"Sunset," said the elder.

The human warriors nodded. Locks of fine, silky hair adorned their spear shafts and club handles. They smiled knowing, superior smiles at one another.

"Our chief thinks he can keep us from the forest by posting guards from Hunt House. Our chief thinks we are too much in awe of Hunt House to defy them. Our chief thinks we are too stupid to think up clever tricks to get out of the village."

"Our chief hasn't noticed the wall on our side of the village is weak and crumbling under the pallisades!" laughed one of the warriors.

The Forest House elder nodded, looking smug. "Nor does he know of the forest herb that makes men giddy and heavy-eyed. Hunt House will lose its quarry this night. Tick House, are you with us?"

The men lounging at the far end of the warrior's council grinned, and waved crude wooden clubs and spears, both lacking obsidian blades that made true war weapons so deadly.

"Perhaps you will earn a house stone for yourselves this night," the elder purred. Leaning close to the war chief beside him, knowing his voice would be hidden by the noise of the drums, he murmured, "Use them as you will. They are a shield for you. Let them draw out your quarry, while you wait in safety for the best moment to strike."

The war chief gave a slight nod of assent before sitting upright again.

"We will strike again tonight," the elder said, "while the Spirits still reel from the last strike. While fear still quivers in their hearts. While the forest still stinks of their blood. Strike, my sons, and make the gods smile."

"But why are you going?" Navah pleaded as Tilvah laced up the long doeskin tunic. "You could get killed over there!"

"Because Kestrel's idea makes sense. If we can convince the humans we're not evildoers, we can gain their help." Tilvah smiled grimly. "Little Soulsinger had the right of it."

"But, Mother -- "

"Navah!" Tilvah clasped her daughter's hands, gently, looking into the wide blue eyes that held so much fear. "I need your help, kitling! Come with me. You're wise, you're strong, you can speak to the humans -- "

"No!"

"Yes! I need you. Please, Navah."

Navah trembled; lips tightening in a bloodless line, she finally nodded acceptance. Tilvah embraced her gratefully.

"No harm will come to you, Navah. That I promise." She tilted up Navah's chin. "Be brave, kitling. There's nothing for you to fear."

"Then why did you insist I come armed?" Volann spoke from his perch by her cavern. He glared at her, gripping his longbow in both strong hands.

"Because I prefer not to be the only one carrying weapons." Tilvah raised her wrists; knife-bracers, Orelan's work, covered her forearms and appeared at first to be decorative. "There's one someplace else, Volann, but I prefer not to seduce you until after this night's work is done."

The joke fell flat. Volann looked away, clenching his jaw as well as his fists -- thinking, perhaps, of Whitefox fighting with the others. Tilvah silently beseeched the High Ones for patience and continued dressing.

The entire outfit -- a long tunic with a train, sandals, the headdress which was no more than a flat-topped hat with feathers around the band -- was made of white doeskin. The Sky People liked a particular story about a chief's daughter who had died in the river -- and Starwing had suggested somebody pretend to be the girl's ghost. Tilvah had liked the idea so much she'd had Orelan make her the costume. She'd never dreamed it would ever be needed like this.

"But you're needed with them!" Mistweaver's voice rose from the back of the cavern.

"But you need me too!" Kaylamale argued. The floater hovered before his lifemate, who scowled at him. His face fell. "At least I thought you did -- "

"I do need you, but not to have this cub!" Mistweaver exclaimed. "High Ones, Kay! Any wolf-bitch can crawl into a den and drop her cubs, but you act as if I'd fall apart the minute the pains started!" She suddenly clutched her stomach, and her lifemate anxiously embraced her.

"What is it, beloved? Is it the child?"

Volann winced, shaking his head. "What a complete fool," he muttered, glaring back at Kaylamale.

"You were just as bad with Seela," Tilvah retorted. "Worse, if I remember. Kaylamale!" Her voice cracked, but it brought the glider around to her, shocked and upset. "Moonblossom will take care of Mistweaver. I need you with me, so bring Quotal and stop your clinging nonsense!"

"She's my lifemate -- "

"If I hear that from you once more, Kaylamale, I will sew your tongue and teeth together!"

"It's all right," Mistweaver pleaded, as Kaylamale stared resentfully at Tilvah. "Please, beloved! Tilvah really does need you. I promise, I'll send to you if the cub comes, but you must go now!"

Kaylamale flew out of the cavern. Heaving a sigh of relief, Tilvah made sure Moonblossom and Kyliera came to Mistweaver's side, and looked down at Hilltop. She rode in a special sling tied to Volann's back, though she was nearly too heavy for it, and certainly too active to be carried comfortably for long. "I think we're ready," she said.

They marched out of the caves. Tilvah felt her folk send to her, a comforting farewell, and led her small party down to the Falls. The drums had not yet ceased, but now Tilvah was used to the uproar. And here, the Falls made it seem insignificant.

"Navah, will Moss help?" she asked.

Navah bit her lip. "I think she will. She understands how dangerous the humans are to us."

They came to the troll caves' entrance, and found the door open. Curious, Tilvah followed Navah's lead down the corridor and along cramped passages that finally opened up on a large, plant-filled room. Water trickled from a small hole down into a pool filled with water-plants; hewn shelves were covered with pots of herbs and fruit-shrubs, and mushrooms gleamed in the dank corners. Tilvah felt an odd affinity for the moist coolness of the wide chamber; here was proof that the trolls did share something in common with elves!

"Navah -- " The squat female who shuffled in gasped when she saw Tilvah. Tilvah nearly jumped, taking in the green-skinned, heavily muscled creature whose features seemed such a gross parody. A long, hooked nose, beady eyes, thick lips -- it, she, whatever, resembled nothing so much as a vulture.

"Moss, this is my mother, Tilvah," Navah spoke, rattled by the encounter. "Please, don't be upset! I know we're too many -- "

"About three too many," muttered the creature, glaring at Tilvah.

"We need a favor, my friend."

Tilvah stared at Navah, shocked that her lovely child could be so bereft of companionship as to call the monstrous thing before her "friend".

"The humans are about to attack our holt," Volann interrupted.

Moss stared at Navah, then back at Tilvah. "O ho! Now I remember you," she announced triumphantly. "You're the one who likes to pretend she's a human spirit! I knew I'd recognized that garb." She turned to Navah. "What do you need, little friend? Sleep-dust for those humans? Maybe some of my special potions to dose their water with, or -- "

"We need to look like spirits." Navah turned questioningly to Tilvah. "What do human spirits look like again, Mother?"

Tilvah had to think for a moment. "They glow, with a soft gentle radiance that's otherworldly -- "

"What is that stuff you use for light?" Navah begged. "We just need a little."

"Hmph! You'd better believe that's all you need. Too much would kill you poor point-ears." Moss looked them over, her eyes settling on Hilltop. "But not her! She's much too young."

"But -- " Volann began.

"It's all right," Tilvah said quickly. She didn't think Hilltop would need any radiance; the cubling was already as bright as the sun with her hair and eyes -- and that talismanic crystal dangling around her neck. "We'll give you whatever you ask for this."

