am I not the one and only?" she asked archly. "The troublemaker, the evildoer? Yet my brother," and she had to force the word out, "is permitted to raise a litter of mongrels in our holt!"

Darkcloud chuckled, seating herself gracefully in the grass. "I can top that, dear friend. My brother's all but trapped us here, waiting for the five-fingers to come get us -- and everyone thinks he's just wonderful!"

"Not everyone," Windsilver said coolly. She looked into Darkcloud's eyes, and the other maiden nodded.

"So I see. Would you like to come and join us?"

"Us?" Windsilver looked around, her suspicions rising. "Who else is here?"

Darkcloud giggled. "Friends, silly! Do you think I have Sharpwit hidden in a tree trunk?" She clasped Windsilver's hand. "Ooh... we'll have to take care of your poor hands, won't we? Come on. Trapsnapper has some spare suede in his den."

Windsilver breathed easier. Trapsnapper was dependable and trustworthy. Trapsnapper had been her lovemate at one time; he was no lickspittle. She followed Darkcloud's lead to the other side of the willow grove.

The den was a small cave, dug out of a knoll; it overlooked the river and the willows. The sound of the rapids was louder than the roar of the Falls, and Windsilver could see the rushing waters cascade over the jagged black rocks. One time, she'd dared her mother to ride a raft down the rapids with her; Whitefox had gone along, and the ride had scared them both out of their wits. It had been such a happy time that Windsilver counted it one of the best days of her life. Now, feeling the injustice of being an outsider in her own tribe -- while certain whelps of questionable parentage were coddled and made favorites -- she wondered if it wouldn't have been better if she'd fallen off the raft and drowned on that day.

"What are you thinking of?" Darkcloud scolded. "What a face! You look as if you'd swallowed green dreamberries." She beckoned to the den. "Come in! Don't just stand there."

Windsilver followed her in. Comforting smells of earth, leather, fur, and wolf met her nose. The dug-out den was lit by a single tallow-bowl, flickering on piles of deer-pelts and the elves seated there. Windsilver saw there was Nighthawk, Trapsnapper, Flintpoint -- Flintpoint?! -- and Thorntoe, all gathered in the den.

"Get in," Thorntoe ordered. The tiny flame flickered on his bloody lip, making the stain seem sinister. Windsilver shuddered and crawled in, taking a seat between Nighthawk and Trapsnapper. Darkcloud sat near Flintpoint, favoring the stolid elder with a flirtatious smile; Flintpoint looked at nothing but his boots.

"We're here to put an end to the humans," Thorntoe announced. "If that's too much for you to stomach, leave."

Windsilver's chin jerked up. "No puny five-fingers will ever make me queasy! Try fighting off a foamsick snow-bear. There's a sight to make even you wet yourself, Hunt-Leader."

Thorntoe scowled at her insult, grinned slowly at the use of his title. So, Windsilver mused, he isn't over his spindly cub's challenge yet. She chuckled.

"Fighting the Tall Ones seems to be a task most of our tribe have lost the stomach for," Trapsnapper declared. "I don't blame them for being frightened. After all, we've gotten soft since Starwing died. With the twin cowards jaunting all over the place, when have we had a real battle with the humans? We never even got the chance to avenge Starwing and those who died with her!"

Darkcloud and Nighthawk assented loudly, glaring as they remembered their mother's end. Flintpoint did not raise his eyes, but Windsilver saw his fists clench.

"I, too, lost kin," she said, keeping her voice neutral. The death of Gale had cheered her considerably; now if Stone would just -- disappear -- she'd have no competition to be unfairly compared with. "My shame for not being there. I assure you that if I had, a few Tall Ones would still be mourning their dead, even if I gave my life for it."

"Talk is cheap," Thorntoe snorted. "You'll prove it when we attack the humans tomorrow."

"Tomorrow?" Nighthawk cried, disappointed. "What is this 'tomorrow'? Why not now?"

