When the enemy passed by and was gone, and before more came, her mate slipped through the coppices to join her in the thicket. Around them was a perfect wall of glossy dark-green vines that had grown up around the dead branches of a fallen tree. To one side, the great trunk still lay, decaying and bare, but massive enough to hide them. It was almost hidden itself in the natural predation of other plant life. Its morbid branches curved around them, bent by their own collapse, and created a hideaway. But it was also a prison.

The male beast floated between the vines to his mate's side. His body was blacker than the shadows from which he emerged, bigger than the female's by half. And he was enraged.

From deep in his throat a long growl drew out. When his mate sought him with her snout, he responded with a vicious snap. She recoiled, her head dipping to the moist ground. Only her gray eyes dared approach him.

The male stalked her as if she were prey, coming around to the side where the chunk of ravvit fur lay half-covered by silver coat. This time it was the female who growled. The two beasts locked eyes in mutual threat. The male's spine arched and gave rise to sharp shoulder blades. His sable fur rose into a crest.

The female backed down with a tiny whimper, but only after her mate moved to her other side, away from the bundle of ravvit skin. They smelled more fire ... more smoke. Images of fear and threat cluttered their animal minds, and finally the male lowered his thick body down beside his mate's. Their heads dipped down until the ground brushed the undersides of their jaws. Daring not even a quiver, they waited for the fire to pass.

Ever since memory, the Wolfriders had been responsible for every misfortune to befall the humans who shared their forest. Fear and misunderstanding remained the cleft between the two tribes. Somehow Bearclaw knew that, but he was as guilty as the humans. There were times when Joyleaf made him see that. Tonight he saw nothing but the threat. Resentment clawed deeply into his chest as he watched from the treetops while humans and their torches searched for the hidden holt. They knew it was in this direction, but so far they hadn't discovered exactly where. He resented his tribe's having to be accountable for the humans' faulty god, who so poorly cared for his charges, so much so that the humans had come to believe that anything not directly complementing or worshipping him must be demonic.

So the Wolfriders were demons. Bad weather, accidents, ill magic, crop failure, poor hunting—it was all the elves' fault. Born of fear, the danger swelled as he watched.

"Bearclaw, I don't understand..." Woodlock's voice trembled now. He gripped the branch beside Bearclaw and actually had to hold on to steady himself.

**We've got to fight them,** came Strongbow's opinion, thoughts so direct they were barely words at all. The archer held his bow over his shoulder like a spear and glared out from beneath the band around his forehead. Over it his russet hair hung untended, some of it reaching lower than his shoulders. Strongbow's philosophy—get things done. **If they find the holt—**

Bearclaw heard the archer's thoughts and gazed hungrily down at the fluttering torches with their amber hazes cast upon the forest's leaves. Who among the Wolfriders had not dreamed of killing the humans once and for all and having the forest to themselves? He couldn't count the times he'd come within a spitfall of declaring war on the tall ones. If Joyleaf hadn't been there to talk him out of it-Kill the humans, Strongbow wanted. Bearclaw crawled inside that idea and swam around for a while. Felt pretty good, too.

All at once he grumbled out a second truth lying dormant beneath the first. "They don't want the holt. They want something else. And they think we've got it."

"What makes you say that?" Woodlock asked.

"They always think we've got it."

"Got what?"

Bearclaw started to explain, then changed his mind. "Be quiet."

"What are we going to do?" Woodlock persisted, atypically.

Bearclaw opened his mouth to speak, not sure what he was going to say, but never got the chance. Strongbow's sending stopped him.

**Fight. What else?**

Bearclaw closed his mouth, tipped his head, and gave the archer an annoyed sneer.

Woodlock shifted uncomfortably.

Strongbow twisted his leather wristguards to tighten them, then adjusted the quiver strap across his chest; he would kill to defend the holt. Bearclaw would assemble the elves into a single force, bringing out their best fighters. Moonshade. Treestump. Pike. Longreach. Clearbrook. Foxfur. River. **I'm ready.**

His clear thoughts vanished as Bearclaw uttered words the archer never expected to hear:

"Well, I'm not."

Strongbow stared at his chief.

But Bearclaw wasn't explaining. He simply watched through the night-blackened foliage while fireglow puckered the night. Beneath them, spreading wider and thinner across the depths of the forest, the torches continued their slow search, moving ever nearer to the holt.

After a disturbingly long time, the chief moved down the long branch on which they stood together, peering through the leaves, and said, "Woodlock, I want you to count the humans. I want to know how many—"

**Kill smell**

Bearclaw wavered suddenly. He caught himself on Strongbow's shoulder and endured a tremor passing through his mind. For an instant he felt himself on the forest floor, hidden in thick overgrowth, wrapped in distress. He put his hand to his head.

Woodlock doubled back to him, coming along the same branch. "Bearclaw?"

Without turning more than his head, Strongbow leaned slightly toward Bearclaw. **You all right?**

Bearclaw closed his eyes. "I think s—"

**Blood hunt.**

He squeezed his palm against his eyes and pushed his way out of the invasion. He groaned with the effort—but won.

It was over.

He shook himself. With some strain he pulled his hand away from his face and forced his eyes open. "Do you hear anything strange?" he asked.

An eerie shiver went down Woodlock's spine, judging by the way his shoulders hunched slightly. "No ... do you?"

"Strongbow?"

**Nothing.** The archer still looked at him, but now his expression was different.

"You didn't send?" Bearclaw asked. This disturbed his friends. Bearclaw didn't ask things twice.

**Just told you.**

"Someone from the holt?" Woodlock hoped.

Bearclaw struck him with a reproving look and barked, "I know all of you."

Woodlock almost apologized, but frowned instead and moved a few steps down the branch, away from his chief. "We should get out of the tree. If it happens again, you might fall."

"Yes ..." Bearclaw fought to clear his mind. "Out of the tree."

They didn't have to help him down. He had recovered quite enough to drop steadily into the ferns below by himself, but they did watch him. By the time they were all standing at the base of the tree together, Woodlock was muttering again; it gave him comfort to think things out aloud, even as Strongbow found solace in his perpetual silence. "It could be a trick," the gentle elf suggested. "Maybe the humans have found out how to send and are trying to draw us out."

Bearclaw shook his head. "Those five-fingered stench piles have all the cunning of dry moss. Humans sending— that doesn't make sense."

**Who needs sense?** Strongbow argued. **We know what they're doing. It's time to respond, Bearclaw.**

"No. Not yet."

**Are you saying we're not going to fight? Not going to kill them?**

"We'll fight. But killing humans might not be like killing deer. I don't want to go in blind."

**I'd go in hacking.**

"You would. But you don't have the whole tribe to worry about, and I do."

Woodlock's mouth curled upward on one side. "Good for you," he said. He didn't care what Strongbow thought.