Moss' mouth quirked upward. "We'll settle that later. You'd better come in first, Human Spirit. I'll need to do a good job with you."

"They are coming," said Crosstrail, barely containing his exitement, "They have split into three groups and one is coming down this trail. Fools that they are, they walk single-file, some distance from one another."

"Perfect," Sharpwit said, "All the better for us. Get up in that tree, where that strong limb is. Yes, up there where the leaves will dapple your shape and they won't see you at all. I'll wait for them under the bushes. Quickbolt, you hide yourself on the other side of the trail. Whitefox, tell Shade, Fleetfoot, and Pine to watch and wait for us along the trail ahead."

While Whitefox dashed ahead, Sharpwit hid under a bush with the wolves, Starfuzz and Bolt. Silence fell over that small part of the great forest, silence like that of any other part of the forest at night. There was nothing to tell the humans that anything out of the ordinary awaited them here.

Inevitably, they came, as Crosstrail predicted. They walked in a line, seven of them, all young, strong, deep-chested, cat-footed forest warriors. All armed with flat clubs sporting obsidian teeth. All as silent as humans can be. None as silent as the Wolfriders who awaited them. The band of humans glided past, one by one, all spaced just close enough that they could see one another, but far enough apart that they could scan a fair length of the trail. It was a practice the Wolfriders had observed often enough to devise a plan to use against it.

When the last of the human band filed past, Sharpwit signaled to Crosstrail and Quickbolt. As quiet as the humans had been, none could match the Wolfriders for absolute noiselessness. Thus it was that the last of the human warriors never heard death stalking him from behind until his life's blood was spilling on the ground. He had no chance even to make a sound to warn his companions.

*A good kill,* Crosstrail said, *Swift. Clean. Silent.*

Sharpwit grimaced. As much as he disliked humans, he was a hunter at heart. There was no sport in this kill. The man was dead before he'd had a chance to realize he'd been attacked. *Get the wolves. Let's get on with the plan.*

The man was heavy, limp, a dead weight as they lifted him onto their shoulders. *We're coming,* Sharpwit sent ahead to the Wolfriders who were waiting for him there, *Come and help us. This one is heavy.*

They were soon joined by Whitefox, Pine, Shade, and Fleetfoot, who all lent their shoulders in carrying the man in the direction the humans had gone. They did not follow the trail itself. Instead, they traveled a parallel path, straightening curves where they could to gain time. They hurried on, pressed by an increase in speed they had noticed in the humans.

*They haven't noticed yet their own warrior is missing,* Whitefox commented, *If they can't keep better track of their own fighters, they ought to be easy prey.*

*Careful,* Sharpwit warned, *I want the humans to feel overconfident, not us.*

When they had passed up the human band, they returned to the trail with their grim burden. Sharpwit pointed to an overhanging limb. *That one. It ought to support his weight.*

Quickly, they tied a rope around the dead warrior's ankles, then tossed the other end over the limb. With all six Wolfriders at the rope, they quickly hauled the man up until his face dangled at the face level of the humans who still walked on two feet. They tied the end of rope around the trunk of the tree, then dove into the bushes just as they heard the slight sound of the humans coming up the trail.

"Hush!" the leader of the human band whispered, "I hear something." He halted, and his line halted behind him, the humans crowding closer together. They gripped the hilts of their clubs, while the leader held his spear ready in stabbing position. "All right, men, forward. Slowly. Listen all the while."

The human stepped forward, slowly, one silent step at a time. Coming around the darkened curve in the trail, his forehead collided with that of the dead man who dangled there. The leader of the band cried out, leaping back, then recognized that the figure that dangled there was human. He grasped the upside-down head, and held the face to the moonlight.

"Laiwei!" he gasped.

"But... but... "stammered the last man in line, "Laiwei is... " The man spun around, frantically looking for the man who should have trailed him, looking everywhere but at the corpse that dangled before him.

"Don't panic!" the leader commanded, though his voice shook.

The last man continued his wild dance of denial. "He couldn't have... he was just... "

"Stay in your place!" the leader yelled, but the last man in line broke.

"The Spirits took him! They will take us all! Run!"

His panic was infectious. The leader stayed rooted to the spot, yelling for his men to stand their ground, while they were millling about, having forgotten, in their panic, which way led back to the village. A weird howl rent the air around them. They cried out to their gods, and bolted.

Six Wolfriders and their wolves made short work of them.

"Forest House lodge is WHAT?" Chief Berian roared.

"Empty of men, my chief," a trembling young hunter repeated in a quavering voice. "All that remain are the women, children, and old ones, who keep up the drumming. All the warriors are gone."

"Tick House men are gone, too," said another who dashed in breathlessly, with a hasty bow of respect. "All other lodges are asleep."

"Forest House AND Tick House?" Berian smacked his fist into his palm, then sat heavily on his sleeping platform. "Gods curse them all. Light the torches, men, and wake the Mages. There will be trouble tonight, for certain. The fools!" he shouted, rising up again, "Idiots! Moon-mad, double-cursed, dog filth... How did this happen?"

The new arrival answered. "The night guards were groggy. We think they were fed something. It is said that Forest House knows more about plants that will do such things than the Mages themselves do. My chief... what will happen to the guards?"

"Eh? The guards?" Berian waved a hand. "Nothing, I expect. I doubt it was their fault. Let them sleep it off. I want every other fit hunter in the village awakened, as well as the Mages."

"Will we have to go after them?" the young hunter stammered.

"Until I consult with the Shaman, I don't know, but be ready, hunter, be ready. I doubt we have any other choice."

Moonwing had been stupidly reckless, Greywolf noted, as he swung down from the tree he'd been lurking in. The humans had her, and were enjoying their little sport, little suspecting the eyes that were upon them. Greywolf poured battle lust into his howl as he hit the ground. His cry was echoed by his band of fighters. Like rain they came down from the trees, pattering on the earth, charging at the humans. With fang and bright metal the Wolfriders and the wolves attacked.

"Tick House," Greywolf muttered to himself. The man he took down wore no house stone. Lean of limb and chest, the man was easy prey, yet his wild charge showed how little self-knowledge he had. No one who was that inept would attack in such a way.

Seven humans had come screaming at them, armed only with wooden clubs and pointed sticks. Three lay dead on the ground already, but the enthusiasm of the remaining men never flagged. They swung wildly with their clubs, flailing the air as they tried to get at the Wolfriders who dodged their blows with ridiculous ease. One lucky blow caught Childmoon on the side of his head. Glow's arrows pierced the human before he could finish off the injured Wolfrider.

"Childmoon, are you all right?" Glow was at his side, dragging him away from the battle.

"I'll live," Childmoon said, wiping the blood from the side of his head away, "Just let me at those humans. Here comes another."

Childmoon leaped up, but Glow's arrow was swifter. The human fell face first into the duff. Curious, Glow bent and sniffed at the man, then sat up straight.

"No wonder they fought like they did!" he exclaimed, "Greywolf, come smell this."

The last of the Tick House men lay motionless on the ground. Greywolf walked over to the human that Glow pointed at. He sniffed.

"Specked mushroom," he said, as he stood up. "Someone fed them the mushroom that made them act crazy, made them think they were better warriors than they were. But why?"

