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*****

In relating to you the story about the Battle of Mossford, I don't want to leave you with one mistaken impression: that Captain Chitterleigh played no role in the battle. Not only would that be untrue, it would be grossly unjust to him.

Throughout the days, when we were having briefings and plotting strategy, the sessions were held by his bedside. His eyes were inevitably closed, but his ears weren't. Much of what he said was couched as advice, not orders, but taking his advice very often proved to be wise. It made sense, for he had after all seen a great deal of intelligence when he was the embassy attaché, and he had a seemingly good grasp of the Grand Duke's tactics and strategy. Certainly, it had been enough to frustrate the wolves so far. And all this while he was in great and obvious pain from his internal injuries, and with the same slender hopes of rescue we had. When he spoke to you, you took your hat off. No one had to cite the King's Regulations on that point.

As the fourth day moved into the fifth, with all quiet along the Mill River, Aethelwulf, Meadow, Auld Tom and I sat on chairs in the dugout next to the squirrel's bed. There was only one topic on the agenda: what the wolves were going to do tomorrow. We did not have the numbers to take the initiative; we could only react.

When asked what their target would be for tomorrow, he shook his head and coughed, wincing.

"Not what. Who."

We all leaned in to hear his explanation, which came out in bits and pieces that I've put together for clarity.

"The Grand Duke is very proud. Even overproud. You've humiliated him, Winterbough. You've killed a brother of his..."

(I was very surprised, initially, by this comment. I later found out that it was quite true, which did explain that unique sword that had been recovered.)

"...and he's going to want an example set. A mass charge? Won't satisfy his vanity. Or anger. He's going to do it differently."

I thought about this, and then got a sick feeling in my stomachs.

"He's going to set a poacher to catch a gamekeeper."

Chitterleigh coughed, and Meadow gently wiped the spittle from his chin. "That is what I think. Leave Aethelwulf and the rest here, in the dugout. But you and Meadow should go out now. While it's dark. Get a good position. Let him come to you."

"And after that, sir?"

He spread his paws. "A mel proposes, Fuma disposes."

I tested my paws. It still hurt to grip my bow, but I had no other choice at the moment. The Captain was right. I had stripped down my gear to the essentials, when a gnarled paw gripped my shoulder. I turned to face Auld Tom.

"Tha an' lady mouse shan't be 'lone." With that, he gently tapped his chest with his thumb.

Aside from the fact that he knew the territory far better than I ever could, the fact that I had another bow-fur on my side gave me comfort. It was a very long paw-shake that I gave him.

A few minutes later, time enough for a mug of tea and a quick prayer with Rev. Greengrass and his wife (who had moved into the dugouts after the rectory had burnt), the three of us moved out into the dark.

We had had a look at the map, and had selected a spot to the northwest of the ford, a little beyond the rise, where the tree line began. There was a fresh blanket of snow upon the trees, which I hoped would either muffle or still the Voice of the Forest.

Each of us spread out, sheltered by snow-drifts and the trees. With our camouflaged gear and our use of terrain, we were hard to spot. But not impossible to spot, of course.

I had considered setting wards, but I was uncertain that they would not be covered by the gently blowing snow. And that was ignoring the possibility that my opponent or opponents could disable the wards quietly and without detection.

What worried me more was the fact that I would, almost literally, have to make my mind a blank. Elf-mind is something that can be as dangerous as obvious signs of magic; after all, as I've already said, I had used it against the wolves early in the battle. It was going to be a chess-match, and blindfold chess at that.

The day broke brilliantly sunny, but fiercely cold. In some ways, my tinted goggles helped, in that it prevented me from being blinded by the snow. On the other paw, I did lose some sense of detail of the terrain.

I had chosen my position so that one of my hooves was always in contact with a tree. It was drowsy and grumbling, and somewhat grudgingly agreed to give me warning of anything that was not feral. I didn't think that I was going to put much store in any notice from that direction, but any advantage helped.

To pass the time, I worked out a formula in my head for when I would check for glamers, and when I would check for Elf-mind. At somewhat random intervals, I used my knowledge, very briefly. There were no glamers that showed up that morning. My comrades were readily apparent in Elf-mind.

The biggest worry was that at scattered intervals, I could sense not one but two minds probing, from the other direction as it were. Initially, the traces were faint. They got stronger, and then they faded out altogether.

That was what worried me. It gave me an indication that they were on the literal or figurative scent.

The time moved by very slowly. I could feel the beads of sweat dripping down my muzzle and inside my clothes, and a traitorous itch was starting to emerge in the middle of my back. I could do nothing about these, though, since to do so would likely as not be a dead giveaway.

