Honoured Enemy Page 0,37

was blood-red.

Tinuva, all senses as taut as a bow-string took the colour of the large moon to be an omen, a warning from his ancestors, as it climbed over the forest behind him.

There was nothing direct to tell him of the danger, no sound of snow crunching, no scent on the frigid wind: the warning was deeper, coming from the core of what he was. He knew that humans, at times, could vaguely touch that sense, the feeling of being watched, or better yet the bond that twin brothers had, knowing what the other was thinking and feeling.

He felt hatred, an ancient hatred that stretched across centuries. He knew it as intimately as the presence of beloved friends, the memory of the sacred groves, the sight of the eternal heavens at night.

Bovai was close, very close. Stalking, reaching outward, trying to touch into his heart, and above all else calling to him.

He felt as if they were two serpents who had sighted each other at last, unblinking, staring, each trying to seek the first advantage before the lightning strike.

He was torn: the call of Bovai was like a deep longing, strangely almost like the whisper of a lover's voice that beckoned, seeking the release of passion, except that this was the passion of death.

Tinuva turned his head, gaze fixed, not seeing with his eyes, but with his soul, and the colour of the world shifted. It was no longer filled with the dark shadows of night, but instead was changing to a pale glimmer of light which settled over the frozen woods, sparkling and flashing. All was bathed in a lovely blue sheen and there were no shadows, though to a mortal standing next to him the night would seem unchanged.

He could see Bovai, advancing alone, moving without stealth, into the open, but still distant far beyond bowshot range. He knew that walk well: disdainful, bold with arrogance, confident in his power.

There was more familiar about the moredhel chieftain, but he chose to not dwell on those familiar qualities. He knew the resemblances were the heart of the blood debt between them.

Each was aware of the other's presence. This was not like Kavala, who, preoccupied with other thoughts had only yesterday ridden to his well deserved doom. No, Bovai would never be so foolish, even if he were two hundred miles away, in the safety of his own dwelling, still he was always alert, always watching, for he knew that Tinuva would always be hunting.

Bovai stopped and turned his head slightly, looking straight at Tinuva.

Let it be now.

The words, of course, were not spoken, but sensed and Tinuva felt drawn by the power of them, but even as he was drawn he knew that Bovai was using all of his skills to shape the thoughts, to wing them into his soul and that there was concealed beneath them another purpose. Tinuva dared to let his attention shift for the briefest of moments and looked past Bovai.

Behind the dark elf there were others, hundreds, who thought themselves concealed, believing that the light of seeing would not reveal their presence, that all would be focused on Bovai. Amongst those of Bovai's blood there was skill and cunning, more than one moredhel staying cloaked, thoughts stilled, heads bowed so that the light which Tinuva projected in his mind would not catch their thoughts. But the simpler, darker creatures - the men, the wood goblins and trolls - in their clumsiness milled about, impatient in the freezing cold, wondering what it was that their master was about, why he had commanded them to wait while he advanced alone.

Tinuva focused his thoughts, remaining still, wishing that Bovai would come forward just another hundred paces, yet knowing that once in range their conflict would be joined and now was not yet the time. He had waited for hundreds of years: a few more days, when weighed against centuries, was nothing.

Tinuva's mind ranged out and he sensed more minds in the distance. It was expected that one day Tinuva would join the ranks of the Spellweavers, for his mind was showing more and more skill in using the native magic of his race. With bitter irony, he considered that Bovai would likely be his match in that ability, though he would never put aside the mantle of a chieftain for the ritual headdress of a shaman.

Tinuva's left hand dropped, brushing the edge of his long cloak. He swirled the cloak up, breaking the spell which in his