The Wolfriders looked around themselves, and sniffed the air.

*The holt!* Greywolf sent, *Sharpwit, if you are in range, get to the holt. The humans are heading that direction.*

"They used these men to get around us," Greywolf said aloud, studying the tracks as he headed in the direction of the holt himself, "They've come this way, that's plain enough. Well, we know what kind of humans we're dealing with. They're willing to to make unwitting sacrifices of their brothers to help assure their own victory."

The substance Moss coated them with left a strange taste in Tilvah's mouth, and it made them glow like fen-fire on a moonless night. Volann cursed to himself, long and softly, while Deathsong padded behind him. The longtooth looked disgruntled; Tilvah supposed the cat hated the luminous look of his fur, but Volann had compelled Deathsong not to lick it off.

They walked straight for the palisade. Tilvah held Hilltop's hand tightly, but the she-cub showed no signs of wanting to chase after flowers and nightbirds. As the elves passed clearings of cut-down trees, Hilltop stared wonderingly at the stumps. "Where are the trees?" she asked.

"Shh!" Kaylamale warned. He hovered above them, while Quotal circled with seeming aimlessness. "We're almost there."

Tilvah gripped Hilltop as they walked up to a spear-armed male. The man was peering toward her, trying to make out what she was. Fear was in his eyes, but he held his ground. "Dunan, Forest House didn't poison my food, too, did they?" he shouted up at his companion on the gate.

"I see it, too, Betajin. I see it, too." The man on the gate, Dunan, leaped down and dashed toward the center of the village. "Spirits! The spirits are upon us!"

Volann muttered, "I think we're here. Now what do we do?"

Facing the humans who surrounded them, holding spears in shaking hands and wide-eyed in awe, Tilvah said, "I think we'd better go quietly. Otherwise, these human scouts will hurt themselves." She held up one luminous hand in a commanding gesture.

"Humans, you have a chief among you, do you not? I would speak to him. Bring him here."

The guard backed up, until he was flat against the gate.

"Tremble not, Betajin." Tilvah spoke gently. "We are not here to harm you. Remain here when your chief arrives, and you will know why we have come." Tilvah glided forward, within arm's reach of the man. Holding out one slender finger, she traced a pale, glowing circle on his chest, as the ointment made of glowstone powder smeared off of her finger onto the man's skin. "That is my mark of promise that you will not be harmed. In fact, great rewards await you in the next world."

The man swallowed hard, and smiled weakly.

There was a commotion in the village that nearly drowned out the drumming of Forest House. Torches were lit, and a milling procession of humans approached the gate. From the midst of the crowd a tall, dark-haired human stepped forward, followed by and older man in a long robe. Tilvah held up a hand in greeting as the two came through the gates and knelt a short distance away.

"I am Berian, Chief of they Sky People," the dark-haired man said, "With me is the Shaman of the village. We are both pleased to speak with you, and fearful of your presence. Fearful, for it has just come to our attention that some traitors in our village have gone into the forest to make war upon the Sprit people. Pleased because we can ask you your advice -- shall we go into the forest after them? And will your people understand why we are there and not make war upon us?"

Tilvah held her hand out toward the men. "Arise, O Chief of the Sky People, and your wise advisor. Yes, we know of the traitors who set forth from your village this night, and last night as well."

"Last night?" Berian roared, once again becoming chief that he was in spite of his awe, "Curse them, how could I have left them on watch last night? Forgive me, Spirit, for it was my lack of foresight that allowed them to leave the village at all. What mischief did they do?"

Tilvah drew herself up to full height, and looked down her nose at the chief, allowing her brows to draw together in a slow drama of anger. She signaled to Volann to allow Deathsong to pace forward, within sniffing distance of the chief.

"If you will have your men search the lodge of the Forest House, you will find their trophies from their night's foray. Seven of my people," she shouted in a clear, ringing voice, "Seven caught unawares, whose broken, headless bodies have returned to the earth, while their heads lay rotting in the lodge of your lawless ones."

Berian motioned to the men nearest him. They rose from their knees and dashed toward the lodge where the drums still rang out. Berian fell to his knees again, lowering his head to within inches of Deathsong's fangs.

"I know the sort of relics of which you speak," he said, in a low voice, "Such a treasure helped me achieve my own rank. Then came the dreadful day that we learned that your people may carry the souls of our own. Since then I have declared such trophies unlawful, and have commanded my people to cease harming yours. Yet the heads of your people still lay in preserving pots throughout the village, along with other treasures taken from the bodies." He sighed. "Perhaps it is my own head you have come for. Hear me, Spirits. For the lives taken last night, and for any further crimes commited against your tribe this night, I offer my own life and blood in exchange, if you will spare my village your wrath."

The men who were gathered near their chief nodded sagely, Tilvah noted. They expected nothing less from their chief, who had been trained from birth to make the supreme sacrifice for his village if needed.

"Life is too precious," she said, gently, "to offer it or take it so freely. You would serve us better if you go into the forest with your strongest fighters and remove the traitors from the forest. Look above you, humans." Tilvah pointed to where Quotal was circling overhead. She motioned to Kaylamale to glide up and mount his bird. The humans gasped when he took flight, making superstitous signs with their fingers.

"The great bird will seek out your traitors from the air, while this Spirit," Tilvah motioned to Volann,"Will see you safely along the path. Gather up your warriors, and follow the great bird. He will take you to where your people stalk ours. Yes, you know now what a crime it is to take the lives of our people." Tilvah opened her arms, gesturing dramatically. "a sign was sent to you some five turns of the seasons ago. See once again," she intoned, as she lifted Hilltop for all the humans to see,"the sign that the Spirits sent. Before, only a chosen few saw. Now your whole village may see."

The humans gasped as they saw the squirming, bright-haired elf child wearing an amulet and pendant of their own people. The Shaman peered closer.

"A Mage," he whispered. "Spirit, if I may?" He gestured to indicate he wished to look closer. Deathsong remained in his way, so Tilvah stepped forward. The Shaman studied the woven amulet closely, reading its curves and weavings. A suspicious frown creased his brow.

"But that is... " He caught himself before he pronounced the name. He looked up at Tilvah, daring to look her in the eyes. "I have seen this before, Spirit," he said, softly, "But the young maid who wore it was much older that this one. Tell me of this."

"Shaman!" the chief hissed. "You dare command a Spirit?"

"Tell me, Spirit," the Shaman continued, in an even voice that betrayed no readable emotion, a voice meant to sooth and entrap, "why is it I saw this amulet around the neck of one of your women, and now I see it worn by a child? Do Spirits truly change form so readily? Tell me, that we may know more about your people and thus serve you better."

Tilvah sensed a trap. "There have been some with that ability," she said, smoothly, "But that is not why this little one wears the amulet. The one you saw before was the mother of this one." She stopped just short of an actual lie, and smiled enigmatically.

"But Spirit," the Shaman said, blandly, "that was five years ago. Surely this little one is no more than... "

"Colm," Hilltop said.

The Shaman went white.

Both humans and elves looked on, curiously.

"Colm," Hilltop repeated, clapping her small hands.

