Disclaimer: The Forgotten Realms belong to TSR or Wizards of the Coast or something. All the characters in this story except Lloth belong to me, though.

A/N: Not all the chapters will be quite as violent as this one.

He wasn't sure how long he'd been here. Time had ceased to matter perhaps three months after they'd taken him, after they'd destroyed his home and brought him to this hellish place of starless nights and new moons. Only two others he knew of had survived the raid on the moon elf colony: Kishira and Ralirion. They had been captured with him, but neither was with him now. As soon as the group of drow had reached their city, dragging the moon elves in chains, they had sold Kishira to the gladiatorial pits. She was the only one of any true worth to the matriarchal drow, and she had been the fiercest warrior of the colony. Neither of her comrades had ever seen her again.

Ralirion had died a month and a half after their capture, presumably of despair. His surviving friend had sworn vengeance, but the fires that had once lit the elf's eyes were slowly fading as the days turned to weeks, the weeks to months, the months to years, an endless monotony of pain and drudgery.

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Screams rang out as the fire blazed up, casting enough light to make the night appear as day. The ancient trees groaned in protest as hungry flames licked their branches. The human archers standing a safe distance away from the forest launched another barrage of burning arrows into its midst. One hit a slender form almost hidden by the branches of a tree, frantically scuttling down the trunk. The green elf fell to the ground with a cry, dying as he struck the earth.

"That's it," one of the men, a big, bearded fellow called Bran, hissed under his breath. "Burn the long-eared bastards out."

The elves were fleeing their forest home now, running out in scores and dying by the dozen. Bran drew his broadsword, smiling slightly in anticipation of the carnage to come. He turned to his troops. "Take no prisoners," he ordered. "They are all to die."

As soon as they saw the archers and mercenaries, the elves tried to halt or at least curb their frantic flight. It was no use. The humans charged. They knew this would be an easy fight—they outnumbered the primitive forest elves at least two to one, and the element of surprise was on their side.

An elf-child, little more than eight, ran past Bran. He cut her down without a second thought, grinning viscously. His next opponent was a tall warrior, armed with a pair of stone daggers. He held them up in an X to block the Bran's overhead chop. The blades shattered under the force of the blow, slowing the sword only a little before it crashed through the elf's skull.

An elderly shaman sent a bolt of lightning into a cluster of men. Bran killed her an instant later. A pair of young elves fought back to back. Bran took both their heads off with a single stroke. A wounded elf, his leg almost severed, tried to crawl away from the fight. Bran kicked him over and stabbed him, not bothering to finish him off. A tall elf-woman, her belly round with child, wielded a spear with surprising skill. Three dead men lay at her feet. Bran kicked her feet out from under her as she impaled a fourth. Her spear fell away with her last kill. She looked up at Bran, eyes filled with rage and hatred, and spat at him. Bran's grin widened. He brought his sword down with more pleasure than usual.

The mercenary heaved his weapon out of the dead elf's body, scanning the battlefield for his next victim. He didn't have long to wait. An elf came hurtling out of a knot of fighters, red braids flying behind her, swinging a longsword with deadly ease and headed straight for Bran. He raised his eyebrows. Most green elves didn't use steel, but this one apparently had no qualms about it. He hefted his sword and met her attack.

She skilled—very skilled. For the first time that evening, Bran found himself fighting defensively. Six passes later, she sliced a long gash down his right arm. He cried out—more in surprise than pain—and fought back with renewed vigor. How dare the little bitch hurt him?

His rage blinded him, made him clumsier, and the elf soon knocked his sword out of his hands. She followed this with a kick to the stomach that knocked him over backwards. He felt the tip of her sword slide across his throat. "Better than scum like you deserve, human," she gritted, kicking his side.

Bran gave a gurgle, and watched in astonishment as a short crossbow bolt sprouted from the elf's shoulder. She tore it out, grimacing with pain, and turned to meet her latest threat.

A drow elf stepped out of the shadows. Bran's eyes widened with fear, then glazed over in death.

The green elf blocked the drow's lunge, wondering what such a creature was doing here. Her question was answered when two score more drow appeared as if from nowhere, racing onto the field and slaying both human and elf. They must have planned a raid the same night as the humans, she thought. Damn our luck!

Bran's killer kicked the sword out of her newest enemy's hand and stabbed him. She had no time to follow that with a mercy stroke—another dark elf was on her. This one held a saber in one hand and a long dagger in the other. She grinned and feinted left with her saber, stabbing from the right with her dagger.

The green elf dove between the blades, turning sideways and dragging the edge of her sword across the drow's throat. She shoved the other woman's body from her, darting away as it fell.

Before midnight, the battle was over. It couldn't truly be called a battle—it was more of a massacre. There was little space between the bodies on the field, and every square inch was soaked in blood. Only the drow remained standing. Everyone else was dead.

Their leader looked around her at the carnage, a savage grin on her face, unaware that the human mercenary captain had done exactly that before his death not long ago. "Kalish," she called.

The summoned soldier walked up silently and bowed. "Yes, Lady Thatalia?"

"How many did we lose?"

"Fourteen, lady, and six of them to the same warrior."

Thatalia Baenre raised her eyebrows. Her grin faded to a crafty smile. "Where is this warrior? Dead?"

"No, lady. She was taken alive, to await your convenience."

"Bring her to me."

A pair of drow dragged up the unconscious elf. Thatalia grabbed her chin and lifted her face up.

She was ordinary enough, for an elf, but beautiful by human standards. Her hair was long and red, tamed into many tiny braids, all of which were held back by a rawhide strip. Her quiver was empty, as was the scabbard strapped across her back. "Where are her weapons?"

"Here, lady."

Thatalia ran a hand down the bloodstained length of steel. "Do you think we should kill her, Kalish?" she asked casually.

"She would make an excellent slave, lady," the drow hedged, not willing to commit to one answer for fear Thatalia would disagree. "But it is your decision."

Thatalia nodded abruptly. She sliced the leather straps of the green elf's quiver and scabbard. Both fell to the ground. Thatalia scooped up the scabbard and sheathed the sword. "She comes with us," she ordered. "Bring her in chains."