Wrath of Lions (16 page)

Aully pulled away from him, crossing her arms over her chest. “I’ll die if I never go back. I’d rather rot in the ground than spend the rest of my life here.”

“You don’t mean that,” Kindren said. “Please, say you don’t mean that.”

“What if I
do
?”

He dropped his arms, letting them dangle there. He looked so sad in that moment, more a little boy than an elf on the verge of manhood. He stuffed his hands in the pockets of his drab, dirt-smeared breeches.

“If that’s the case,” he said, “then I don’t know you like I thought I did.”

With that he walked away, his bare feet kicking up sod as he scuffed them against the grass.

“Kindren, don’t go,” she called out after him. “I’m sorry—I was being silly. Please come back.”

“I think you need some time to think about what’s important,” he said without turning around.

She heard snickers from beside her and glanced at the six elves sitting on a log beside the cookfire, roasting cubed pork and shallots at the end of a skewer. They pointedly turned their gazes away from her, focusing instead on their mid-morning meal.

Her mother’s cabin stood behind the cookfire. Ki-Nan, Bardiya’s friend and one of the few in Ang other than the kindhearted giant who treated them as peers, had assisted in building the dwelling, along with the eight other houses for the thirty-two elves who had fled Dezerea after the occupation by Neyvar Ruven and the Quellan elves from the east.
If not for Ceredon
,
we would all be dead,
she thought. The Neyvar’s son had assisted in their escape, a sure death sentence should his father discover his betrayal. Closing her eyes, she uttered a silent prayer to Celestia for his safety.

When done, she looked around her. There was no sign of Lady Audrianna among her people. Hardly surprising. Her mother rarely left the bunker she and her daughter shared; not for the past month, not since she’d heard the horrible news…

Aully crept up the steps and into the cabin, guilt eating away at her. The interior of the cabin was sweltering, and it reeked. She wished the butterflies she’d felt only moments before would return, but Kindren had walked away from her and it was all her fault. She and her stubbornness had struck again.

Her mother lay atop her hay-filled mattress, curled into a ball beneath a thin sheet. Aully sat beside her and shook her gently, but she only groaned in reply. Tears formed in Aully’s eyes and poured down her cheeks.

“I’m sorry, Mother,” she moaned, trying to wedge her head into the crook of her mother’s arm. Lady Audrianna smelled like she hadn’t bathed for days, which she most likely had not.

Guilt compounded guilt. Audrianna’s condition was all because of her. For a long time she’d kept the death of her sister, Brienna, a
secret, thinking her mother needed at least the illusion of comfort, the image of Brienna safe in the arms of her lover, Jacob Eveningstar. But finally Aully could not stand the weight of it anymore, and she’d blurted out the truth about the vision she’d seen as she and her mother sat around a fire one night.

After that night, Audrianna Meln, a woman who’d helped lead an entire realm, had become nothing but a shell. She had even taken to uttering a name in yearning that Aully had rarely heard on her lips—Carskel, the brother she had never met. She had heard stories about how he’d disgraced the family years before and been banished from Stonewood, but no one had told her why. Even Brienna had never mentioned him, and Brienna talked about
everybody
.

Audrianna must truly feel lost to reach toward that name for comfort.

Aully climbed into the bed, ignoring her mother’s stench, and scooted beneath the covers. The heat coming off Lady Audrianna was intense, as if she had been running from demons in her sleep. It made sweat bead up all over Aully’s body, but she didn’t care. All she wanted was comfort, even if she didn’t deserve it.

It was then Audrianna’s arm swept around her shoulder, pulling her in. Aully’s tears came even harder.

“Shush, child,” her mother’s groggy voice whispered in her ear. “All is good now. Just be still.”

Aully did as she was told, and a few minutes later, she heard her mother snoring once more.

Restlessness overtook her. When she was sure her mother was sleeping soundly, Aully slipped out from under her arm and walked to the door of the cabin. She dutifully wiped the tears from her eyes with her drab, loose-fitting muslin blouse. She needed to look presentable when she reentered the world.

She opened the door to find Kindren standing there, his arm propped against the side of the cabin. He stared at her, eyes squinting.

“I didn’t mean to…”

She collapsed into his arms before he could finish, her tears running anew. He held her, patting her back, running his fingers through her hair, but still the tears came.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” she whimpered.

