Chapter 4
In Which an Elf Is Concussed, but It’s Not Really My Fault because What Would You Have Done?
Would You Not Have Concussed the Elf? No, Of Course You Would Have.
We All Would Have Concussed the Elf. Besides Which, I Am Very Sorry for Concussing Her and Will Try to Make Amends Later if She Stops Trying to Kill Me.
And Also, Her Intent to Kill Me Was a Highly Relevant Factor in My Decision to Concuss Her.
My plan of traumatizing and concussing an elf was a great success.
After she crumpled forward, I thought about giving her another whack, but decided against it. The smear of blood on the blade . . . had I really hit her that hard?
“You were fully planning to murder me.” I rolled her onto her side in the dirt and checked her breathing. She looked like a newborn calf, all gangly limbs. “Fair is fair.”
But still I stood there, peering down at her sadly—until her finger twitched, at which point I bolted with a choked screech. I did not want to be there to receive her bloody rage when she woke.
Some indistinguishable length of forest passed before I realized, with a nasty jolt, that I’d forgotten my pack. But it was useless weight, I reassured myself, full of pointless things. Like food. And water.
I’d also left my shirt, which the heat of my run made me temporarily grateful for. And my sword, God damn it all.
Well, there was no point obsessing over errors. All I could do now was run.
A root caught my foot, sending me crashing to my hands and knees.
I scrambled up, panting and swearing, feeling the wetness of my scraped palm but not the pain.
My body shook with the urge to keep moving, but instead I pressed myself flat to the trunk of an oak and tried desperately to think.
Every second mattered. I had to keep running. But to where?
In early summer, the sun rose in the northeast. Using that as a compass point, I could roughly guide myself to any number of places. But the Order wouldn’t waste time in broadcasting my fugitive status, and their influence extended, well, everywhere.
It felt like probing a fresh wound, but I had to think this through.
My only friend wanted me dead. My lord father had always wanted me dead.
No God-fearing citizen would shelter me, which wrote off all of humanity and the vast majority of elves.
The dragons opposed the Church but, quite selfishly, they’d gone extinct.
Who then, in this entire world, could possibly grant me shelter? I knew who stood to benefit from my death, but from my continued survival, there was nobody, with the obvious exception of the . . . oh.
What a terribly interesting idea.
My paralysis broke, as my feet took me southeast—toward the sorcerer’s territory.
I tried not to overthink, focusing on my footfalls even as my breath burned.
Every flap of wings overhead, every snap of a twig, sparked fresh surges of adrenaline.
I tried not to think of the spy animals that the Order seeded through these woods, or the troops that likely lay in wait, or the knights who could even now be positioning themselves for an ambush thanks to squawked and chittered intelligence.
A robin zipped past my face, its breast an alarming slash of scarlet. Was its flight path unnatural? Had it come too close?
And if the Order had eyes on me, what about the sorcerer? This deep in the border woods, he certainly had spies of his own.
“Hey,” I rasped. I slowed to catch my breath, only to startle back into motion at the whistle of a too-near grackle.
“HEY!” I shouted at full bound, sweat-soaked hair matting my forehead.
“HEY, MAD SORCERER! HEY, I’M HERE! HELLO!
” Every yard brought me closer to his lands, with more chance of passing a construct.
“SORCERER, YOU’RE GONNA WANNA HEAR FROM ME! ”
If he did appear in a flash of foul smoke, my huffing and wheezing would immediately put the man off. A brief respite seemed more and more appealing, a chance to lie in the dirt and let my heartbeat return to a normal pace. Stripping me of the decision, another root caught my foot.
This time it hurt, my knee crunching hard into the dirt.
A wail escaped, not of pain but of frustration.
Okay, so I wasn’t particularly valiant, but had I ever done anything that bad?
Ignoring the events of earlier (best wishes to Glenda and all that), had I ever done anything remarkable, of any sort, to merit a singling out?
Grasping a nearby trunk, I hauled myself up, testing my leg. Sharp needles ran down my shin, and my eyes prickled with tears. I could run on it, but not fast.
“SORCERER!” I hobbled at a decent clip, grabbing branches and trunks anytime my knee threatened to give. If only I’d given Glenda that second whack to grant myself more time. If only I hadn’t run off blindly like a prey animal. “SORCERER, I NEED A WORD WITH YOU!”
What was his name . . . it started with M, didn’t it? Margaret? Malady?