"Fool! We need time to gather a hunting party." Thorntoe glared at each of them. "We're not enough to take on five double-hands of fire-stinking humans! For once," and his voice took on an acid edge, "we'll have to be as cautious as the purebloods."

Flintpoint looked up. "Caution gets you nowhere," he said sternly. "I had years of that under Chief Darkarrow. Eighty-eights and more of years spent wandering around, on the run from humans -- and now it looks like Sharpwit wants to do the same. I didn't live this long to keep hiding from the Tall Ones."

"We won't run," Thorntoe declared. "We'll be rid of the whole barking mess soon. What we'll need are more warriors." A sly grin broke through his angry features. "Tonight? Hmm... perhaps tonight. While the humans mill like ants on a hill that has just been stepped upon. Before they rally around a leader."

Windsilver looked at him approvingly. Braggart or not, he was a worthy Wolfrider. Small wonder he'd succeeded her father Tallspear as Hunt-leader. Why couldn't her mother have turned to him instead of Greywolf?

Greywolf... "Oh, no," she groaned, hiding her face in her hands.

"Something wrong, 'Silver?" Trapsnapper knelt by her, reaching to take down her hands. "Here, hold still -- I'll wrap your hands up for you -- "

"That's not it!" Windsilver pulled away. "What are we going to do about Mountainhowl and Greywolf? Those two are everywhere -- if we start recruiting warriors, they'll notice and go running to Sharpwit!"

Flintpoint blanched. Darkarrow looked uncertain, until Nighthawk started to laugh.

"You silly, you're shadow-fearing," she chuckled, shaking her head. "Windsilver, think! What can they find out -- if we send?"

Windsilver blinked for a moment, then smacked her palms together. "Those two still can't send, can they?"

Nighthawk smiled smugly. "We can do anything we want, right under their noses, and they won't hear a thing." She turned to Thorntoe, who was sharpening his axe-blade. "Right, Hunt-leader?"

Thorntoe looked up. His dark eyes glittered, reflecting the candlelight and the gleaming blade. "So what are you all sitting here for?" he demanded. "Get moving. We have work to do, and we need willing hands to do it."

The drums broke through Tilvah's sleep again as the stars faded in the pre-dawn sky. Groaning, the pureblood rolled out of her furs and staggered down the Cave Path and looked up the Grandfather tree to Stone and Kestrel's den. She spared a baleful glance downriver. Why didn't Sharpwit send the elders back to do something really useful -- destroy those cursed drums?

She slowed down as she met Orelan, who looked meaner than a starving bear in spring. The firemaker snarled, "I'm going to get my headache cured, and then I'm going to set that entire village ablaze. I swear it!"

"Oh, shut up," Tilvah muttered. "You're not the only one with a headache."

Orelan sent as they reached the treetop den, and Stone flung aside the hide-door with a curse. "Why can't you all just take some willowbark tea and leave me alone?" he snarled. "I'd like to get some sleep, if you don't mind!"

"It's your job," Orelan spat. "Move it, boy. I want to see my great-grandchild. Or does that trouble you too much?"

"Oh, Stone, just leave it be," Kestrel's weary voice floated from inside. Tilvah winced as the Wolfrider put her head out; her eyes were ringed with shadows, and her face was drawn. "Come in, Grandmother. You too, Tilvah. I have something in here I've been taking for my head."

Stone snarled, but stood aside to let the purebloods in. Tilvah curled up by the painted wall, admiring the shimmering effect a mica wash gave the colorful symbols. Kestrel handed her a cup of steaming liquid; Tilvah drank it without tasting, and sighed with relief as the pressure in her temples eased at once.

"We're all snapping at each other," she said. "And Redmane's still worn out from the birth. I tried to find Thorntoe -- " She shrugged, not willing to admit she hadn't looked very hard. The less she saw of that arrogant elf, the better.

"I hope he stays gone," Kestrel declared. "We'd be better off without him."