"Shaman, what is it?" the chief asked. "What has she said that makes you so pale? Is it a curse? What mystic word has she pronounced upon us?"

The Shaman's jaw worked noiselessly until he could force out a sound. "It's... it's my name," he breathed.

Berian frowned. "Your name? What do you mean? I've never heard you called such a thing. Why do you say it is your name?"

"It was," the Shaman murmured. "It was my child name when I served as apprentice under... " He dropped to his knees, his head in his arms. "Old master, forgive me," he moaned.

It was Berian's turn to look closer. "Her pale hair, the lightest red I have seen... can this be the same child the Root House woman brought into the village?"

Tilvah laughed. "Yes, that was our little wander-foot. Though we were unhappy you wished to damage her beautiful ears, we were glad to see that she was otherwise treated well."

"If I could... " the Shaman said, lifting his head to look up, "Might I have some time alone with the child? Might I speak to my old master once more?"

Tilvah frowned, wondering if there might be wisdom in telling this man the truth about his old master, how the man had lived in the care of a "Spirit" long after his death chant had been sung. Later, she decided, wondering also just how much little Hilltop knew about her mother's past. "There is more urgent business afoot," she said. "Your people skulk in the forest hunting mine. Gather your warriors, and follow the great bird."

"One more thing, I beg of you," the Shaman said, "What of the boy who was wounded, seemingly by a Spirit? What can you tell of of him?"

"Bring him with you," commanded Tilvah, feeling she'd had enough of humans and wishing to avoid any more of the Shaman's traps. "All will be revealed when the battle is over."

The Wolfriders had assembled in the clear space before the caves. If necessary, they would lead the humans down into those passages&emdash;but the object was to direct them away from the holt. Although, Sharpwit mused as he watched from a tall oak, that might be impossible. If the humans could get this far, they might be able to penetrate to the heart of the holt itself.

Pine came running toward the oak, looking up at Sharpwit and Greywolf beside him. "They come," she gasped, breathing hard. "They broke through the line. They killed Crosstrail&emdash;if he'd only let us take him to Stone for that blow on his head! The rest of the scouts are fighting them, but some have broken through the line. It's as if they know we're protecting something."

"They do, now," said Sharpwit. "Up until now they only came across small groups of us, or traps. Now they've found the shielding line. They'll come to find out what lies behind it.°

Pine leaped down from the tree and tied her long brown hair in a tail behind, preparing for battle. Sharpwit looked down at her slim figure in her red tunic and shuddered. The lifegivers should be holed up in the cave by the falls, not girding up for battle with the humans. There was no helping it now, and certainly some, like Whitefox, were among his strongest fighters.

"I hear them," Greywolf said, in a matter-of-fact tone. "They will be within sight soon." That was what Sharpwit liked best about his hunt-leader. When he was not on a hunt, he never told his chief, nor anyone else, what to do. He would give his chief what information seemed to be most important, then leave the decisions up to Sharpwit.

"There is nothing else to do the," the chief said, flatly. "We fathom here before they overrun the holt. Greywolf, take Flint and Glow and shield the healers. Everyone else, follow me!"

With a long howl, Sharpwit leaped down from branch to branch, landing on both feet at the base of the tree. The Wolfriders around him echoed and re-echoed his cry, pelting down from the branches, mounting their wolves, and circling the clearing they'd been watching, just as the humans came into sight.

The leader of the human warriors looked around in confusion. Howls surrounded him, but by his body movements the Wolfriders could see that he had yet to find the source of the sounds. "Their nests must be here," they heard him shout to his men. "Hear their cries! The forest must be swarming with them, but we will kill them all. Come out, Big-Ears, come out and fight us! Come out, you cowards! "

The howls increased in fury. Furtive shapes flitted among the bushes. Feral eyes glowed from the trees and the underbrush. The humans, perhaps twenty of them, stood their ground though some trembled visibly. A man armed with a spear threw it at a shadowy form that dashed from the base of one tree and up another.

Greywolf took a deep breath to ease the pain in his temples. He had never had to send so much in his life. "Stone?" He turned to the healer. "Do something for this head of mine. I can't even see straight."

The humans stood in the clearing, shouting for the Wolfriders to come out. There were a few elves who appreciated the irony. The Tall Ones, silent stalkers and layer-of-traps for cubs, were unnerved by the unseen. Delicious. It was time to end the shadow-play, and so Sharpwit sent to his archers to shoot.

Trapsnapper leaned out on his bough to shoot the humans' leader, overbalanced, and fell out of his tree. He landed on his back, swiftly jumping up and drawing his knife; as several humans advanced through the rain of arrows, Trapsnapper managed to hamstring two men and stab another. He bent to tug his knife free, and the clubs mangled him before his body hit the dust.

Snarls of rage erupted as the Wolfriders emerged from cover, swords and knives drawn to face the enemy. Greywolf watched as Stone eased his headache, his eyes following a figure in red whose white hair streamed behind her like a river of foam. Then he uncovered his axe and waited.

Childmoon was one of the first to fall, as several humans penetrated the Wolfriders' line to dart toward the caves. Leafdance led the protectors forward; the gentle wolf-healer gutted a human as neatly as a fish with a flash in her eye. Mistweaver and Moonblossom aimed arrows from within the caves, and more humans fell. But two humans caught Jerril, one breaking her head with a club even as she stabbed the human who crushed her ribs.

That was when a voice rang over the clamor. "Wolfriders! Down!"

The humans in the front-line suddenly screamed as their hair caught fire. The flames caught in heartbeats at loincloths, wooden armlets, skin; the burning warriors wailed, dropping to the ground or running crazily toward the river. Wolfriders and humans paused in horror, revealing Orelan as she stood over a bleeding young elf.

Greywolf shuddered as old nightmares came back to him of Kirrah. **Orelan!** he sent, heedless of his throbbing head. **No more!** He ran from the healers, even as the humans advanced once more on his folk. Orelan smiled grimly and stretched out her hands. Two more humans were engulfed in a sheet of solid flame. As one, the Wolfriders recoiled. They wanted nothing to do with fire, and many retreated from Orelan's back.

**Stop it!** Instinctive fear choked Greywolf; he fought it long enough to hamstring one human and duck in to grab Purewolf. She was done for, the wolfling realized. Ignoring Orelan, he raced back to the healers with the maiden. Let the firemaker do as she pleased; she stood alone in this.

"How could you leave her!" Stone yelled as he ran up. "How could you leave her alone!"

Greywolf laid Purewolf on the grass, seeing how sluggishly her wounds bled, and set about making her comfortable. Glow and Flint helped him, but Flint asked,

"Why are we bothering? She's dying. Leave her alone." "She's one of ours," Greywolf answered. "She tried. She followed the Way. " He looked back at the battle, and saw the burning humans lay unmoving on the ground, wisps of smoke curling from their body. But Orelan also lay there. Stunned, Greywolf backed away as Stone, Shycloud, and Soulsinger gathered to give Purewolf what comfort they could.

The Purebloods might sneer at him&emdash;his own, even, thought little of him&emdash;but Greywolf was proud of his halfwolf balance. It bound him more to the Way, he understood it in his bones, and this was such a violation of the Way that it made him sick.