“MALODOROUS!” I shrieked. “MATTHIAS! MAXIMILLIAN!” Damn it, why did everyone call him ‘the mad sorcerer’? Nobody in recent memory had referred to that blasphemous man by anything but derogatory titles. “MADDOX!” And my knee throbbed so angrily. “MAURICIO!”
Shapes moved in the distance. A pair of armoured men, gleaming visions of death, emerged from the brush. They wore the balancing scale insignia and pristine white of the Knights of Order. Four more appeared, mercenaries or foot soldiers, indistinct at this distance.
They might not have seen me. I sank down, edging toward a trunk. Then a red-breasted robin landed on a knight’s shoulder, all eyes turned toward me, and the last of my hope departed. It was a feeling of increasing familiarity.
The knights didn’t shout as they advanced—they at least had the grace to pretend this wasn’t a hunt. Released from its magic, the robin exploded into the air, disappearing into the canopy with a series of aggrieved cheeps. Having no similar powers of flight, I settled for sagging in place.
“Massimo,” I said weakly. “Malodorous.” No, I’d already tried that one.
As the men drew closer, I recognized a knight from my outpost: Sir Percival, a square-jawed carrot top with an infectious laugh. He looked deadly serious now, his strong features tense.
“Merulo,” I tried. No, not that either. Or—wait. “Merulo!”
The men broke into a trot, reaching for their weapons.
“MERULO!” My voice sounded high and girlish. I suddenly saw myself through the knights’ eyes, shirtless and flushed, with a buckled leg and too-wide eyes. I looked stupid and, despite my size, quite helpless.
Sir Percival brandished his sword, sprinting. They couldn’t kill me here, I knew that, but cutting me to ensure I couldn’t flee . . . ?
“MERULO, GREAT SORCERER, COME TO ME NOW, AND I WILL HELP YOU SLAY OUR GOD!” I roared at the sky, standing as tall as my bad leg would allow.
Sir Percival seemed to trip forward and fall backward simultaneously. I blinked, and his upper body separated from his lower, crashing face-first into the soil as his legs fell comically behind. The other men shouted, swinging at the air.
Constructs. The monstrosities rushed the men with no regard for their wooden flesh.
A winged construct plunged with joyful frenzy onto a knight’s sword, writhing down its length to peck at the soft tissue of his eyes and nose.
Before his features disappeared entirely, I recognized him as Sir Galahad.
He’d been terrible at card games—a deficit I supposed no longer mattered.
“Merulo, Merulo, Merulo,” I moaned as a lupine construct with sharp wooden legs stabbed into a foot soldier, splattering his chainmail red. “Merulo, Merulo . . .”
A construct approached where I clutched, leaden, at a tree trunk. I stared up at the humanoid creature, its scythe dripping Sir Percival’s gore. He wouldn’t be laughing anymore.
“Merulo, Merulo . . .”
The construct hoisted its scythe and like a dam breaking, sense returned to me. My hands shot up in surrender. “I HAVE A MESSAGE FOR MERULO, IT IS OF GREAT IMPORTANCE!”
The scythe did not descend. The construct’s face, a mess of knotted burls and cavities, seemed a deliberate mockery of human features.
“Uh, this is going to sound silly, and honestly unbelievable, but—” I stopped as the scythe moved upward, resuming its swing.
“OKAY, short version! The Knights of Order—or rather their Elders—performed a prophecy ritual. Something to do with dragon hearts? Or a singular dragon heart? And it predicts the downfall of the mad—I mean, the Great Sorcerer Merulo, but only if I die. Hence why these knights are, ah, out to get me.” My injured leg shook as I rose slowly, using the tree for support.
“That’s why, Merulo, your boss?” I waited for a confirmation that didn’t come.
“Well, he should want me alive and perky. It’s in his best interest, after all. ”
The construct made no acknowledgement of my words, aside from not killing me, which I did appreciate.
The copper smell of blood wafted from feet away, where bodies lay in pieces.
Supplementing it was the stench of opened bowels; it summoned memories of a battle I’d deliberately arrived too late to participate in.
I’d been surprised then, that a killing field could stink like a latrine.
At some unspoken order, two of the winged constructs erupted into the air, flapping toward me. Talons like tree roots closed around my arms.
I might have screamed and wiggled a bit, fighting their attempts to get me into the air, because the scythe-wielding construct raised its weapon meaningfully.
“Okay!” I said, going limp. “No, for sure, go ahead.” And my feet lifted off the ground.
The constructs smashed through the canopy, drawing me upward. I spluttered, blinded by the wet slap of leaves—then we were out, the trees sinking beneath us into a green patchwork.