He was no woodsman, he knew, and he was startled, not surprised, when a voice rang out from somewhere in the canopy above them: "HALT, the both of you, or die where you stand."
The voice was elven; he looked up, back and forth, knowing he would never see the arrows that killed him. A soft hiss next to him, and he knew that Drisryna had also looked up at the voice, and now was pulling her hood back over her eyes, the noontime sunlight too bright for her even through layers of leaves.
"Stand away from the slave, little drow. Or do you intend to cower behind him before you die?"
Without thinking, Alaric moved in front of her, an arm swept back to keep her still as he placed himself in front of her, a tree trunk at their back. "I am no slave, sir; I am Alaric, paladin of Torm, and this one freed me and saved my life."
A pause, and then an elf stepped into view atop a broad tree limb, above and before them. An arrow was nocked in his bow, though it was not drawn. His expression was mocking, "Oh, little priestess? Do you have him lying for you, also?" Another voice, then, speaking in elven, flurry of words uknown to Alaric. The elf before him replied, and several seconds later, the voice spoke again.
"My companion says that you speak true, Alaric...so far as you know. But this one is still a servant of the fallen one, is she not? She has not forsworn her allegiance?"