Into the Darkwood: A Dark Elf Fantasy Romance Trilogy (The Darkwood Chronicles) Page 7

  “Prince Brannon. Good to see you,” she said with a weak smile.

  By the light of the risen moon she looked wretched, her pale skin tinged ashen, her eyes faded and barely glowing.

  “I have the barrier,” Bran said, opening his hand and letting magic flow from his palm. “You need a rest.”

  “I’ll just lie down in my tent—” she began.

  “No. I insist you return to the main camp and see Avantor. You’re dangerously close to draining your magic dry.”

  She regarded him a moment, then slowly nodded.

  “I won’t argue with you, commander. The breach here is nearly sealed, but I couldn’t close it and fend off the creatures at the same time. I’m sorry to say that I lost my mount to a gyrewolf.” She dropped her gaze to the trampled grasses.

  “The Void attacks are growing more aggressive. You did well to hold the border for this long.”

  And he was an idiot for letting Hestil send her out alone.

  It was fortunate that one of the slower Riftlings had emerged, not another gyrewolf or spiderkin. Had he been much later, Elfhame might have seen an influx of creatures they could not contain.

  Thank the prophecy the mortal woman had appeared at last.

  “Take Fuin,” he said. “I’ll finish closing the breach, then come back on foot. That way I can check the border more closely.”

  He did not want to be unable to reach Mara quickly, but Lieth was nearly dead upon her feet. He could not make her march back to the main camp, and he did not want her to wait until he finished sealing the border—not with the way the light in her eyes was dimming.

  As if to mock his thoughts, the breach in the barrier bulged, and two creatures emerged: a chittering spiderkin and a red-eyed wolf.

  Lieth raised her hands, but Bran grabbed her arm. “No. I command you to go. Now.”

  He knew she would obey. None dared go against the Hawthorne Prince when he used such a tone.

  A poor leader he would be if he allowed the second-best magic user they had to drain her powers to the bone. As it was, it would take at least a brightmoon for her to regain her strength.

  He was powerful enough to handle two foes and maintain the barrier by himself. Not with perfect ease, but he could not be distracted by worrying that Lieth was about to collapse from exhaustion.

  As she turned and trudged over to where Fuin was tied, Bran sent a blast of magic at the spiderkin. It flew backward, temporarily disabled. He drew his sword and, still keeping some power flowing to the breach, ran forward to meet the gyrewolf.

  It was overeager, and leaped straight at him. Bran ducked and thrust his sword up into the wolf’s belly, then dodged the shower of ichor as the creature thudded to the ground. It twitched once, then was still.

  Behind him, he heard the thud of hooves as Lieth left.

  The spiderkin righted itself and began scuttling toward him. Bran sent an extra jolt of power into the breach to keep it closed, then turned his magic on his attacker. It would take more force than he wanted to use to dispatch it the way he and Lieth had killed the lumberer, especially since he must make sure the border was secure afterward.

  With a grim smile, he raised his sword again. One of the reasons he was the strongest magic user among the warriors was that he knew when to conserve his power and use his blade instead. True, he had unusually deep reserves of magical energy, but his fighting prowess helped him maintain that power rather than constantly spending it in battle.

  As the spiderkin circled, claws clacking, Bran pulled out his dagger with his left hand. Best to end this soon. He must seal the breach and return to Mara before she woke. He balanced the blade, then sent it hurtling toward one of the creature’s glowing red eyes. It struck true and the spiderkin let out a screech of pain and anger.

  In that moment of distraction, Bran leaped forward, sword swinging. It did not take long before the carcass of the spiderkin joined that of the gyrewolf. He retrieved his dagger, then carefully wiped the ichor from both blades before re-sheathing them.

  Now to seal the border.

  He studied the small tear in the barrier surrounding Elfhame. Behind it, he could feel the pulsing power of the Void, hungry and relentless.

  As he had told his father, the Void had never before pressed so closely against their world. It concentrated its attack on the portion of the barrier guarded by Hawthorne and Nightshade, and every time their warriors sealed a breach, the Void managed to open a new one. The other courts had sent reinforcements as well, keeping only enough warriors to patrol the boundaries of their own territories.

