wildly through the screen of the trees. They passed down a
series of side streets, Elves running in every direction, shouting
and calling out in alarm, the whole of the city mobilizing at the
news of the assault. The Owl avoided the crowds that were
already forming, skirting the heart of the city, hastening east
along its backside until the trees broke apart and the Keel
loomed before them. The wall was swarming with Elven soldiers
as hundreds more crossed the bridges to join them, all rushing
toward a place in the glow where the light had dimmed to al-
most nothing and a massive knot of fighters battled in near dark-
ness.
Wren and her companions continued on until they were less
than two hundred yards from the wall. There they were stopped
as lines of soldiers surged forward in front of them.
Wren gripped Garth’s arm in shock. The magic seemed to
have failed completely where the Keel had been breached, and
the stone of the wall had been turned to rubble. Hundreds of
dark, faceless bodies jammed into the gap, fighting to break
through as the Elves fought to keep them out. The struggle was
chaotic, bodies twisting and writhing in agony as they were
crushed by those pressing from behind. Shouts and screams filled
the air, and there was no muffling of the sounds of battle be-
tween Elf and demon on this night. Swords hacked and claws
rent, and the dead and wounded lay everywhere about the break.
For a time the demons seemed to have succeeded, their numbers
so great that those in the vanguard were actually inside the city.
But the Elves counterattacked ferociously and drove them back
again. Back and forth the battle surged about the breach with
neither side able to gain an advantage.
Then the cry of “Phaeton, Phaeton” sounded, and the white-
blond head of the Elven commander appeared at the forefront
of a newly arrived company of soldiers. Sword arm raised, he
led a rush for the wall. The demons were thrust back, shrieking
and howling, as the Elves hammered into them. Phaeton stood
foremost in the attack, miraculously untouched as his men fell
all around him. The Elves on the ramparts joined the counter-
attack, striking from above, and spears and arrows rained down.
The Keel’s glow brightened, knitting together momentarily
across the gap in the damaged wall.
Then the demons mounted yet another assault, a huge mass
of them, scrambling through at every turn. The Elves held mo-
mentarily, then started to fall back once more. Phaeton leapt
before them, sword lifted. The battle stalled as the combatants
on each side struggled to take control. Wren watched in horror
as the carnage mounted, the dead and dying and injured lying
everywhere, the struggle so intense that no one could reach
them. Crowds of Elves had formed all about Wren and her
companions, old people, women and children, all who were not
soldiers in the Elven army, and a curious silence hung over them
as they watched, their voices stunned into silence by what they
were seeing.
What if the demons break through? Wren thought suddenly. No
one will have a chance. There is no place for these people to run. Everyone
will be killed.
She glanced about frantically. Where is the queen?
And suddenly she was there, surrounded by a dozen of her
Home Guard, the crowd parting before her. Wren caught sight
of Triss, hard-faced and grim as he led his Elven Hunters. The
queen walked straight and tall in their midst, seemingly uncon
cerned by the turmoil raging about her, smooth face calm, and
eyes directed ahead. She moved past the edges of the crowd
toward the nearest bridge spanning the moat. In one hand she
carried the Ruhk Staff, the Loden shimmering white hot at its
tip.
What is she going to do? Wren wondered, and was suddenly
frightened for her.
The queen walked to the center of the bridge, where it
arched above the waters of the moat, and stood where she could
be seen by all. Shouts rose, and the soldiers at the wall began
to cry out her name, taking heart. The Elves who fought with