Two hands of humans broke away from the chaos, having spotted the group of healers at the edge of the battle. Flint, Glow, and Greywolf rose as one to shield their healers, for Stone was deep in a healing trance as he worked desperately to keep Purewolf's blood in her body. Shycloud cringed, for these humans seemed to know what the healers were about, and were intent on depriving the holt of them. Three against eight, even with the wolves helping, seemed far odds. And though Stone was a capable fighter, his battle lay on the ground before him, gushing bright red blood on the forest green. She had a knife and she had Quicksilver snarling at her side, but even so Shycloud knew how little she could do alone if one of the humans charged at her.

A human swung his club, missing Flint but striking Greywolf on the backswing. Shycloud screamed. The hunt leader was on his knees, clutching at his side. Flint caught the human under the ribs with a sword before he could get another strike in. Another warrior took the chance to charge at the healers.

Shycloud screamed again. "Soulsinger!" Oblivious to the human dashing at Stone, Soulsinger rushed toward Greywolf. "I'll heal him!" she shouted, fairly panting to be of use.

"Soulsinger, look out!"

The human turned, aiming at easy prey. His club swung unerringly, crashing into Soulsinger's head even as Glow's arrow sank into his chest.

There was no time to think. On Quicksilver's back, Shycloud dashed to Soulsinger's side, lifted the senseless cub in her arms, and took off at a dead run to the only place she knew as safe: the Grandfather Tree.

She could hear pounding feet behind her and urged Quicksilver on, as fast as the wolf could dash. A glance behind showed that Glow and Flint were battling the humans. Stone, out of his trance, had joined them. Shycloud wept for Purewolf as she fled from the pursuing humans.

"Kestrel! Help!" Shycloud came riding out of the forest, Soulsinger slung limply over her shoulder. On her heels was a gang of humans. Kestrel fired arrow after arrow, and saw Redmane's arrows fly, while Shycloud took advantage of her volley and leaped at the Grandfather Tree.

"Up the tree with her!" Kestrel urged, shoving Shycloud toward the nearest den hole. "Where is Stone? Why isn't he with you? High Ones, what's happened to him?"

"Flint and Glow still guard him so he can heal. Soulsinger saw Greywolf struck down and tried to help him. She got dubbed before she could even reach him."

Her arrows spent, Kestrel took up a sword. With Bear and Quicksilver snarling at her side, she faced the humans. Five lay dead, pierced by arrows. A younger one, hardly more than a boy, had been wounded and had fallen into some bushes. Three more warriors faced her, grinning, as though they thought her easy prey.

"Which one of you cub killers did that to Soulsinger?" she growled, speaking in her own tongue, and expecting no answer. "Never mind. I can see you'd all like to finish the job."

As one the warriors charged at her, screaming. She and the wolves met them, bright metal against wood, fang against flesh. Kestrel was swift and agile, dodging the arcs of the heavy war clubs, dashing in to stab at the exposed flanks. One man fell, pierced in the side. Bear finished him. The rest continued their mad dance. Kestrel let them swing away, tiring themselves, before she went in for the kill.

Lomar, lying under a bush with an arrow buried in his leg, stared in wonder. Later he would tell his people that the Spirit housed the Soul of the Mother Bear, Mother of the Forest. He had seen her shoot two smaller ones up a tree, just as a mother bear might, then she seemed to grow to enormous height and strength as she battled the warriors to defend the young ones. Snarling and slashing, with two demonic beasts at her side, she attacked the warriors. From holes up in the tree&emdash;nests, perhaps?&emdash;the smaller spirits were hurling rocks down on the heads of the warriors. They would turn the tide of the battle if something wasn't done. Lomar looked longingly at the club that had flown from his hand when he fell. It was out of reach, and his leg was useless, anyway. Well, he thought grimly, if he couldn't attack the mother bear, he would do something about her cubs.

Kestrel's first warning was a faint scent of smoke.

*Shycloud! Redmane! I smell smoke!*

Absorbed in the dance of death, she could not look for the source, though the scent was growing stronger every moment.

*He's set fire to the tree!* Shycloud setback, *He's got a huge pile of dried stuff at the base, and he's fanning the blaze!*

Kestrel maneuvered the battle so that she could see Shycloud clinging to the side of the tree, staring down at a plume of smoke that arose from behind it.

*Pelt him with stones, Shycloud,* Redmane sent, *I'm coming with my last arrow.*

Shycloud did as she was bidden, but the plume of smoke increased.

*Kestrel, the fire is growing bigger,* Shycloud sent, and Kestrel could hear her cough over the growing crackle of the blaze.

*Any chance it will bum itself out?*

*I don't know. It's climbing the tree. Can your treeshaping stop it?*

*If I wasn't a little occupied at the moment,* Kestrel replied, dodging another blow. The increasing blaze lit up the holt, casting weird shadows as the warriors and Kestrel circled one another, searching for a weak spot.

*Get yourselves out of there and up to the caves where you all should have been in the first place,* Kestrel commanded.

*We can't,* Shycloud sent back, wildly, *The fire is ringing the tree. We can't make the human stop. Redmane hit him in the shoulder with an arrow, and I hit him over and over with rocks, and he's skill fanning the fire.*

Kestrel ground her teeth. The Grandfather Tree was her home. What right had this human whelp to destroy it? She slashed savagely at the humans, but they were well trained in both fighting and endurance of pain. The wolves had managed to put gashes in their legs, yet skill they fought. In desperation, she sent to the only one who could help.

*Allim! ALLIM! Get your ancient bones to the Grandfather Tree NOW!*

"Can you skill see the bird?" Berian asked the hunt leader of Hunt House.

The man peered up into the forest canopy. "In the night, it is hard to tell, but . . . there! Did you see? The stars were blacked out as the bird passed overhead." Quotal's shadow passed them over as the giant bird gave a chilling screech. The hunt leader shivered. "I've seen how night birds hunt. I'm glad this giant is on our side."

The Shaman nodded sagely. "The Spirits extend us great favors this night."

"They are in need, " said the chief.

"Yes," the Shaman agreed, "But they could have taken their wrath out on the whole village rather than allow us to bring our own traitors to justice."

"Wait." A glowing hand flickered through the air as Volann, a short distance ahead, motioned for the procession to stop. "Duck down." He reached out with the tip of an arrow into seemingly empty space. There was a sharp hiss, then a volley of arrows flew across the path and embedded themselves harmlessly in tree trunks. The humans gasped as they rose to their feet again.

"Just a trap," Volann said, casually.

"But . . ." the hunt leader stammered. "We saw nothing!"

"When Spirits set a trap," Volann said, with a slight sneer, "That is all you will see."

The bird called again, and the humans saw their guide glance up, looking intently at the black shadow overhead. "There is a great battle very close to us," he said. "We must be swift." With light, springing steps, the glowing spirit dashed down the trail at a rate even the experienced hunters had trouble keeping pace with. Moments later, cries of men and snarls of wolves betrayed the sight of the clash between man and Spirit. The cry of the great bird rent the night air as it came jetting down out of the sky. A human warrior screamed as the claws impaled his body and lifted him in the air.