Orelan swallowed her brew, but her features remained sour. Hilltop toddled over to the elder, gazing concernedly up at her. Orelan stroked the soft, fire-gold curls absently, and finally spoke. "I think Thorntoe is right about one thing. We'd be better off if we wiped the humans out completely, like an anthill."

"Even their children?" Kestrel's voice was hard.

"We're not murderers, Orelan," Tilvah said. "That would go utterly against the Way."

"Young humans mean grown humans in the end," Orelan retorted. She suddenly clasped Hilltop to her; the child looked astonished but didn't struggle. "I would rather see dead human cubs than our own. That's not to say," she added, "that if you dump a Tall One's child at my feet that I could kill it. I don't think I could do it."

"Then why ask us?" Stone retorted. "Young humans can be taught."

"Sorry, I haven't the patience." Orelan sighed, raking her hair back. "Or the inclination. Maybe this pretty one will do it," and she smiled at Hilltop. The child returned the elder's smile. "What an old soul she has. You can see it in her eyes."

Kestrel started, but covered well, Tilvah noticed. Even Stone looked a little guilty. Windsilver's accusations bubbled to the top of her mind. Was there something more than fen-fire in those words? What secret did these lifemates share? Tilvah looked closely at Hilltop's eyes. Orelan was right -- Hilltop was far more perceptive than most cubs her age. Except for Frost, whose talent was strong but too wild for him to control, Hilltop had the most advanced mind of any elf except for a few of the purebloods -- Allim, Navah, herself.

The sending that enveloped her made her senses reel. It was from the last elf she'd ever expected to seek her out.

It was Thorntoe.

There were few of them -- Kyap, Tracer, Longbow, Trapsnapper, Thorntoe, Darkcloud, Nighthawk, Waterfall, and Soulsayer, besides Windsilver herself. Not that she minded. They were all fine fighters. It was too bad the rest of the holt were such cowards, complaining about their aching heads when there was work to be done.

A fine job Whitefox had done with her cubs anyway! Blackbird had refused to come. Well, the little mud-rat would regret it when she came back with some trophies. He could've had a chance for glory.

Thorntoe led them down from the holt, using a narrow, seldom-used footpath. It sloped downward at a steep grade, rocky and lined with poplars and thick grasses. Windsilver bent once to pluck a spongy mushroom, rustling the forked leaves of the plants growing near it.

*Quiet!* Thorntoe's sending rang in her head. She winced and continued on the path. Although Thorntoe was everything a leader should be, his imperious manner irritated Windsilver. Trapsnapper knew how to treat his peers. Hunters were not to be humiliated. She began to see how Thorntoe had lost his place as Hunt-leader. Who wanted to follow a leader who held his followers in contempt?

It had been easy to sneak past Greywolf and Mountainhowl. The one performed scout-duty on the holt side of the river; the other was hunting with Sharpwit. The search for the human hunters was much more difficult. The wolves followed silently, but slowly, and each twitch made the war-party reach for their weapons. Yet the scents they did come across were old, strong still to Windsilver's senses, but too faint to be recent.

Darkcloud was up with Thorntoe; her wolf Longtrail led his packmates in scenting the trail. Windsilver brought up the rear with her bow. Idly, her fingers caressed it. She had yet to kill a Tall One with it; it had been made for her by Korryn. Lifemate, she thought, you're going to be proud of me after today. I'll be a hero to the tribe -- and Kestrel will be eating my dust . . .

*Nothing!* Waterfall complained. *Not a smell, not a rag, nothing of humans around here!*

*We know they're here,* Nighthawk snapped. She scowled back at the girl with eyes eerily like her mother's. *They crossed here, at the skull marker. Even the old cowards admitted that.*

*They could be hiding,* Tracer warned, sending for the first time that day. Windsilver looked curiously at him, but he looked back down at the ground, keeping an eye out for trail-sign.

The elves heard the stream before they broke through the trees. The hill-path ended in a small clearing surrounded by oaks, ash trees, water-loving growth that thrived at this clear, calm tributary. Instead of spreading out to take cover, they grouped together in the clearing's center, peering through the screen of leaves and twigs out at the human skull on the stream's far bank. Windsilver gazed into the empty pits where eyes had once been, and shuddered.

