Chapter 18 Betty
BETTY
The world is peaceful. For one perfect, impossible moment, the cabin is a warm, fire-lit den. It is the solid, safe weight of Threk beside me and the scent of his skin. It is the simple, beautiful circle he drew in the dirt. Us.
The peace shatters when he moves.
He explodes from the ground in a single, panicked motion, a roar ripping from his throat that is so different from his rage it chills me to the bone.
"Threk? What is it? What's wrong?"
I am still on my knees, my hand outstretched where the circle was, when his hands seized me. The grip isn't gentle. His claws gouge my arms through my cloak as he hauls me to my feet, his terror a palpable, vibrating force. He shoves me, and I stumble, shouting his name.
"Threk!"
He roars again, a sound of frantic, guttural impatience, and shoves me harder, away from the door and toward the back wall of the cabin—the very wall we just repaired.
"Run," he groans, the word a guttural command ripped from his throat. Run.
I'm frozen, my mind blank with confusion. Run where?
He doesn't wait for me to understand. He shows me. He turns his massive shoulder and slams it into the wall we just reinforced. The wood splinters. He is smashing a hole. He is making an exit.
And cutting through his roar and the splintering wood, I hear it.
It is not the wind. It is not the Worgs.
It is a high, small, musical jingle of metal on metal. It is followed by a voice that sings in the cold air, a sound too beautiful, too perfect to be human.
My blood doesn't just stop; it turns to a thick, frozen slush in my veins as the realization hits me with the force of a sledgehammer.
Elves.
"It bled here," the beautiful, terrible voice chimes, terrifyingly close. "The spoor is fresh. It cannot be far."
Threk roars in defiance and slams the wall again. CRACK. The wood shatters and he tears an opening, a jagged, splintered hole big enough for me.
"Go!" he screams, the sound ripping from him. He grabs me by the waist, his strength terrifying, and throws me through the hole.
I fall into the snow, landing hard on my shoulder. I am behind the cabin, and the cold is a slap that shocks the air from my lungs.
Threk is right behind me. He crashes through the wall he made, his massive body tearing the rest of the wood apart. He is limping. Badly. His Worg-bitten leg drags, leaving a thick, black smear of blood in the pristine snow.
We cannot run.
He grabs me again, his arm locking around my waist like a steel band, crushing me to his side. He lifts me, half-carrying me, dragging me as he plunges into the woods behind the cabin.
"Threk! Your leg!" I cry, fumbling to get my feet under me.
He ignores me. He is a panicked, wounded bull. He is crashing through the snowdrifts, roaring with effort and pain, each step a torture.
Clink. Clink. Clink.
"This way!" the elf screams. "It flees! After it!"
They heard him. No.
I am sobbing, my breath tearing from my lungs. We are dead. He is too slow. I am too slow.
Threk stops so abruptly I slam into his chest. He shoves me hard into a crack in the rock face. It is the same ridge from yesterday, but not the cave from the blizzard. This is a different crack. A narrow, vertical crevice, hidden by a frozen, dead pine tree.
"In!" he roars.
He shoves me into the dark.
It is a tomb. It is a grave. It is barely wide enough for my shoulders. I slam into the rock.
I turn, my heart exploding in my chest. "Threk! There's no room!"
He ignores me.
He shoves his massive, ten-foot body into the crevice with me.
It is impossible. It is agony.
He crams himself in. He is too big. His shoulders grind against the rock with a sickening sound. His wounded leg buckles. He grunts, a sound of pure, tortured effort, and presses in. Deeper.
And I am crushed.
I am smashed between the frozen, unyielding rock behind me, and the hot, solid, living, vibrating wall of his body.
My breath is forced from my lungs. I am trapped.
His face is inches from mine. I can see nothing but him. His red eyes are wide with terror. His tusks graze my forehead. His hot breath puffs against my face, stinking of blood and fear.
He presses a massive, clawed hand over my mouth.
Shhh.
We are one thing. One body. A fused, panicked, trapped creature. His heart is slamming against my chest, a frantic, brutal rhythm that matches mine.
I hear them.
Crunch. The sound of boots on snow.
"It bled here," the musical voice says. "And then... the trail... it vanishes."
They are right outside. Right by the pine tree.
Threk holds his breath. His body is a single, tensed muscle, vibrating with suppressed fury.
I see them. Through the pine boughs.
Elves. Three of them, their black armor gleaming, their long, white hair stark against the snow.
And soldiers. Human soldiers, in Dark Elf livery.
And... one more.
A villager. In Oakhaven furs.
My breath is a stone in my throat. I know that stoop. I know that hat.
Joric.
He is not a prisoner. He is walking with them. He points a mittened hand. Right at our cabin.
"That's it," Joric's voice says, thin and tight with cold and fear. "That's her hovel. The monster... it's there. With her."
A hot, sick bile rises in my throat.
He led them here.
He ran to them. He found them. He doomed us.
He sold us. He sold me. For jealousy. For pride. For what? Exactly like you did your own family. His own words mock me.
A new figure glides into the clearing.
He is not a soldier. He is different. He is tall and arrogant, wearing no helmet. His face is cold and beautiful as the ice itself. His armor is etched with silver.
“Lord Larda,” the dark elves greets him fearfully, bowing their heads. Joric turns even white than snow when the dark elf appears.
"It is not in there," Larda's voice hisses. It is not musical like the other elf. It is cold and sharp as glass. "It fled. Look. The wall is broken."
He glides into the cabin.
Silence.
We wait. I am not breathing. Threk is not breathing. I can smell his scent, the raw terror mixed with hate.
Larda slips out of the cabin.
He is holding something.
The stick.
The charred stick I used to write in the dirt.
He holds it up between two elegant fingers, as if it is a piece of filth.
"He smashed the wall," Larda says. "But first... he learned. Joric. Look."
He points to the cabin floor, visible from here.
He can see it. The B-E-T-T-Y. The T-H-R-E-K.
Oh, gods.
Larda stares at the dirt. His perfect, beautiful face twists.
It is not anger. It is worse. It is a spasm of purest, poisoned vanity.
He screams.
It is not a roar like Threk. It is a high, thin, shriek of rage that tears through the silent forest and stabs into my ears.
"It LEARNS?" he shrieks, his voice cracking with disbelief. "That human FILTH... that thing... she undid my PERFECT WORK!"
He hurls the stick into the snow.
"She broke it! She broke my pet!"
My mind reels.
This is not about an escaped pet. This is not about property.
He is an artist. And his masterpiece has been defiled.
This is pride. This is ego.
He will not stop. Ever.
"Find them!" Larda screams, spinning on the soldiers. "Find both of them! I want them ALIVE. I want the beast for the forge, and I want the human for my dissection table!"
Oh, gods.
The soldiers fan out. "Yes, my lord!"
They are searching. Beating the bushes.
I am pressed so hard against Threk I can feel the blood pumping hot and wet from his wounds. He is shaking, a silent earthquake of suppressed fury and fear.
A soldier's boot crunches on the snow.
It is not distant.
It is right here.
It is right outside the pine boughs. Mere feet from our hiding place.