“I know. I’m sorry, too.”

Aully sniffled and said, “I miss them all, Kindren, and they’re never coming back. I’m just scared, and want to go home.”

“I know, my love, I know,” he said, forehead pressed against hers. “One day we’ll go home, I promise you. I don’t care how many years it takes, or what we have to do. But we’ll go home. We’ll do it together.”

C
HAPTER

7

W
ind blew past Ceredon’s ears as he sprinted through the forest on the northern boundary of Dezerea. His keen vision allowed him to see in the near darkness brought on by the waning moon, to recognize the maze of trees standing in his way. He easily raced around them, creating a looping trail through the woods. He held the grip of his khandar tightly, the sword virtually weightless as adrenaline took over, propelling his legs forward even faster.

Voices shouted in alarm up ahead, and he steered his path toward them. He heard steel clash against steel and the
whoosh
of arrows cutting through the leafy canopy. One nearly clipped his shoulder when he took a sharp turn, the shaft embedding into a nearby tree.

A dense thatch of tangled underbrush appeared before him, and he leapt over the protruding branches and barbs just as another pair of arrows flew overhead. He kept his eyes on the trees while he flipped his khandar into his opposite hand and searched the ground blindly. His fingertips found a group of jagged rocks the size of his palm, and he began hurling them into the canopy, one by one, with all his might. Someone yelped in surprise, and the barrage of arrows
stopped for a blessed moment. He took his opening, pursuing the sounds of conflict once more.

The sounds grew louder, and then he saw them—six elves dancing through the forest, three pressing, three retreating. Those in retreat were Dezren, members of the rebellion that had formed in the shadows to resist the occupation of their city and the capture of Lord and Lady Thyne. Ceredon could tell they were quickly tiring. Their parries were languid, their steps stumbling. Soon they would succumb to the greater strength and skill of their assailants.

It was all very frustrating—never mind frightening—for Ceredon. His family had been guests of Lord Thyne, but they’d betrayed their hosts during the celebration of their son’s betrothal.

“Dark times are upon us,” had been his father’s only explanation. “And we must choose sides wisely.”

It was a justification Ceredon did not accept.

One of the defenders tripped, and when he slowed to regain his balance, his pursuer caught him from behind. The elf howled in pain as a wicked blade pierced his chest. The stabber was a ranger of the Quellan Ekreissar—his hair was knotted atop his head in the Ekreissarian tradition, and he was wearing the green- and brown-dyed attire of that order. The bloody khandar withdrew with a wet
slop
, and when the elf fell, the ranger stomped on his head, bringing an end to his pleas by crushing his skull. The ranger’s head came up as he scanned the forest in the direction where the others had escaped.

Ceredon snuck toward him, nearly soundless as his feet skated over the bed of nettles and fallen leaves that coated the forest floor. The ranger, whose ears were as highly attuned as his own, spun around upon hearing his approach, khandar held high. The elf’s eyes narrowed when he saw who approached, and he visibly relaxed.

“Master Ceredon, I thought you were ahead of us,” he said. He bowed his head in respect.

In one swift motion Ceredon snatched the ranger by the front of his leather tunic and drove upward with his own sword. The blade
pierced the elf’s belly, and Ceredon shoved it in beneath his ribcage. The ranger’s eyes bulged from his sockets as Ceredon pushed up, up, up, until the hilt touched his flesh and blood spilled over his lips. Ceredon spun him around, avoiding the cutting edge of the khandar that protruded from his back, and clamped his hand over his mouth. He then guided the convulsing elf to the ground. In a matter of moments, the ranger stopped moving altogether.

Tearing his sword from the dead elf’s flesh, Ceredon ran after the remaining four combatants. The
clang
of swordplay echoed throughout the darkened forest.

The two pairs battled it out on either side of a wide maple tree. The one on the left seemed to be faltering faster, so Ceredon ran in that direction. The ranger hacked down with his khandar, driving the rebel to his knees and shattering his sword. Just as the ranger lifted his sword to land the finishing blow, Ceredon took a deep breath and swung. An audible
swish
sounded just before his khandar pierced the back of the ranger’s neck. The blade sunk in until it hit the elf’s spine. The vibration shook Ceredon’s hand from the hilt. He splayed out his fingers as he pitched forward, leaping over the prone rebel.