*We'll go farther on,* Trapsnapper ordered. *From there we'll tree-walk until we can get to the human village.* He grinned sharply. *We'll kill what we can and run.*

*What?* Thorntoe whirled around. *You idiot! That's not the plan!*

*I told you it wouldn't work -- *

As the spear pierced her back, Windsilver's last coherent thought was that maybe Blackbird had been right. If she had not seen the human, how could he? . . . .

"Get them!" she heard, in the human tongue. "Kill them all! Their ears will hang in our lodge!"

Windsilver dug her fingers into the dirt, for reassurance. There was no feeling in her legs. She watched in horror as humans stomped past her and the screams of her comrades reached her ears. She could not help; the spear pinned her down. Sendings assaulted her; she felt souls torn away as the Tall Ones' spears and clubs did their work. Wolves collapsed, broken and torn. A body fell before her; she recognized young Waterfall by her white hair, for her face was a ruin. A squat human, stinking of sweat, straddled the young maiden's body and hacked her head off with a glossy, rough-ground axe of obsidian.

*Thorntoe!* Windsilver's send was a scream. She touched his mind, found it cloaked in blackness. *Trapsnapper!* She just missed his mind, for he was running, running far from the grove. Windsilver's heart rose up in her throat, choking her; she stared wildly at the ash trees, knowing her death had come. She heard the ugly thud of axes and knew no one would ever look for them here.

"Here!" A grinning human strode over to her, flashing broken teeth. "It was my spear that got this one, Tegret!"

"So take her head. It's yours."

As the young human raised his axe, Windsilver sent for the last time, in desperation: **Mother!!**

And the blade came down like night.

Thorntoe ran from the mele and went down, struck by a thrown club. "Trapsnapper!" he called.

"Father!" Trapsnapper, dashing to his side.

"My ribs," the elder wolfrider groaned, holding his hand to his back, "I think they're broken."

Heavy feet thudded through the underbrush. Trapsnapper leaped up, eyes wide with fear as the humans rushed at him. He backed up a few steps, then turned tail and fled.

"Trapsnapper, you thankless whelp!" Thorntoe barked at the fleeing youth. He staggered to his feet and swung his axe at the nearest human, ducking under the swinging club. His axe struck home, biting into the human's ribs. Thorntoe took the opportunity to bolt.

He ran as he had never run before in his life, pelting down narrow rabbit-trails, through thorn-thickets, yet his dogged pursuers never failed. Visions of Redmane rose before him, and were quickly supplanted by visions of his earlier love.

"Bessahdee," he murmured, his images of the gentle pureblood growing stronger as darkness overtook his mind. He tried to clamber up a rockface, failed, and fell in a heap at its foot. The darkness was temptingly peaceful, and he gave in to it.

Weary, damp from a hasty wash in the river, eyes ringed with fatigue but bodies upright with silent jubilation, the warriors slipped in through the gates as the last of the stars faded from the sky. Seven lumpy bundles, stained dark, graced the arms of the leaders. The door curtain of the Forest House lodge parted to receive them.

The house elder motioned for them to sit. Gasps arose from the spectators as the bundles were opened, revealing the grisly trophies within. The elder nodded in satisfaction.

"More in one night than Chief's house collected in my years as a hunter," he bragged, knowing he exaggerated only a little. It would be good for the warriors, he thought to himself.

"Shall we preserve them?" Tegret asked, looking at the mangled, white-haired ruin at his feet.

The elder shook his head. "My sons, you will rest for the day, and dream of the glory you have earned this night. When the sun sets again, you will take all your forces into the forest again. You have proved that silent warriors such as yourselves can best the Spirits in their own territory. You have only to go out night after night, to kill and kill again, to rid the forest of their blight. When all the Big-Ears are slain, we shall mount their heads on poles ringing the village, and let the scavenger-birds peck at them. Their white skulls shall serve as a warning to all demons that we will not allow them to soil our forest any longer. The gods will be pleased that we see so clearly. Honor shall be yours in the Valley of the Souls, while our chiefs will be forced by the gods to serve us."

