Коллектив авторов: The Realms of the Elves

Rhespen conjured a burst of raw force, barely visible as a colorless ripple in the air. The attack jolted the green, bloodied its flank, and made it stumble.

"Over here, stupid!" he shouted. "I'm the one you want."

The maddened wyrm pivoted and ran at him. Rhespen stood his ground for as long as he dared. Every moment the drake focused on him was another moment his warriors could assail it in relative safety.

When it was several strides away, he released another of the spells bound in the truesilver rod. The enchantment of levitation shot him skyward like a cork bobbing to the surface of a pond.

The green's fangs clashed shut just below his feet. It reared up on its hind legs, snatched and narrowly missed again with its fore claws, then he rose too high for it to reach.

Meanwhile, arrows pierced the drake. When their missiles were exhausted, the men-at-arms drew swords, readied axes, screamed war cries, and charged in to cut and hack at their foe. No doubt they were afraid, but they also knew aggression was their only hope. If they didn't kill the green, it would surely slaughter them.

They instantly started dying. The dragon struck and caught two at once in its fangs. Its talons raked out the guts of a third, a flick of its tail pulped the torso of a fourth, and a swat from its wing broke the neck of a fifth. Yet the soldiers' blades gashed it in its turn, and its blood spurted to darken the snow.

Still floating above it-a position that allowed him to attack it without fear of striking his allies-Rhespen hammered it with spells of flame and blight. It kept on fighting. The elf took a chicken bone from one of his pockets, snapped it, and declaimed yet another incantation.

The green stumbled and shrieked as a number of its own bones fractured. The legs on its right side gave way, toppling it. It writhed, seemingly attempting to scramble back onto its feet, but it evidently couldn't accomplish that or anything else. Not yet. The pain of its internal injuries was simply too great.

Rhespen suspected the dragon's incapacity would only last a moment, but it provided an opportunity, and the men-at-arms took full advantage. Howling, they plunged their weapons into the green's body over and over again. Rhespen split its flank with a screech of focused noise.

The green thrashed. The warriors had to scramble back to avoid being crushed. Rhespen assumed the reptile would rise. But in fact, its convulsions gradually subsided, until at last it lay motionless, and the gleam in its yellow eyes dimmed away to nothing.

The warriors stared at the huge, gory corpse as if unable to believe what they were seeing. Then one cheered, and the others followed suit, the jubilant clamor echoing from the snowy hillsides.

Rhespen floated back down to the ground to join them, whereupon Serdel thumped his list against his chest in salute. "Hail, dragon slayer," the soldier said.

The air was blessedly mild. The trees were putting forth tender new leaves, and meltwater murmured down the mountainsides in glistening torrents. It was all lovely, but on that day, though he was an elf, Rhespen had no inclination to stand and savor the sight. He was too eager to see Winterflower.

His men were equally eager to greet their loved ones and partake of the ease and rewards they'd earned, but that still didn't mean they could ascend the road to Dawnfire at speed. Over the course of the campaign, they'd lost the hearty warhorses they'd started out with to the weapons of their foes and the hardships of the season, and replaced them with whatever mounts they could steal. Those nags had been of indifferent quality to begin with, and hard use and hunger hadn't improved them. Their riders were lucky they could make the climb at all.

Before beginning, Rhespen dispatched a messenger from the fort at the foot of the mountains to ride ahead with the report he'd written and news of his impending arrival. He had a responsibility to inform Orchtrien of the outcome of his mission as soon as possible, and besides, if Winterflower learned he was mere hours away from the Bright City, perhaps she'd ride down to meet him.

But in fact, it was Maldur, dyed silver mane gleaming in the sunlight, who met him three quarters of the way up the highway.

"Welcome home, Milord," the human wizard said.

"Thank you," said Rhespen, perplexed.

Following their duel, he and Maldur had made some effort to obey Orchtrien's command and bury their rancor, but the dislike still simmered beneath the surface. Thus, it seemed unlikely that Maldur would volunteer to escort his rival into the city, yet it would be just as odd for the king to order one of his principal deputies to perform such a trivial task.

"According to your dispatch," Maldur said, "you performed brilliantly. I bring His Majesty's congratulations, along with clean garments, freshly groomed mounts, banners, and all the other appurtenances required to make a brave show as you ride to the palace in triumph." He waved his hand, sparkling with jewels, at the string of servants, horses, and laden donkeys behind him.

"That's excellent. The men deserve some acclaim for the job they've done."

"I'm sure." Maldur twisted in the saddle as if to give an order to the lackeys hovering behind him, then turned back around. "Oh, I nearly forgot. I have one more thing to tell you. A bit of news concerning one of the elf prisoners the king placed under your governance."

Rhespen's mouth felt dry as dust. "What is it?" f "For the past two months, Lady Winterflower has been the king's mistress." Until this moment, Maldur had kept his expression bland, but now a gloating smirk showed through. "The king thought it best you learn before entering the city. He thought it might forestall some manner of awkwardness."

"I… " Rhespen's fist clenched on the reins. "I'm not sure what you mean, Milord, but of course I appreciate the information. Tomorrow, or the next day, I'll have to check and see how all the hostages are getting along. For now, though, let's attend to the business at hand."

For the rest of the ride, Rhespen felt numb and sick. He told himself Maldur had lied, but couldn't make himself believe it. The human was spiteful, but also too proud to perpetrate a falsehood that must inevitably collapse as soon as Rhespen and Winterflower came together. In the aftermath, he'd look petty and ridiculous in everyone's eyes, including his own.

Even feeling as he did, Rhespen tried to acknowledge the cheers of the crowd, for his men's sake, and because it was an obligation of his station. It was obvious heralds had carried news of his exploits throughout the city-otherwise, folk wouldn't have understood what they were supposed to celebrate-and a good many people shouted, "Dragonslayer! Long live the dragonslayer!"

He steeled himself before entering Orchtrien's great hall, but even so, faltered when he saw that the king had opted to preside over his court in the form of a bronze-skinned, topaz-eyed elf. There had to be a reason he favored that shape, and when Rhespen spotted Winterflower among the throng, it was plain what it was. She'd abandoned the clothing and jewelry she'd brought from her homeland, and likewise the love tokens he'd given her, in favor of all-new attire and ornaments agleam with gold. She smiled at him-he was, after all, the guardian who'd treated her kindly-but the expression betrayed no excitement and promised nothing. The warmth came back into her face when she returned her gaze to the dragon on his throne.

I truly have lost her, Rhespen thought. Grief and fury surged up inside him, and he strained to hold them in. Because he hadn't lost everything, no matter how it felt. He still had his position, the life he'd worked so hard to achieve, and he wouldn't throw them away with an hysterical outburst. He wouldn't give them-Maldur, Orchtrien, and Winterflower herself-the satisfaction.