The power of the send! Allim sat bolt upright. He hadn't heard its like in turns upon sums. What voice was this that summoned him to the Grandfather Tree? Redmane was holed up there, and . . .

"Briarheart!"

Allim leaped to his feet. Ignoring the barrage of questions from his companions, he dashed out of the cave and on toward the holt. The scent of smoke he soon smelled added an urgency to his flight. He ran full speed, running as he had not since his long-ago youth.

The cry came again. *Allim! Father, come!*

Allim almost tripped over himself as he stopped short. Kestrel? This was one of his? How in the name of the High Ones . . .

He heard the thin wail of Briarheart, and took to his heels again. A moment later he surged past the bushes and saw the ring of flames rising around the Grandfather Tree. He smacked aside a young human, thinking him inconsequential, knocking the consciousness from the youth. Then he flung himself at an exposed root, and urged the sap and water to flow toward the flames. Steam began to rise, yet still the flames, fed by the sweet resin of the tree, flared upward.

*Briarheart,* Allim sent, and got an unskilled response. The cub lived. He would make certain she continued to.

With his teeth clenched, he poured his powers into the tree, forcing more water to ooze out of the bark, and to rain down from the scaly leaves far above. The tree itself felt the fire in something akin to pain. Fires burned in his own head, and sweat dripped from his brow as he urged the tree to dampen the flames that could otherwise destroy it.

The bark is thick, he thought, meant to protect the greenbark inside from the flames. But it also makes my work all the more difficult. It was one thing to shape a den from the tree. It was another thing entirely to command the whole, gigantic tree. If he was a firemaker, perhaps he could command the fire to stop, but his powers lay with the green, growing things. He must cause the tree to save itself. He must. He could not let his own cub bum.

*Father, I will help you.*

Allim felt Kestrel's powers join with his and was suddenly aware of the battle she fought. He felt a new surge of strength but . . . how was she doing that? She had neatly divided her mind, and while her wolfish instincts stalked and grappled with her prey, her elfish mind&emdash;his own legacy&emdash;was focused on the battle against the flames. What were these Wolfriders made of? He had always thought them fragile, since they were so short-lived compared to a pureblooded elf, but this cub, this child of his blood, was fighting two battles at once. And winning.

She caught one human in a moment of carelessness, and Allim felt her wolfish satisfaction as her sword bit deep, snuffing out his life. The other, however, used the moment not to attack her, but to break away and make a murderous dash for him. The wolves were slashing at the human's legs, yet could not stop him. Time slowed. As in a dream, Allim looked up and saw the human running straight at him, club raised, blood lust in his gleaming in his eyes. ..

. . . to be snuffed out as he impaled himself on Stone's sword when the healer leaped out from the bushes.

Kestrel came running, dropped to the ground, and put her hand in Allim's. Placing her other hand on the blackened base of the tree, she lent her full powers to his. Together they chased the licking flames with cooling moisture, raising clouds of steam as the flames protested their own death. A cheer went up from both Redmane and Shycloud.

Allim dropped his head to the soft duff, exhausted. He turned his head to look long and well at his daughter. His daughter. This remarkable child was one of his. Stone had her in his arms.

"Beloved, you are wounded."

"Oh. Oh, I guess I am. But shouldn't you be . . ."

"The battle is ending, sweet love. The humans are so few in number, they have lost heart. When I smelled smoke in the air and heard Redmane and Shycloud send for help, I had to come. Here, lie in my arms, and let me mend you."

Allim turned his face away. What were these strong feelings swirling in him? Anger? Jealousy? Perhaps a touch of regret? He would have to speak to Kestrel, to learn more about her, but later. Now was not the time. She had fought bravely, and was in her lifemate's care, but though Allim had risked his own life, there would be no tender comfort for him. And well he knew why. He rose, pressed his hands to his aching temples, and turned to stagger away from the holt.

"Allim."

The voice arrested him. He turned. Redmane was standing at the base of the tree, Briarheart in her arms.

"I . . . I guess I should thank you. You helped save our lives."

The battle site was ominously silent. Berian stood tall in the moonlight, surveying the scene with clouded brow. He glared at the cluster of Forest House men seated glumly in the middle of the clearing. Wolves and angry Spirits ringed them. Berian counted them. Ten sitting upright. Three more lay badly wounded. From the forest, a young warrior not long past his spirit quest came limping out of the forest at the point of an seething Spirit's sword.

"Lomar!" called Jarrah.

The young warrior turned his head away in shame. "Where is our father?" Jarrah asked.

Lomar would not look at his brother.

Berian grunted. There must have been thirty, at least, who'd gone into the forest that night. Only half remained alive. What had the toll on the Spirits been? There were small bodies with long, silky hair laying among the wreckage. How he wished he could have urged his men on with greater haste! They had been too imaginative, making monsters out of ordinary shadows, seeing vengeful Spirits behind every tree. Fear had dragged at their heels. Berian swore to himself that he would send every one of these finest hunters of his into the forest alone until they reamed to control themselves.

One small Spirit, his hair streaked black and gray, staggered forward. Many wounds crossed his thick arms and powerful body, and his torso was bound with bloodstained leather, yet he moved with a wild thing's grace. By his bearing, Berian guessed he must be of importance. A look of intense distaste crossed the Spirit's face, and hatred burned in his eyes.

"In your tongue, I am Greywolf, the Hunt-Leader of the Wolfriders. We've met before, human." Blue eyes, the color of ice, met his, and Berian suddenly recalled the night he and his warriors had encountered the Spirit band in his territory. Such a Spirit had kept him from adding another head to his trophies&emdash;for which he now gave thanks. Berian bowed low and made gestures of respect.

"Greetings, O Greywolf, Chief&emdash;"

"Not chief." The Spirit's voice lashed out. "We have no chief. Not anymore."

Berian's eyes narrowed as he took in the hard looks of the Wolfriders. The forest spirits wore looks like warriors out for vengeance. More than mere apology was required, he realized, if Forest House had slain the Spirits' leader. Much more.

"These men are traitors to my village. They left the village with neither my permission nor my knowledge. Their intent was to wage a war which I declared to the whole village to be unlawful. In doing so they have broken the laws of our people and yours, and must face whatever consequences await them from both peoples. Will turn them over to you, if you wish. If they return to the village, I assure you they will face the harshest punishment my Mages can think of." Berian spat in the direction of the captured warriors. "You men will wish you had been killed in battle, I assure you."

Turning back to the Spirit, Berian went on. "You are angry at my people. I can read that clearly in your eyes. Surely you have ample reason to be, for not only have lawless men from my village killed many of your people this night, but in the village lay many relics taken from the bodies of Spirits. Indeed, I confess I took a trophy to assure my rank as Chief of the Sky People. We were ignorant then of your true nature and desires. I ask mercy on my village, especially the women, and the children too young to have harmed Spirits. But if there is a price to pay, my warriors and I will pay it freely. The forest is large. There is abundant game, more than enough for both our tribes. Let us live in peace from now on, each to his own part of the forest."

The Spirit's eyebrows drew up in surprise. Silent, he stepped backwards and turned to look at his people.

"Well said, my chief," the Shaman murmured.