Thorntoe groaned. Dawn was filling the sky with a radiace that filled his head with pain. Breathing was an agony. He felt at his back where the club had struck him, and sucked his breath sharply in pain. Not only were the ribs broken, but a ragged gash was still oozing dampness on his tunic. He struggled to his feet, berating himself for his stupidity. Had he exercised caution, as he had originally intended, he might have had every fighter in the holt at his side. Instead he had a handful of ill-organized hotbloods -- most of whom were dead now.

And why was he not dead?

Thorntoe studied the ground around him. Human footprints showed clearly in the bare earth near the rockface. He read the story in the prints. The humans had come running right past him, stopped not too far away, then backtracked. They had cast about in a confused circle before heading back at a slow walk in the direction of the battle scene.

Between the place he had lain and the human tracks Thorntoe noticed a faint depression in the earth that encircled him and stopped at the rock face.

He sat down and scratched his aching head. There was no explaining it. The humans had dashed past him, then had come back looking for him, though he had lain in plain sight. He shook his head. Humans weren't that stupid, he knew. Shrugging his shoulders, he concluded that in the gray pre-dawn light, he had blended in so well with the rocks and the earth that the humans had overlooked him.

It was a long, painful, weary journey back to the holt. Crescent, his bond-wolf, did not find him until he was halfway there. "Old friend," he gasped, "carry me there, will you not? I'm almost spent."

Crescent knelt obligingly in the dirt while Thorntoe climbed on his back. From his own inner light of hatred for the humans he found the strength to ride back to the holt without falling over. He had nearly reached the holt when his ears pricked up. The voice of Trapsnapper was ringing through the forest as the younger wolfrider babbled out the tale of the massacred scouts.

Thorntoe rode nearer. Nighthawk and Flintpoint, both badly wounded, lay by the Grandfather tree, nodding an occasional assent to Trapsnapper's tale as Stone worked on them. Thorntoe noted, with a grimace, that the healer worked at a leisurely pace.

"Kyap, Tracer, Longbow, Darkcloud, Waterfall, Soulsayer, and Windsilver, all dead." Sharpwit listed each name with a snarl, as howls arose from those gathered around. "Dead because they were too eager to spill the blood of humans. While those who followed my orders are alive to tell about it."

"My chief, forgive us," Trapsnapper was groveling, "for it was my father who made us ride into battle against the humans. We knew how foolish it would be, and now we have paid for it in blood. Even my father was cut down before my eyes, though I fought to save him. If only he had lived, and learned from this mistake, that he could fight more wisely another day."

"But he did." Trapsnapper gasped as Thorntoe rode into the holt.

"Father!"

"Away from me, you thankless coward!" Thorntoe swayed drunkenly on his wolf's back as he gestured fiercely at his eldest son. Swiftriver sat glaring from a branch overhead, but Thorntoe couldn't bring himself to look in his younger cub's eyes. "You and those cubs bleeding all over the Grandfather Tree followed me willingly, as did those who died in the forest at the hands of our enemies. You abandoned me when I needed you, when you could have fought off the humans who almost killed me. How I survived even I don't know, but better that I had died than to return and find my favorite son is not only a shivering coward but a bald-faced liar."

Sharpwit's furious reprimands and the howls of those who loved the dead warriors buzzed past his ears as Thorntoe fell from the back of his wolf and back into the comforting oblivion of a faint.

"Shaman, how shall I bear it?" Berian sat in his sleeping furs, holding his aching head in his hands. He accepted a gourd of willow bark infusion from his daughter, then waved her away to speak privately with the Mage.

"Those drums have been pounding almost constantly since the Forest House boy was brought in from the forest. My very teeth ache from listening. Is there nothing we can do?"

