Page 60 of Elf Prince

Would any defense be enough? There were a hundred trolls—maybe more, if the estimate was wrong—on their way. And they had only Weylind, Farrendel, and ten guards to face them.

Farrendel would have to use his magic. Not just use it but unleash it. There would be no help for it, not if he wanted to protect Essie and his family.

As Farrendel raced into the clearing at the base of Lethorel, Weylind turned toward him, his jaw tightening, before he spun back toward Rheva, Ryfon, and Brina. “Hurry. Get inside.”

Farrendel halted by the cluster of guards, led by Iyrinder. “A pack of trolls is coming. I did not stay to see how many.”

Iyrinder nodded, then started giving orders, assembling the guards in front of Lethorel.

As they stepped into their places, Essie and Jalissa hurried past them, their arms laden with arrows. They started up the stairs into Lethorel before Farrendel had a chance to say anything to Essie.

He was not sure what he would have said or done, even if he had the chance. It was not like he was going to kiss her now, with his family gawking and a pack of trolls bearing down on them.

At least she would be as safe as possible in Lethorel. As she and Jalissa disappeared in the main room nestled in the branches, the guards walled the stairs off with a thick layer of branches, turning Lethorel into as much of a fortress as they could manage.

The icy taste of troll magic rammed into Farrendel’s senses a moment before the first, faint sounds of the trolls’ howling war chants floated to him on the breeze.

Weylind drew his sword, a longer, larger blade than the ones Farrendel carried. His jaw was tight, his dark eyes hard. “Farrendel, shashon…”

“I know.” Farrendel nodded. Weylind did not have to say it. Farrendel knew what he would have to do.

As the growling chant grew louder, Farrendel faced that direction. He had only Weylind and ten guards at his back. None of them had their fighting leathers or more than a few, cursory weapons. If they were going to survive, then Farrendel would need to be brutal and merciless with his magic.

He shoved aside any thoughts of fear, of Essie, of happiness. All he felt was ice. Steel. Death.

The first couple of trolls stepped out of the tree line. They were dressed for war in their leather armor studded with stone. Axes and swords flashed in the mid-morning sunlight.

Farrendel stalked forward and drew his swords. With a deep breath, he released his magic, and it crackled down the length of his swords. More of his magic shivered around him, filling the air with a humming. The power prickled along his scalp.

The trolls howled one last time before they charged at him, swinging their weapons.

Farrendel took two running steps and launched himself at them. His magic-laced swords carved through the first two trolls. As he dove deeper into the pack of trolls, he shoved bolts of his magic outward, blasting more of the trolls.

Lunging into the air, Farrendel plunged his swords into two more trolls, flipped in the air, and sliced through two more trolls as he came down.

An ax flashed, aimed at his foot, and Farrendel blasted the ax—and the troll holding it—with his magic.

A gun boomed—a weapon rarely found in the hands of someone other than a human—but the bullet just sparked into nothing as Farrendel’s magic incinerated it.

Each gulp of breath tasted of gunpowder, blood, and magic. Farrendel could not let himself think. He could not feel.

His magic surged within him, and more and more of it slipped past his control to whirl around him in a destructive torrent. He struggled to hold it in check. He could not let it burst out of his control, or it would destroy a swathe of the forest—and Lethorel and everyone sheltering inside.

As he struggled with his grip on his building power, some of the trolls circled, trying to get behind him. Before they could get far, arrows slammed into them.

Farrendel had to end this before he lost control. He lashed into the remaining trolls and, even as their fellow warriors fell around them, they kept fighting rather than surrender. An arrow claimed one. Farrendel’s power blasted another. Then he drove his sword into the chest of the remaining troll.

As the troll’s body fell, Farrendel drew in his magic, stuffing it back deep inside. It fought, burning in his chest, before he got it quenched.

He lowered his swords, tiredness shaking through his muscles.

What was Essie thinking, as she watched him kill? As she stared down from Lethorel and saw him now, covered in the blood and gore of battle?

He could not face her. Not now.

His throat was closing. His chest tightening.

After spinning on his heels, he dashed for a stand of brush around the corner of the lake, where he would be hidden from sight.

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