Chapter 44
W hen they walked out of the mouth of the cave, they were blinded momentarily by a flood of light. After taking a step forward and readjusting her eyes to the natural light, Aelrie took a deep breath in and surveyed the forest beneath the rock they stood upon.
There was a crisp, coolness to the air, and the light seemed golden. The leaves had started to change colors while she was stuck in the Evergloom, and in one month, all these leaves save the evergreens would litter the forest floor, preparing the trees for deep slumber.
It was the season for apples and cinnamon, honey and clove. Nothing save spring’s graceful renewal awakened such reverie from the elves.
Looking upon the forest at its peak in the beginning of late fall, in its chorus of colors, smelling the earthy scents of the leaves just before they rotted, brought new life to her.
But Fyn was staring at her. His eyes dazzled over her face as the golden light warmed her sun-starved skin. “You were made for the sun.”
She blushed at the compliment given so earnestly. “What is the sun to you?” she asked, wanting to know what he felt looking upon the light after being born in the dark.
“Hope.”
“Hope?” she echoed.
His throat then bobbed, and he turned away. “Something I dare not dream.”
“Fyn …”
There was so much she wanted to ask, wanted to know.
Would he kill her if she failed as Mistress Valeria bade him to, and which he agreed to by an oath under blood magic?
Would his blades pierce her heart as they’d pierced Lindana’s and give her a quick, painless death?
Was she destined to die at the hands of her lover as Lindana had?
He promised her he’d never hurt her. And … she had believed him.
He turned back to her. “Yes?” His eyes were a brilliant shade of red in the light, like sparkling rubies, and the longing was there; she felt it. How could he look at her like this after promising to kill her if she disobeyed his mistress just hours before?
Her heart swelled. “Nothing.” She looked down. “How do we get down?” she then asked to change the subject.
It hadn’t taken them long to get to the surface from House Nightshade’s private entrance, which was another “elevator.” By her reckoning, from the placement of the sun, it was still late morning.
They were quite high up on a rock, from which she could see no discernible way down. Fyn then bent down to get something on the side of the rock. It was a rope coiled around a metal hook that had been hidden in climbing ivy.
He held the rope out from the ledge and used his foot as leverage. “You go down first,” he told her. “I’ll be right behind.”
They were both dressed in black leathers with black cloaked hoods on, good for hiding in the dark, but not so much during daylight in a forest unless they stuck close to the shadows.
When they were both on the forest floor, Aelrie looked around to get her bearings. She’d seen Mount Sylver from a distance while up on the rock. Alfheim was nestled against the mountain beside the waterfall and river that flowed south. That was to the west.
“This way.” Fyn made a gesture with his head for her to follow as he stood with one foot perched on a rock. It was a path that led to the west. “Alfheim is a five-day journey from here if we take the road, but we will make it in four, we must.”
“You know the way to Alfheim,” she said as she followed him. He’d been there before. How many times exactly?
“Yes.” His answer was simple, curt even.
The path was uneven, and they had to cross over rocks and small streams of water.
Leaves had started to fall to the ground already, peppering the forest floor, but not enough to make traversal slippery, not yet anyway.
By next week, running through the forest like this would be more difficult as the trees would shed even more leaves.
Their footsteps were quick yet soft. They couldn’t run at full speed through this dense forest full of rocks and dips, but were able to keep their pace up and travel the ground quickly.
She stopped running. “Wait!” she called out from behind Fyn.
Ahead of them and up a small hill, a flock of starlings flew off. They’d been startled. Trouble must be ahead. She’d felt a disturbance in the air before the starlings had flown away, her Elven senses warning her of danger.
The forest, even the trees, tensed. The danger was not Elven then.
Trees did not fear the elves. “Weapons out,” she called to Fyn and silently cursed that she only had a slim dagger on her and not a bow.
This dagger was only good for covert kills.
Fyn’s twin daggers were made for both. She’d have to rely on him in the battle to come if they couldn’t escape.
Fyn crouched behind a rock, and she followed. Heavy footsteps and then shouting came closer. His hands had already found his blades.
Harsh voices came from beside them. Orcs. And the whizzing of arrows. Wood Elves. They had stumbled into the middle of a battle.
The orcs were retreating, but fast behind them, Wood Elves were pursuing, and both would be on them at any minute.