"Thank you. It was the best I could do on the spur of the moment. I had to swallow most of my pride and deny half of what my father taught me to say it, but it is said, and I hope the gods will look kindly upon us for saying it. I didn't like the look of the Salmon House woman's fever and rash. Let us hope an appeasement of the Spirits will prevent the gods from casting another plague upon us."

"Look at him," the Shaman said. He gestured to where Greywolf was gazing toward the Wolfriders. He nodded from time to time, or shook his head, or made other small gestures as one might do while talking. Yet no words came from his mouth. The gathered tribe of Spirits seemed to do the same.

"Do they talk without words?" Berian asked.

"So it would seem," the Shaman whispered. "We must keep that in mind in our future dealings with the Spirit world."

Greywolf turned back to the humans. "If we were to deal justice on outlaw humans, we would have but two choices: kill them as they sit, or make slaves of them. " He sighed. "We are hunters, not warriors. We kill only to feed or defend ourselves. To execute them is against the Way. We also value freedom. We could not keep these men as slaves. We will not have them live with us. They are yours, human chief, on your word of honor that you will deal with them as you've said. If you do not, your whole village will suffer."

Berian smiled. This was better fortune than he had hoped for. "You are merciful indeed. I give you my word, Spirit Chief."

"There is one more thing we want of you."

Berian looked back at Greywolf, bracing himself for the Spirit's asking price. He knew the price the Spirits had paid to his own people's scramble for rank in the village.

"For many turns of the seasons, your people have killed and mutilated ours, taking the heads back as trophies. These relics, by your own admission, are skill in your village. Bring them, and all weapons and ornaments stolen from us. The beaded cloak given to one of your women may remain, but all other traces of our people must be brought to this meadow before the sun sets again."

Berian nodded. "It shall be done. I have one thing to ask of you, if you will. I want the bodies of all the fallen warriors. I would have the survivors carry their dead comrades to the village, that all may see their shame."

"Even as you ask, they are being brought to the meadow. We will not have them fouling our forest. They are not fit even to nourish the forest animals." The Spirit turned sharply away, and strode back to his people.

"Sharpwit is gone?" That was young Birch, stepping out of the group of Wolfriders.

Tilvah closed her eyes. Too late, she moaned silently. Too late! Anlari, is this what it always comes to? Your children, sacrificed for ours?

She did not have to see the bodies of the dead to know where Sharpwit lay. She could feel the young chief's presence still. Tilvah swallowed and walked to the tall oak where the Wolfriders had made their last stand. She could smell smoke from burning &emdash; ah, Orelan! Child, you were ever so rash &emdash; and the stink of blood and death. And at last she saw Sharpwit. His bow lay beneath him; one end of the stave was broken. He looked peaceful, almost asleep, save that his neck hung at an unnatural angle.

I will not seek first blood, he'd told her. They'll have to come to me. And so they had.

Whitefox closed her eyes, tears streaming to her chin. "Feathersilk was wounded," she whispered. "I brought her to Stone, but there was an attack on the Grandfather Tree . . . no safety for her. She died, and Sharpwit . . ."

"Sharpwit misstepped." This from Greywolf as he dropped to the ground. "I saw. I could not reach him in time. I failed."

Above the sobbing of the tribe, Tilvah spoke to console the wolfling. "YOU did not fail, Greywolf. You defended those who were helpless." She knelt by the young chief, caressing the skill face and soft hair. "Poor child," she murmured, and raised his body in her arms. He was surprisingly light, for a tall Wolfrider.

"Come, my tribemates," she called. "Let us howl for our dead."

The procession through the forest was necessarily slow. The Forest House warriors who could still stand were forced to carry the dead. Those who could not stand were slung over the shoulders of the strongest Hunt House men. Their ride home was anything but gentle.

They reached the village gates just as dawn had faded the stars. Berian called out to the gate guards to wake the village. Then he marched the procession straight to the door of Forest House lodge. The women, children, and old ones emerged, bleary-eyed, into the cool dawn. The skill air was shattered by their wails of grief.

"There must be a purging," Berian said. Swift, quiet consultations with the Shaman along the trail had given him an idea for Forest House's punishment. "Fetch your belongings, all of you, and be quick about it. When the sun is visible over the hills, my hunt leader blows his horn, and you must all come out of the lodge.

Like ants, the awakened inhabitants scrambled in and out of the lodge door, bringing out armloads of possessions. They made pitiful heaps of them, mounds of blankets and mats topped with baskets, pots, clothing, ornaments. Women and children stood shivering by the mounds while the elders attempted to argue with the stony faced chief. When the first red sliver of the morning sun appeared on the horizon, the hunt leader sounded a note that brought the last of the Forest House people out of the lodge.

"My people," Berian said to the assembled village, "these men, as you may know by now, went out this night to wage a forbidden war on the Spirits. This wretched, shivering row of cowards is all that remains of the war party that thought themselves mighty enough to take on the entire Spirit world. I offered them to the Spirits, and they, in their mercy, spared the lives of these traitors. They demand their own price, though. We shall punish these men, and we shall return all the heads and other trophies we have taken from the Spirits. May the gods show the same mercy and kindness the Spirits have shown this night, for they could have destroyed all of us."

At this, the Shaman made the appropriate gestures, which were echoed by the villagers.

"These men shall be punished, indeed, but I shall take a lesson from the Spirits in dealing with them. They shall not pay with their lives. But they shall pay. You traitors, take the bodies of your fallen comrades in the lodge."

Sullenly, the warriors carried out the chief's orders. Body after body was lifted through the round door. Wails of grief accompanied rose from the ranks of the forest house as the faces of the dead were revealed.

"They shall not receive the honors due our lawful people when death strikes." In his upraised fist, Berian displayed the house stone and amulet necklaces he had taken from the dead warriors. The rest of the village recoiled in horror. "These shall be given to the Spirit people, to do with as they will. May the souls of these traitors be as harried in death as they harried the Spirits."

The chief gestured to the empty lodge. "Forest House shall stand no more. Hunters, bring your torches. Set fire to the lodge."

The hunters obeyed. The resinous wood of the lodge caught fire quickly, and gray smoke drifted over the silent gathering. As the red flames licked the sides of the lodge, Berian addressed his people.

"This dawn, the lodge of the Forest House people shall burn, with the bodies of the lawless dead inside. Forest House shall be no more until its people, if they choose, rebuild it plank by plank, with no help from the rest of the village. Mate shall be taken from mate, the women and children to be sheltered in other lodges around the village. If they choose, the women may take other mates and cast off their Forest House men at any time. The men shall live in Tick House lodge until they rebuild their own. All except," here, Berian turned to the gathered elders, "these, whose council sent these men into war. They shall be stripped of their names and house stones, and shall live within the walls of Tick House for the rest of their lives."

The lodge burned for the remainder of the morning. The surviving Forest House warriors were bound together and forced to watch. When the ashes had cooled sufficiently, the men carted them off, blanketfull by blanketfull, to cast the charred timbers and bones into the river.