  But there were not enough Dark Elves to contain the sustained assault from the Void. Not this time.

  Bran drew in a long breath and glanced at the full orb of the moon. Planting his feet firmly in the soil, he lifted his hands and drew upon his wellspring of power.

  Violet light streamed from his hands, splashing across the invisible barrier that encircled Elfhame. He found the edges of the tear, and pulled them back together, weaving his magic back and forth to create a strong seal. When it was mended, he raised his voice and spoke the word of binding.

  White light flared across the clearing. The border was secure.

  Just below hearing, he was aware of the Void’s rage, a black hum of fury. If he had to guess, he would say the Void had exhausted the other worlds it preyed upon. In the past, Elfhame had been too much trouble, but now he could sense a desperation in its hunger.

  He thought it no coincidence that the Void’s efforts to break through were concentrated near the doorway to yet another land: the mortal world where humans dwelt. They would stand little chance against the creatures now attacking the Dark Elves.

  Humans were weak, despite their iron swords and masses of soldiers. It was not because of their fighting prowess that the Dark Elves had closed the doorway and returned to Elfhame. Mortals, with very few exceptions, lacked the magic to repel the creatures of the Void. They would make a sweet feast for its devouring energy.

  But he should not dwell on such dark thoughts. Now Mara had arrived, an end to the battle was in sight.

  Bran strode back to Lieth’s small camp. He bundled up her sleeping roll and struck her tent, stowing it and most of her supplies in the waterproof saddlebags she’d brought. Without a horse to help transport everything back, he’d have to leave most of it for later retrieval.

  He made up a smaller pack for himself with the food, water, and a blanket. It should not take him more than a turn or two to return to the main camp, but it was always wise to be prepared.

  As the brightmoon rose high in the star-etched sky, he set off. He paralleled the barrier, keeping a tendril of magic lightly touching the boundary that walled off the world. For a half-turn, all was quiet. Silver light filtered through the trees and cast radiance into the open glades where white-petaled flowers bloomed. Their faint perfume drifted on the air, along with the quiet coo of ashdoves.

  Then Bran sensed a tremor in the barrier. He paused and extended his power more fully, then shuddered at what he felt. The coldness of the Void seeped into his soul.

  A large breach had opened ahead—and if he was any judge, it was near the main camp. If Mara was in danger…

  Quickly, he withdrew his magic and began to run, cursing his lack of a horse. His heart beat, fast and strong, as he dashed through the silver-lit forest that lay between him and the threat to Elfhame’s entire future.

  Chapter 10

  Mara blinked, emerging from strange dreams of moonlight and monsters with slitted pupils. She felt cold; the fire had died down and she must have kicked off the quilt.

  Something was awry with the ceiling. Unease curled through her as she blinked again, trying to clear the muzz of sleep from her head. Pale fabric rose above her, and she lay in a narrow cot. Shouts filtered in from outside, voices raised in a language not her own.

  A jolt of wrongness went through her.

  She was not lying in the bedroom she shared with her sisters. Not i
n Little Hazel. Not even in the world she called home.

  She was in the Dark Elves’ world, where they were fighting a battle against strange creatures—and it seemed the fight was taking place right outside. Strange glows lit the tent walls, and she heard screeches and howls that raised the hairs on the back of her neck.

  Carefully she sat up, relieved to find that beneath the tatters of her sleeve her burned arm was only tender and pink. The blisters and searing pain were gone, and she let out a low breath of gratitude.

  There was one other patient in the tent, an older Dark Elf, judging by the pale silver of his braided-back hair and the lines at the corners of his strange dark eyes. As she watched, he stood and moved slowly to the door flap.

  “What is happening?” she asked.

  “Dagor,” he said, giving her a curious look. “Na echil?”

  “I don’t understand.” She shook her head. Whatever ability she had to know Bran’s meaning was gone, along with him. “Bran? Do you know where Bran is?”