The winds died down, and their noise was not replaced by the calls of any feral birds or animals. Only the distant sounds of snow falling from tree limbs could be heard.

When I felt the first mental-probe, my guts clenched and I took immediate counter-measures. It had been a very strong sense, which told me that my opponent was very near. It was almost immediately followed by another probe, this one with a slightly different "signature." This was probably the second half of the hunter team, either the spotter, or the sniper himself.

At this point, there was a faint murmur in the trees. It consisted of one word.

"Close."

A word that could probably have been heard by all of the elves on the field. It was now time for all of us to carefully nock our arrows, and prepare as best we could for the snap-shot that would likely decide the matter.

Breathing was very slow, and very shallow. I had realized, just in time, that the very vapour from my mouth and nose could betray me. It worked the other way as well, of course, but it would be harder to spot in a field, as opposed to spotting it against a darker tree-line.

The sniper and his spotter were very good. Not only were they leaving no trace with Elfmind or with glamer, but as far as I could see, they were leaving no trace in the snow as they moved along. They were gliding, invisibly, on the white surface.

And for a long period of time, nothing happened. Logical, of course. They were facing west, into the setting sun. The sun would need to start sinking below the tops of the trees before we would lose our slight advantage, which was inhibiting them slightly. And if they were uncomfortable, they could at least take satisfaction in that we must have been as badly off, if not worse.

Staring at the same patch of field for nearly an entire day had allowed me to memorize the arc in front of me. I could have named each mound of snow I saw, each with its own special ridge and feature.

Which is how I spotted the delicate fall of a few ounces of snow, where there had been no breeze to stir it.

The fall had occurred in between two soft piles, which were just wide enough for an average-sized elf, and which provided at least some limited blockage of line-of-sight from most points.

Except for the line that was directly between that area, and my hiding place.

I tightened the grip on my bow, gritted my teeth, and then made the tactical decision. Instead of dispelling the glamer, which would have taken time, I used Elf-mind as hard as I could, as I simultaneously got to my knee and fired.

The next few seconds were a welter of confused and silent babble, as enemies were found, arrows loosed, and targets struck.

For my part, I felt a searing pain along my left thigh, which knocked me over, and prevented me from firing a second shot. It also broke off the use of Elf-mind, as my brain decided I needed to know more about the wound I had just suffered. I dropped my bow, and rolled a few times into the trees. When I came to rest, I drew my dagger, breathing heavily.

I was alive, but was I alone?

Minutes passed, before I mustered the courage and the will to turn my mind away from my throbbing leg and toward the field. For a long time, I could sense only silence.

Leaving behind a large splotch of red on the snow, I crawled up to where the firing line had been. I eventually mustered the courage to look up.

About five yards in front of me, a wolf lay sprawled, his face tilted to one side. I don't know if he had seen the arrow that had killed him, for it had impacted just above his eyebrows. Looking in back of me, I saw where his arrow had struck: it was fast in a tree about an inch or so from where my head had been. If he had had another fraction of a second to prepare, I would have been dead.

Getting up was out of the question, more from the standpoint of how much my leg hurt me. I still decided to risk exposing myself, since in my present condition, I wasn't much use anyway.

Fifteen yards away, on a diagonal from where my left paw had been, lay the other wolf. This one had died with an arrow nocked. He had three arrows in him, from different directions.

It was Meadow who finally broke the verbal silence, when she called out my name, softly. I answered, to her great relief. She began to call out for Auld Tom. And again. And again.

And got no response.

Collecting my bow, and using it as a prop, I managed to stagger to my feet. I looked again at the arrow that had impacted behind me, and found to my horror that there was a small rivulet of frozen green liquid descending.

Of course, that's when I realized that if I had the same kind of arrow in me, I should have been either paralyzed by the stranglewort, or dead. But I wasn't. Something for a conversation with an herbalist, if I ever managed to see one.

I half-limped and half-staggered over to where Meadow was slowly getting up. It didn't take Elf-mind to figure out what she was thinking of, and she put her arms around my shoulder. Ostensibly, to support me, but I think some self-support may have been intended as well.

After a minute or so, we found Auld Tom. He had taken one of the stranglewort arrows square in the chest. If the impact hadn't killed him, the poison certainly had.

With due respect to Meadow, I hope it was his shot that killed his opponent. Not that it matters too much, I just think it would be elemental justice.

Meadow had more than one motive in stripping the dead wolves down to the fur. Certainly, she was making a sledge to bring Auld Tom home for the last time.

I think she also wanted to send a message to the Grand Duke, and it was one that I agreed with. We were not going to wait around for a response, however.