They waited with bated breath. The anticipation of battle, of spilled blood, was intoxicating.
When the first orc ran past them, he noticed Fyn from the corner of his eye and turned, readying his iron blade, but Fyn sprang out from behind the rock while still low and coiled like a predator, and shadowed behind the orc to slit the back of his heels, making the orc fall over.
But orcs were tough, and this one did not cry out in pain. He roared and hacked at Fyn in blind rage, even though doubled over, but Fyn was already gone, shadowed out of the orc’s reach.
Two more orcs crashed through the trees to get to him.
Fyn shadowed out of the way of their raining power blows.
An arrow pierced one of the orc’s thighs, and a whistle came from behind.
Her head twisted around as two hawks swooped down from the trees.
But just before they landed on the forest floor, they materialized into Wood Elves, a male and a female dressed in brown leathers and green hoods.
Their bows drew back to fire more arrows.
But the other orc in the war party became enraged. He let loose a terrible roar and charged for the smallest Wood Elf, the female. His iron blade struck through her leather armor with all the force of his rage. Orcs, when enraged, are forces to be reckoned with.
“Zinnia, no!” the male Wood Elf shouted, but he was paying too much attention to helping his companion and didn’t notice the other orc had pulled the arrow out of his thigh without so much as a grunt and was charging toward him.
“Behind you!” she shouted. But the warning came too late, and the enraged orc was upon the Wood Elf. Its brutal iron blade lifted, slashing at the Wood Elf’s chest. Blood spilled in a crimson streak, and the elf staggered backward.
She looked back to where Fyn should be, but all she saw was a now-dead orc.
The other orc, who had struck the female Wood Elf, then jerked forward with a choking gurgle.
Fyn was behind him, twin daggers crossing in a vicious “x” as they tore through the orc’s back in a synchronized slash.
The orc’s cry died out with his rage gone, and so too his supernatural strength.
But there was no pause.
The orc who attacked the male Wood Elf made a charge at Fyn.
His iron blade came crashing down with brute force.
Fyn slipped to the side and parried the strike with a flick of his twin daggers.
Before the orc could react, Fyn vanished into shadow and reappeared behind him, his second dagger plunging into the orc’s back.
The orc dropped to his knees, growling, blood pouring from his wound, but still alive. Tough, green-skinned, and fueled by pure hate, he roared and used his sword to brace himself upright.
But another threat loomed.
The other orc, still wounded, still enraged, clung to life. He rose again and charged Fyn in a desperate final surge.
Fyn spun, twin blades already in motion, and slashed twice across the orc’s throat. The orc’s head lolled, nearly severed, as it crumpled to the ground in a heap of blood.
The forest fell still, if only for a heartbeat.
The last remaining orc then pushed up on his sword, making himself stand tall. Blood poured down his chest and back. It was a wonder he was still alive. Fyn backed up and took a defensive stance with his daggers. The orc was going in for one last charge.
Seizing the opportunity, she leapt out from her hiding spot and drove her stiletto into the orc’s neck before he could charge.
The blade was as thin and sharp as a needle.
It slid into his thick neck with the ease of a sewing needle piercing a pincushion.
There was no resistance in withdrawing the blade either.
The orc’s blood splattered across her cheek.
She didn’t even flinch. She glanced over at Fyn, and he gave her an approving nod.
All three orcs were dead. But the Wood Elves …
She quickly turned her attention to the Wood Elves.
The female lay motionless, covered in blood, and the male was also covered in blood but fought to make his way over to the female.
She turned to Fyn, but he still had his daggers out in a crouched attack position.
“Put your weapons away,” she ordered him.
He hesitated for a moment, looking at the Wood Elf who crawled to his companion, his eyes lined with apprehension and doubt. But the Wood Elf posed no threat to them. Fyn glanced once more at her, and she smiled at him, saying, “It’s alright.”
He sheathed his daggers.
She turned back to the Wood Elf, crouching at his side. “Don’t do that, you’ll bleed out.”
“N…no…” He fought. “I … won’t let her … die.”
More footsteps came from the forest. She hadn’t heard them until they were right up on them. Their light footsteps, barely discernible, meant more elves and not orcs.
She stood and faced a group of battle-ready Wood Elves surrounding them with bows pointed at her and Fyn.