The Shaman massaged his own temples. "No, my chief, they have a right to protest. Whether it changes your decision or not is up to you. Eventually they will tire, and cease their drumming. Perhaps the rest of us can stuff our ears with cottonwood fluff until then."

Berian smacked the soft side of his fist against the wall. "I will not allow that House to tell me what to do!" he roared. "I will not risk bringing the wrath of the Spirits upon the entire village because of a legend a low-rank house chooses to believe in. They must be taught a lesson." Berian rose from the furs and reached for his clothing.

"Opinion, Shaman?" he asked.

The Shaman shifted uncomfortably on the cushion he was seated on. "We could ignore them. They would tire of drumming sooner or later, but may continue to press the issue. Eventually they may give up revenge for the boy, but some other issue would come up in the meantime."

"Other options?"

"You could command the Forest House elder to your presence and deliver your opinion once again, to show him you will not be swayed by their protests. You could go into the Forest House lodge itself," here Berian wrinked his nose in disgust, but the Shaman went on: "and deliver the message in person. Perhaps that would sufficiently impress them. On the other hand, they may lead them to believe they have exercised such power over the village that you must resort to such an extraordinary action."

Berian finished dressing. "Any other options?"

"Short of binding the door shut and setting fire to the lodge?"

"Don't tempt me."

"I can think of no others. The less notice you give to them, the less power they will believe they have, that is my advice."

The Chief nodded. "Well said. I will say no more to them unless they ask me, and then my only word will be to repeat what I have already said. And I will repeat it as often as I need to, until they learn it. I will go about my business as if there were no drums." He paused to rub his forehead. "That part will be a walking lie, but the rest of the village will follow my example. Who is on gate-watch tonight?"

"Forest House."

The Chief and the Shaman looked at one another. "That is bad," the Chief said. "I should switch them with another house."

The Shaman nodded. "If it can be done without too much fuss."

"Make it so." Berian passed through the curtains of his sleeping corner, followed by the Mage. "Put Hunt House on watch for the rest of the moon. They have the sharpest eyes. Let us not give Forest House any more opportunities for mischief than they have already had.

"The humans won't just let this go, you know," Sharpwit said to the whole holt, "After this victory, they will be full of themselves, and come after the rest of us. It was an easy victory, serving only to whet their appetites."

By the pounding of the drums, Tilvah knew this to be true. Surely the humans had returned to the village, yet the drumming continued, unabated. The same drums, the same rhythms. No other drums had joined in the cacophany, thus the tribe had concluded the Forest House warriors had kept their victory secret from the rest of the village.

"They will come after us as surely as a wolf follows a trail of blood to a wounded deer. My tribemates, there seems to be only these solutions: flee or fight. If we flee, we leave our home behind. We can find another as we always have, but humans will come again, as they always do. If we fight, we will surely lose more of our tribemates. Perhaps, though, we will be the victors over the Forest House humans. Perhaps we will show all the humans the kind of fighters we are, and they will fear us too much to bother us. Already we know the rest of the Houses in the village have obeyed the command of their chief not to harm us."

"On the other hand," drawled Yharren, from his seat in the cluster of sad-faced purebloods standing to one side, "If you lose the battle, you lose our home, leave the rest of us undefended, and force us to flee."

Sharpwit turned to face the acid-voiced pureblood. "Can you suggest another option?"

Yharren shrugged. "I leave the scrambling and fighting to you half-wolfs who seem to do little else beyond that and breeding."

"If you've nothing better to offer," Sharpwit growled, "then shut up, and don't waste your breath criticizing those who act in your behalf. I ignore you for the rest of the council."

The crouched and seated Wolfriders shifted their places, physically cutting off Yharren from the council circle.

"My tribemates," Sharpwit continued, "we know what war is. We've had war with humans before. If we go to war against these humans, we can't be sure what the outcome will be. If we flee, we have no place to go. Remember also we have young cubs in the holt, and Mistweaver will drop her cub any day now. Flight is always hardest on the young and on the new mothers. If we hide, sooner or later the humans may find us. Even if they don't how long can we wait for them to give up looking? This comes at a bad time, when many of us are gone from the holt. Let those who live after the next few nights tell of that in their howls. Let all generations who follow know that war with the humans came when the holt was divided."