The howl began as the sun rose. Sharpwit and Feathersilk, joined in death as in life. Go where your souls will, my heart's joy, Tilvah urged silently. Jerril and Childmoon, Purewolf and Crosstrail, Flintpoint and Timekeeper. My pupil and my friend How I shall miss you! May your cubs recall you for us each time we look upon them.

Trapsnapper and Orelan were brought to the circle. Kestrel burst into tears at the sight of her grandmother, and knelt to cradle the elf's body in her arms. Stone embraced his lifemate, urging her to let go, and at last the young Wolfrider laid the firemaker back on the ground. Tilvah saw in Orelan's face the last of the true wolflings, the granddaughter of Nimor who was most like her, and flinched as more tears came to her eyes. She could feel Orelan's spirit beside her, laughing.

**Allim!** she sent to the treeshaper, who cradled Briarheart in his arms outside the circle. **Do you feel?**

Allim turned a face carved in pain toward her. **I feel so many souls here, I might as well be dead myself.** A brief smile echoed the sheen of tears in his eyes, and both disappeared. **Now how shall we live, with one chief gone and the other off jaunting?**

Tilvah looked down at the dead as the Wolfriders began their howl. The tribe was even fewer than before. Their dead hunters would be sorely missed as spring and summer faded to autumn and winter. And did they dare trust the humans? Berian said the Forest House would never trouble them again, but humans' memories were short. What would happen if this winter was a hard one? The humans would suffer more than the Wolfriders. Who was to say that they would not forget their agreement?

She shot a sharp look at Hilltop, howling beside her weeping mother. Who, indeed? Who was Hilltop? What was she?

That day was the longest Tilvah could remember. It put the night of Starwing's death in the shade. But then no one had given birth on that night, as Mistweaver did. One moment, Tilvah lay on her furs and contemplated sending herself out to seek out her lost kin. The next, Kaylamale's frantic seedings had everyone rushing to the caves.

Stone came just in time to ease Mistweaver back and help her bear the small cub. Tilvah winced as the infant took her first breath and let out a scream. Curled up in Allim's arms, in a specially made sling, Briarheart screeched back in protest. Nearly all the Wolfriders burst out laughing.

"I don't know who she belongs to!" Stone declared. "Mistweaver barely makes a peep&emdash;and Kaylamale doesn't have lungs that strong!"

This one definitely wants back in! The cheery voice in Tilvah's head belonged to a young wolf-blooded maiden with honey-gold hair and green-gold eyes, with a face and form that had once made one arrogant treeshaper melt like snow under the sun. And Tilvah grinned in reply.

Don't we all? she answered the voice.

"She's so beautiful," Moonblossom cooed, handing the baby from Stone's hands to Mistweaver's arms. "Look at all that black hair. Almost as long as yours, Kay."

Kaylamale couldn't take his eyes off his tiny daughter, watching as his lifemate carefully buried her face against the cubling's neck. Tilvah thought he was going to faint. He'd certainly gone pale.

"YOU can breathe, Kaylamale!" Redmane retorted, and the Wolfriders burst out laughing again.

Kestrel shook her head. "You'd think we'd just dropped a load of stones from the way our mates stagger about looking foolish! Except for you, beloved," she announced to a very smug Stone. "You were quite sensible."

"And I didn't faint," Stone resumed, grinning as Kaylamale did just that.

Groaning, Volann and Flint dragged the unconscious elf over to a pile of pelts and left him there. Tilvah shook her head, giggling, realizing it was a release of the tension and grief as well as a reaction to the ridiculous situation.

"Now that we've made peace with the humans," Allim's tart voice rose above the laughter, "try telling me what we're going to do with them next. Shall we throw a feast and give them gifts?"

The laughter stopped abruptly. I'll give them a gift," Leafdance snapped. "The only gift they deserve!"

"My sword through their black hearts is the only gift they'll get from me," declared Moonwing. She and Mountainhowl exchanged meaningful glances. "No matter if they return my Glimmer's bow and tore. They're skill Tall Ones, and there's no room for us and them here."

"I wasn't speaking to you." Allim turned coolly to Kestrel. "l was speaking to . . . to my young cub here. You're the one who came up with the plan to get the humans to turn against their own. Now what happens?"

Kestrel's face flushed, even as jaws dropped around her. Leafdance leaped to her feet at once and strode out of the cave. Tilvah shot a look at Windpiper, who shrugged, picked up her pipe, and began playing a whimsical little tune.

"I&emdash;I'm not sure. . . "Kestrel stammered, staring down at her hands. She raked her bangs out of her face. "I haven't really th-thought about it."

"Think about it, then. What next? You're our expert on the Sky People."

Tilvah was set to give Allim a kick in the backside when suddenly Greywolf staggered in. Whitefox jumped up, ready to give him the rough edge of her tongue, when she saw Glow and Snakecatcher come in behind him, all bearing sacks.

"Here." Greywolf emptied the first sack. Weapons spilled out, knives, bowstaves, quivers and arrows, daggers, axes. "All the trophies are here. The Tall Ones from the Hunt House left these in the meadow."

Snakecatcher and Glow upended their loads, revealing jewelry. Moonwing choked on a sob and plucked a tore of braided gold from the pile. Mountainhowl cradled her against him as she clung to the relic.

Tilvah watched as the Wolfriders came and picked through the trinkets. For them, it was an alien thing, to reclaim the belongings of their long-gone dead. Snowberry clasped Tracer's belt and bow, and Skyblade's tiny dagger, to her heart. Greenthom reached forward with shaking hands and took two daggers that had belonged to her father and brother. Birch wept as she found the bracelet Riverflight had always worn. Nighthawk's hand stole out and snatched one perfectly-preserved lock of hair, white-golden and silky still, and next took a spearhead from the pile.

The reclamations continued, until at last there was one knife left, a slim dagger in a sheath of blued steel. The hilts curved downward, and the pommel was rounded; the grip was wrapped in blue suede. Many eyes turned to Whitefox as she took up the knife. It had belonged to her son Gale. She caressed the knife with her eyes and fingers, and turned to Stone.

"Will you take it, cub?"

Stone gave the knife a long, hard look, and slowly shook his head. Whitefox nodded, and turned to Starfall. "You are the only other one who has a right to this." She slid the knife through the notch in Starfall's belt. "I expect to see it used wisely."

Starfall's eyes shone with pride as she admired her new weapon. "Soulsinger, look! Now we can go hunting together!" She ran over to her friend, who admired the new knife with her.

"Where are the skulls?" Tilvah asked.

"We buried those," Glow answered. He smiled at Mistweaver's cubling. "Couldn't very well bring those back! We've howled for them, and they know it. Now they can nourish the earth, as they should have done."

"Indeed." Tilvah sat back and viewed her tribe&emdash; smaller, but stronger now, more eager for life than before. Mistweaver sang to her little cub, who yowled like a netted longtooth. The whole cave was crowded and hot and the Pureblood resolved not to leave until everyone else had.

A Wolfrider's life was a hard life, and that of a Pureblood's even harder. One wanted more than mere survival. One craved peace and comfort.... But as Tilvah watched Mistweaver and Kaylamale's cub, she remembered that her tribe's history was not all bloody and torn. It had survived war and death, and outlived ancient conflicts.

So would they.