“Hoods down that we may see you,” the commander spoke, dressed in armor more splendid than his soldiers.
He had shoulder-length, slightly wavy, dark brown hair and wore a crown of branches about his brow, signifying his high rank.
Aelrie lowered her hood. “A Light Elf,” came the murmuring of many Wood Elves. Their weapons began to drop, and their bodies relaxed.
But their commander wasn’t so taken in. “Now, the skulking elf in the back.” He looked straight at Fyn.
Fyn removed his hood, and there were gasps from the Wood Elves of, “Dark Elf.” Weapons immediately rose, bows drew tight, all pointed at Fyn.
Fyn readied himself for combat.
Shit, not now!
“Weapons down,” she turned to yell at him.
He hesitated for a moment, eyes darting around at the arrows pointed at him. “Please,” she spoke placatingly, “trust me.”
He paused for a moment, finding her eyes. His hands then dropped, and he sheathed his daggers.
But whimpering below her caught her attention. The wounded Wood Elf had made his way to his beloved. They were losing precious seconds with this. That Wood Elf, Zinnia, was going to die, if she wasn’t dead already.
“Please, allow me to heal her, before it’s too late,” she addressed the commander directly and then looked toward the lifeless Wood Elf.
The commander looked down at the two Wood Elves, his own soldiers. He wore a mask of stone; whatever emotions he was feeling were hidden behind it, but he gestured for his soldiers to stand down, and with that, their bows lowered.
Dark green curls had slipped out of Zinnia's green hood, but Aelrie didn’ t need to see her face. The stillness and the silence already spoke so much ...
“I can’t heal her,” she said and looked over at the heartbroken Wood Elf. “She’s gone.”
“No!” The Wood Elf was frantic and screamed, “Zinnia!” More blood stained through his leathers.
“At least let me heal you.” She reached out to him.
“Leave me to die. I want to go with her.” His sobbing became pitiful to watch.
“Celandine, stop! This isn’t what Zinnia would want.” That came from a Wood Elf soldier, possibly a friend of the two, for his voice spoke of familiarity.
“Let this Light Elf heal you,” came another Wood Elf voice.
“I …” Celandine couldn’t finish what he was about to say and spat out blood. His eyes slowly trailed up to Aelrie.
They were green, just like … the Wood Elf she killed. She saw a tree reflected in them. Wood Elf eyes, whether they were green or brown, reflected the guardian tree they were born in. She closed her eyes to rid herself of the memory and focused on the healing power within to save him.
The gaping wound closed, and the scar disappeared. She stood once she was done, thankful that his breathing had gotten better. She then turned to the commander. “He’s lost a lot of blood. He needs rest if he is to make it.”
The commander stared back at her in awe. “Your healing magic. It’s very powerful.”
“I am Light Elf,” she responded .
The commander frowned in disbelief. “There’s more to it than just being Light Elf. Would you come back to camp with us? We could use your talent. Our battle with the orcs grows every day, as do our casualties, and potions and salves can only do so much.”
If she didn’t have a mission where her life hung in the balance, she would’ve taken him up on his offer. In another life.
“I am sorry. I have my own job to do. I must get to Alfheim as soon as possible.”
The commander eyed Fyn, who stood in the background and did not approach the Wood Elves. “Why do you travel with this,” he said, pausing, then drew his lips back in revulsion as if the name brought a bad taste to his mouth, “Dark Elf?”
“He is helping me. He is … a deserter.”
The commander’s gaze at Fyn lessened in scrutiny, but only slightly. He then turned back to her. “Be careful with his kind. If you find yourself in danger, give a whistle. I have soldiers posted in the trees. We will come to your aid while you cross through our land.”
“Thank you, that is most generous of you to offer.” The commander’s army was stretched thin as it was, so this was a great gift to her.
“No, thank you. Celandine will grow stronger with rest and bring the fight to the orcs once again, and Zinnia will get a proper burial beneath her guardian tree. I will see to it personally.”
Fyn walked toward her. His face told her they had to go.
“We must take our leave.” She bowed to the commander .
“We can see you to the road to Alfheim.”
“No,” Fyn answered. “We know the way.”
The commander eyed him once more. “As you wish.” He then turned to Aelrie. “Remember to whistle.”