  “Ernil Brannonilon?” His slitted eyes widened as he stared at her, and then he gave a slow nod.

  Outside, the sounds of fighting grew closer. The elf glanced about, snatching a sword set just inside the tent’s door. He raised the blade, then stepped back as another Dark Elf entered.

  It was Bran.

  Mara’s heart gave a huge thump, then settled. Despite the fierce look on his stark features and the ichor-stained sword in his hand, she was strangely relieved to see him.

  Something flared in his violet eyes and his grim expression softened a bit. Without a word, he sheathed his sword and strode to her bed. A light green cloak was neatly folded at the foot, and he picked it up.

  “Lenweta emme,” he said. We must go.

  Good thing she had healed so quickly. She swung her feet to the canvas-covered floor, glad to find her boots tucked beneath the bed. She put them on and stood, and Bran wrapped the cloak about her in one swift move. It was a little too long for her. Something in the inner pocket bumped her hip—her kitchen knife. She pulled it out and stuck it through her belt.

  The barest hint of approval softened his mouth, gone so quickly she thought she might have imagined it.

  “I’m ready,” she told him.

  He paused at the tent door to exchange a quick conversation with the older warrior. She caught a few words—hold and magic and something that sounded like court.

  Wonderful. She glanced down at her gown, stained with mud at the hem, the skirt hopelessly wrinkled, one sleeve partially burned away, the other ravaged by brambles. Just the thing to wear to meet the Dark Elf king.

  If they even had a king. She knew so little about this world. The thought of an entire castle filled with terrifying, slit-eyed Dark Elves made her shudder.

  Bran took her elbow and escorted her out of the tent. The acrid smell of scorched flesh and the reek of ichor hung in the air. On one side of the camp, two Dark Elves sent blasts of magic against a pack of red-eyed wolves. On the other side, a band of warriors held three of the spiderlike creatures at bay.

  A huge golden moon hung in the sky, much brighter than the silver disc she was familiar with. Its light showed all too clearly the desperation in the faces of the fighters. Mara closed her fingers about the handle of her kitchen knife, her breath tightening.

  The air in front of them shimmered, and a wolf sprang out of nowhere, directly at her. She yanked out her blade, but Bran was already between her and the creature, sword swinging. A gaunt woman ran up, pale fire sputtering from her hands. It did not take long for the wolf to die.

  “Taur coth,” the woman said, her voice ringing hollow with exhaustion.

  “Savamarth,” Bran replied. Trust fate.

  “Manen?” The woman gestured at the besieged camp, frustration clear in her voice.

  Slowly, Bran sheathed his sword. He raised his hands, violet light flickering from his fingertips. The light intensified, washing over the tents and trampled ground, the bands of fighters and their dreadful enemies.

  Mara squinted, her attention focused on Bran. His dark hair flew back from his severe face, and his strange eyes were closed. Magic streamed from his hands, and the attacking creatures began to disappear with sickeningly wet pops.

  Bran swayed, and, without thinking, she stepped to his side. She slipped her arm about his waist, bracing him. It was foolish to think that she could lend this tall, muscular warrior her small mortal strength, but somehow she knew she must.

  Heat streamed from his body. He gave a grunt of approval and leaned more heavily against her. Mara dug her booted feet into the ground and braced herself against his weight.

  The Dark Elf woman came to lend her aid on his other side. Mara drew in a deep breath and held on. Her side and arm began to pulse where they were in contact with Bran, as though he were not simply made of flesh. Perhaps it was his magic she felt, and she prayed it would not harm her as it did the invading creatures.

  As if summoned by that thought, a strange prickling swept over her, as though she’d rolled in a patch of stinging nettles. Despite the discomfort, she screwed her eyes shut and continued to hold Bran up. Then, as if she were an egg, something inside her cracked open.

  Pain, and light, and a surge of sensation that made her gasp.

  Bran let out a shout. Blue light flared against her closed eyelids, then faded. She was not sure if she supported Bran, or the other way around.

  “Mara?” His arm around her shoulders, his hand gentle on her cheek.

