Shouts rang across the walls as we approached the city, a dozen guards taking positions above the gate. Fable gave them one look and jumped, soaring over the parapets and gaping mouths with ease. We landed in a street some four hundred feet from the wall, and kept going, leaving the confusion caused by our coming far behind.
"Is that going to be okay?" I asked, looking at Fyren.
He shrugged. "Why would you care? They've been nothing but difficult for your friends. Besides, how many silver wolves are there around here? They'll figure things out."
The hour was late, dusk approaching, but the city was as lively as I remembered. Elves went about their business, haggling at open stalls and muttering to each other in low, subdued voices. The alleys were filled with refugee humans and elves. The children there were gaunt and pale, dressed in rags. Their parents were no better, with dull, dispirited eyes.
