Alnira Berris huddled down among the roots of the ancient oak, feeling the tremors in the earth as the hunters passed by. They were King Lamont's troops, his elite hunters, and while they hadn't discovered the sacred grove they had managed to ambush the Circle of Nine not far outside of it. The casualties had been substantial; they had nets readied for the ones who became birds, and hounds readied for those who became beasts.
Alnira had become a mole, and managed to bury herself in the ground before any of them moved in. Her teacher, Vuelisharrn, had disdained possibilities of hiding or escape; he had become a Dire Tortoise, tearing down nets and trampling their foes. And he had died, falling under the onslaught of fire and lightning from a pair of wizards or sorcerers, whose defenders had been enough to hold off the impromptu army of creatures that everyone else had summoned.
His companion, Huggybear, had died a moment later, wrapped around one of the wizards but surrounded on all sides by enemies. And the wizard had come back to his feet afterwards; she could feel it through the soil.
Surely some of the grounded ones survived this, she thought. Alnira was not ready to take a place among the Keepers, not for another hundred years at least. But with the High Druid unexpectedly dead, and the Keepers of the Circles disorganized and now injured or slain, she might have to. King Lamont might have won, but she could still gather the survivors and lead them out. And with any luck, some Keeper will step in and I won't need to.
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