Page 85 of Knight from the Ashes (Crown and Crest 1)

“What are they?” I cry, instinctively stepping close to Henrik.

Bartholomew does the same, drawing the short sword with which he’s been training on our breaks. We end up in a triangle, backs together, brandishing our weapons—not that they’ll do us a lot of good against stone monsters.

But the creatures don’t remain in their rocky form. Slowly, the glamour fades, and that not-quite-familiar magic fills the clearing.

I gasp as they uncloak, wondering if I’m dreaming again. Lately, life has become too strange.

The short men and women surrounding us are stout and sturdy, with rounded faces and heavy eyebrows. The men have full beards and wear their coarse hair long and free. The women have their locks twisted into thick braids, but they don leather and steel cuirasses and thick hide breeches like their male counterparts.

About two feet tall, some even as tall as three, they’re rather adorable—or they would be if they weren’t brandishing a variety of weapons, from spears and swords to bows and small, wicked maces.

“Who are you, and what business do you have in our territory?” demands a man at the front—my boulder if I’m not mistaken.

Bartholomew, being the ever-helpful squire he is, delightedly exclaims, “I know what you are—you’reDornauths!”

With a chorus of angry snarls, the gnomes press in upon us. Now, the weapons that once hung by their sides are pointed at our chests, and murder darkens their expressions.

I narrow my eyes at a red-haired woman who pokes my stomach with the point of her spear, tempted to rip the small weapon from her hands.

Turning my head, I whisper to Henrik, “I think we can take them.”

“Clover,” the soldier warns.

Yes, there are only three of us—two since Bartholomew is basically worthless—and about fifteen of them. But what we lack in numbers, we make up in height.

The tiny woman gives me a grim smile, prodding me again. “This one’s too pretty to be venturing in these parts. Bet she squeals when she sees a spider.”

Another woman laughs. “Bet you can make her squeal now.”

Entirely too exhausted for this nonsense, I grasp the spear in one deft move, yanking it away from my stomach and shaking the woman loose from the other end. It’s not as easy as I expected—she’s heavier than she looks, and she clings to the weapon like a squirrel.

She lets out an irate shriek as her feet leave the ground, and then another when I use the spear against her—pinning her to the ground first with the shaft and then my foot. I flip the weapon in my hands and then press the sharp tip to her neck. “It seems you’re the one squeaking, gnome.”

It happens so quickly, the other gnomes stand in a startled stupor. Slowly, they lift their eyes from the woman to our party.

For a moment, the woods are completely silent except for the honking of a flock of geese that passes overhead.

Then, as if synchronized, the gnomes holler out enraged battle cries and surge forward, creating complete pandemonium.

Henrik takes on five gnomes at once, meeting their swords with his own and chucking them away unharmed, moving with such deadly grace I’d likely stop to watch if two women hadn’t leaped on me. I try to shake them free, but it’s like fighting brawny toddlers, and it seems wrong to hurt them.

At least that’s what I think until the one I pinned breaks free and jumps up to grab a handful of my hair.

Like a banshee, she screeches, “I’ll wear a braid of your hair on my belt, you scrawny wench!”

And it seems she plans toripit right from my head. I scream as she gives my hair a hard tug, but I manage to twist around and land a solid punch.

Swearing like a sea rat in a language I’ve never heard, she falls back-first to the ground, clutching her bleeding nose.

Grimly satisfied, I dislodge the other gnomes—but not before one slashes my arm with her sword.

I hiss as the blade slices into my skin, digging deep enough I nearly pass out when I see the damage.

Bartholomew lets out a gurgled holler, and when I look over, I find the young man pinned to the ground by five gnomes. They sit atop him, cackling like grackles.

“Enough!” Henrik yells, his voice so commanding, the fighting temporarily ceases.

Grasping my bleeding arm, I look over.

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