For a moment Sharpwit fell silent, and Tilvah watched him turn slowly around, looking at each of the Wolfriders in turn. When he turned to face the purebloods standing outside the circle, Tilvah felt a wordless send from the chief, a testing of emotions. When he had completed the circle, Sharpwit spoke again.

"I sense in you a fear of the unknown, anger at humans who would drive us out of our holt or kill us all, and, in many, a desire to go to war. But I also sense those who wonder if there is another way that no one has suggested yet. And two," he said, turning sharply, "who may have an answer to that question."

Kestrel and Stone looked taken aback. "It... it was only a half-finished thought, my chief," the treeshaper began. "But if there was a way to play upon the fear some humans have of us..." she trailed off in thought for a moment, then spoke again. "The chief of the village commanded his people to stop killing elves when he thought that a human soul had come back in my body. Humans will not kill the animals they believe humans souls can come back into. If some of us went to the humans and in some way told them what had happened, and tell them if the Forest House warriors come after us again, surely the chief of the humans would intervene."

"Just like that?" shouted Trapsnapper, "Just march into the human village and offer ourselves up for sacrifice? Have you the courage to do that, human-lover?"

"You've proven to us that you don't," Stone said, dryly, drawing closer to Kestrel's side.

"Not just like that, idiot," Kestrel spat back, "I don't hear you offering any better suggestions, so shut up until I finish what I have to say."

A look from the chief cut off any further remarks from Trapsnapper.

"As I said, it was only a half-finished thought. I don't have a plan, only pieces of one. We know that the chief has commanded that his people stop killing our kind. We know the humans go crazy with fear if they see Tilvah strolling around the falls dressed in white and moaning like a lost soul. We know humans are very superstitious about souls and the dead and anything magical. If we are to approach them, we must take full advantage of their superstitions. Obviously, a plan like this takes a lot of thought to make it work."

Sharpwit considered the idea, stroking his chin with his fingers. "Do you suggest we carry out such a plan instead of preparing for war?"

Kestrel shook her head, face grim. "No, my chief. We must do both. Prepare to fight, and do what we can to prevent the fighting. At the same time."

Quiet nods passed around the circle.

"So be it, then," Sharpwit pronounced. "Those who think they can pull off the mission to the humans can prepare for that. The rest of us will prepare for war against the humans. Except... " here the chief looked around the circle again, especially at Mistweaver, who was round as the Mother Moon. "Except the lifebearers. There are too few of us as it is. Let those who will not fight, and those who cannot, go up to the caves near the falls. The females among us who can fight will be their sword-arms should the humans find the caves."

"To the cave?" Redmane protested, from her den not far above, "I won't stay in a cave with that... that... pureblood! I won't! I was born in the Grandfather Tree, and here I stay, to die defending it with my last arrows if I must."

"My chief," Whitefox jumped up in protest, "You speak the truth when you say there are too few of us. But take the lifegivers along with the non-fighters away, and what have you left? Nothing but a handful. Against how many hands of humans? How can you hope to win? You cannot keep us from fighting alongside those we love. To send us away to the caves will endanger the holt even further."

Sharpwit threw his hands up in the air. "Very well. Those of you who cannot or will not fight, gather up food and furs and prepare to move up to the caves. Leafdance, you divide up the females. Make sure those who should stay with their cubs do just that. The rest of you, fighter and healers alike, come with me for a war council." With that, Sharpwit stalked away into the forest.