The ranger gurgled blood, his body going limp. The rebel scooted out of the way, and then his eyes turned to Ceredon. They shimmered, even in the sparse moonlight. Before he could say a word, Ceredon put a finger to his lips and shushed him. Grabbing the dead ranger’s khandar, Ceredon slipped around the maple to where the final two elves battled.

The last rebel was in horrible shape, bleeding all over, half of his left forearm dangling by a thread. Yet he fought on, parrying each block he could, going so far as to slam his attacker on the side of the head with his flopping, half-severed arm. The blood loss had obviously made him weak, and one solid strike sent the khandar tumbling from his hand. The final ranger, Teradon, the biggest of the three and the only one Ceredon knew by name, grunted in
anger and reared back, preparing to drive his sword into the haggard elf’s belly.

“Stop!” Ceredon shouted.

Teradon, taken off guard by the sudden cry, stumbled as he thrust forward. He collided with the maimed elf, and they both careened to the ground and rolled around, arms flailing. Ceredon ran up to them and tried to grab the ranger by his tunic and pull him off, but at the last moment Teradon flipped onto his back and threw out his sword arm. He missed slicing Ceredon’s throat by mere inches.

The bloody ranger rose slowly to his feet, twirling his khandar to keep Ceredon at bay.

“Traitor,” he spat through blood-dripping lips. The rebel elf lay dead on the ground, the hilt of a dagger protruding from his mouth. Ceredon grimaced and bounced on his feet, ready for the much bigger Teradon to make the first move. He remembered his fight with the human Joseph Crestwell at the Tournament of Betrothal, which felt like ages ago. If not for the human purposefully throwing the match, Ceredon would have been bested. He’d taken Joseph lightly, allowing carelessness and impatience to override his speed and skill.

He would not make that mistake again.

Dancing to the side, he jabbed with short, quick thrusts, pushing Teradon into a constant defense. The ranger grunted, his breathing labored, as his huge khandar struggled to match Ceredon’s much faster strikes. Ceredon was a blur in the forest’s near darkness, landing tiny cut after tiny cut on his opponent’s wrists, forearms, and sides. If he kept this up, Teradon would eventually bleed out.

The ranger had a different idea. He made a massive head swipe with his sword, forcing Ceredon to duck beneath the swing, and then rushed headlong into him, accepting Ceredon’s khandar as it pierced his side. They plunged to the ground, the larger elf on top, landing blow after blow with his meaty fists. Ceredon, the wind knocked from his lungs, did all he could to avoid being struck with
the full brunt of the blows. Yet even glancing strikes took their toll, and his vision began to spin. Teradon’s bloody spittle bathed his face, the raging elf muttering curses beneath his breath.

Teradon leaned back, straddling Ceredon’s chest, his hands clasped together over his head to deliver the final deathblow. It was then that his left eye exploded, splattering clear liquid all over Ceredon. The shaft that had obliterated his eye protruded from the socket like a post in a lake of red, the arrowhead dripping gore. Teradon’s expression was one of dumb shock as his fingers clutched the shaft, and then he collapsed.

Ceredon helped his descent, shoving the large elf off him. He lay there panting for a moment, relieved to be free of the oppressive weight on his chest. When he finally gathered the strength to sit up, he found the lone surviving rebel kneeling by the base of a maple tree, an arrow nocked and pointed at him.

“I won’t hurt you,” Ceredon said, struggling to his feet.

“Of course you won’t,” said the rebel. “I could pierce your heart in a second if I so wished. Now stay still.”

There was confidence in the elf’s voice, but Ceredon also heard fear there. He ignored the rebel and bent over, picking up his sword.

“Nice shot,” he said, kicking Teradon’s corpse. “You saved my life, and for that I thank you.” He turned to the rebel and glared. “Should you not be saying the same to me?”

The rebel’s mouth opened, then closed. His steady aim wavered ever so slightly.

Ceredon shook his head, sheathed his khandar, and walked toward the rebel that had been killed by Teradon. He knew without looking that the survivor watched his every movement, but he didn’t acknowledge him. Instead, he knelt beside the body, ripped the dagger from its mouth with a spray of red spittle, and proceeded to saw away at the dead rebel’s neck.