  She forced her eyes open. The camp was quiet, the invading creatures gone. The Dark Elves spoke quietly to one another, and the woman next to Bran did not look nearly as spent as she had mere moments ago.

  “What happened?” Mara asked.

  “We closed the breach,” he answered, his voice stiff with surprise. He studied her, brows lowered.

  “Wait—I can understand you. And you understand me?” Relief blossomed in her chest. Suddenly, she felt far less alone.

  “I always did.” His voice was dry.

  “Oh.” Her cheeks heated as she recalled some of the things she’d said to him.

  Another Dark Elf strode up to where they stood, her hair in elaborate braids, a sword in either hand. She glanced at Mara’s arm about Bran’s waist, and his around her shoulders, and raised one thin brow.

  Mara tried pulling away, but Bran’s hold tightened. Very well—she still felt shaky after whatever had happened, and his support was not unwelcome.

  “That was an impressive show of power,” the warrior woman said.

  Mara drew in a breath. She could understand everyone! Whatever magic had just touched her, it seemed to have brought her more fully into the Dark Elves’ world.

  “That effort nearly drained me,” Bran said. “Until Mara’s wellspring opened. It was her power blended with mine that you saw.” He sounded bemused by the fact.

  Not nearly as stunned as Mara was, however, to discover that apparently she possessed magic of her own. Her mind scrambled, trying to make sense of it.

  “Well.” The Dark Elf warrior made a thoughtful frown. “The prophecy appears to be functioning correctly. I suppose you’ll take her to court now?”

  “I must, as soon as possible.”

  “I’ll stay here,” the woman on Bran’s other side said. “My powers are restored enough to be of use again.”

  “Are you certain, Lieth?” He gave her a stern look.

  “One of us has to remain, and it can’t be you. I’m sure Commander Hestil agrees.”

  The woman with the braids gave a short nod. “The camp is safe for now, and the border secure. It’s high time you fulfilled your destiny.”

  She shot Mara an unreadable glance, then looked back at Bran.

  “We’ll depart immediately,” he said. “I assume Fuin is with the other horses?”

  “Yes,” the woman he’d called Lieth said. “I can make up a pack for you—”

  “I have one. Both of you, contact me if the Void attack
s again, beyond the usual small breaches.”

  “Of course,” Commander Hestil said. “Good luck.”

  Bran inclined his head, then looked at Mara. “Can you walk?”

  “I think so.” Despite her legs feeling like wilted stalks. “What’s going on? What do you mean by my ‘wellspring’? What—”

  “I’ll tell you as we travel.”

  His arm still about her, he turned them both. She took a step, and nearly fell. With an annoyed sound, Bran swept her up in his arms. It was becoming a habit of his, to cart her about like a sack of vegetables. Nevertheless, she did not have the strength to protest. This time.

  “Lieth, my pack is at the edge of camp, there,” he said. “Be so kind as to fetch it.”

  The other woman nodded and went to get Bran’s supplies.

  He strode to where the horses were tied, and his tall black steed whickered at their arrival. Lieth stowed his pack in the saddlebags and bade them farewell. Soon enough they were mounted and on their way, Mara seated in front of Bran as before, his strong arm holding her in place. She tried to ignore the sharp claws at the ends of his fingers.

  “Where are we going?” she asked. “Is it far?”

  He did not answer immediately. She was coming to understand that he was comfortable with silence. Long silence. Still, she tried to curb her impatience and wait for his reply.

  “We are going to the Hawthorne Court,” he finally said. “It is not too far a distance.”

  “By court do you mean something like a castle, where your rulers dwell?” She must know, though she dreaded the answer.

  “Yes. Something like.”

  Why did he always answer quickly when the answer was unpleasant? She grimaced, glad he couldn’t see her face. It seemed she was to meet the Dark Elf nobility after all.

  “Does the king live there?” she asked.

  His chest vibrated with a short, mirthless laugh. “We have no king, not in the way of mortals. There are seven courts, each governed by a Lord or Lady. They meet in council when necessary, but mostly the courts are content to rule themselves without interference from their neighbors.”