Tilvah watched sadly as nearly half the tribe shuffled off to gather provisions in preparation for a long wait at the cave. Leafdance had divided up the maids and mothers, sending the pregnant Mistweaver and the grieving Snowberry to the caves along with the purebloods and the cubs. Blackbird would stay in the cave, of course, and for sword-arms Leafdance had chosen herself, Birch, Feathersilk, Moonblossom, Windsong, and Violeteyes. Kaylamale, despite his obvious hatred of humans, was retained with those going to the cave, both for his reluctance to leave Mistweaver, and for his hot-headedness that might endanger himself and others. Redmane stubbornly insisted on remaining with Briarheart in the Grandfather Tree.

With surprise, Tilvah watched Kestrel strap on a sword, and fill her quiver with arrows. Tilvah hurried to her side.

"Surely you, with a young cub to live for and a lifemate already near the battle, you would want to be with Hilltop in the cave."

"Redmane wants to stay here," Kestrel replied, checking the edge on her short sword. "Someone must look after her. Stone will be near here, too, and I can look after him, too, if need be. Someone must when he is healing."

"But Hilltop... who will look after her? Orelan is talking of joining the battle."

"Actually... " Kestrel began, looking around her, "Listen, what do you think of the plan I suggested?"

"It... sounded like something we should consider. I know how the young humans flee from me when I dress up as their ghost of legends."

"Will you try it?"

Tilvah nodded. "If there are others interested in going with me. I don't think I could do it alone."

"Take Hilltop with you."

"What?" Tilvah drew back in surprise. "Take her to the humans? Don't you remember what nearly happened last time she fell into their hands?"

"Yes," Kestrel said, with a pained look in her eyes, "They nearly made her one of theirs. Which tells me," here her voice took on an edge of exitement, " that they won't hurt her this time, either. Make sure she wears the crystal and amulet this time. Let the humans think she is the soul of Alyssar come to life."

"But... " Tilvah began, suddenly confused, "but they saw you wearing that amulet. They think you house his soul. Wouldn't it make more sense for you to go?"

Kestrel laid her hand on Tilvah's arm and looked deeply into her eyes. "Trust me on this one. Take Hilltop with you. You need her with you."

"I will need both of you with me," Stone said to Soulsinger and Shycloud, "Without Treesniffer and Wolfrunner, we are all the tribe has for healers."

"I'm ready," Soulsinger chirped happily, "Someday when I become chief, will I be as good a healer as you? Better than father?"

"Only if you become a little less giddy, cub," Stone chided, not unkindly, "When you are ready, I can teach you how to make your powers stronger."

"I'm ready now," Soulsinger said, stoutly.

Stone chuckled. "I'm sure you think you are."

He paused when he saw Shycloud drift to one side of the trail, falling behind rest of the Wolfriders. Putting an arm around her shoulders, he said, "And you will find your powers when you are ready, little sister."

"Maybe I should go up to the cave with the others," she mumbled.

Stone shook his head. "Powers or none, there will be plenty to do for the wounded. I want you to stay with me to help. Besides, sometimes a crisis will bring out powers that are needed. You may surprise yourself."

Shycloud smiled weakly.

Stone looked back toward the holt to where his lifemate was still talking with Tilvah. He frowned. There was something about that battle gleam in her eyes that he didn't like. Had she not loved a human once? True, as she like to remind him often, there was a distinct difference between loving humans and loving a human. He watched as Kestrel hurried to catch up with the fighting pack. He would stay near her, he told himself, as near as he could. He would keep an eye on his lifemate. Death had come between him and love, in fact, between him and Recognition, once before. He did not intend to allow it to happen again.

The war council was short. With the decision to go to war made, other decisions came quickly. The Wolfriders knew how to set up traps, blinds, diversions. There would be plenty of those, to make the forest appear to be swarming with elves. The traps would be cunning, to deceive the forest-wise humans, and deadly as well, for the traps were meant to do a warrior's work where a warrior could not be.

But more than traps and cunning tricks, the Wolfriders knew they needed to act as one, so they planned their battle strategies well. To divide the humans would be their first goal. To terrify them was the second. As for the third... bloodthirsty howls filled the forest in defiance of the pounding drums. The Wolfriders returned to the holt for a short sleep, then set out well before sunset to put their plans into action.