Page 17 of Wed to the Dark Elf

“Come back to me, husband.” One last kiss as gentle as the first. Then she places the helm upon my brow, and I become steel and stone. What remains of man or mercy in me must yield to sword and shield. On the killing fields, all honor and grace bow before might and fury.

From the battlements I survey the serpentine ranks coiling down the valley, a sea of spearpoints fleeing into misty oblivion. Vastly outnumbered, but terrain and defensive lines favor us. We need only hold until the teeth of winter force their withdrawal. My captains pound fists to hearts and turn to their final preparations. Teeth bare beneath my faceless helm, I descend the stairs toward my waiting destrier. The beast of war stirs within me, hungry for blood after its long slumber. I loosen its reins, and we ride unto the slaughter.

CHAPTER12

Iris

I watch from the tower until Vamen's banner disappears into the distant chaos of battle. The bone-shaking din of shields clashing and men screaming their fury recedes behind the bulk of the fortress. But the acrid smoke rising over the hills keeps dread coiled tight in my chest.

In the leveling light of dusk, the ranks of house guards and citizen militia take up positions along the towering walls, grimly silent. The straggle of wounded from the initial vanguard clash are still being carried through the gates on bloody litters. I steel my churning stomach and go to offer what aid I can in the healer's tents.

The air beneath the stretched canvas hangs heavy with groans of pain and the reek of voided bowels from dying men. My hands tremble as I bind gashes, pack poultices against crusted burns, offer sips of water to those coherent enough to drink. For each man I treat, two more are carried in or ease their last breaths nearby. Death's shadow creeps steadily closer amid the rows of pallets.

I labored countless hours over needlework in these same hands. Now they stitch torn flesh and soak up the blood of the living. I mourn the gentle girl who once occupied my skin. She could not have borne such sights or steels. But she is gone, burned away by the forge-fires of necessity.

Dawn's gray light seeps through the tent flaps, followed by the fetid smells of fever and gangrene blooming in the night's wake. I pass a fitful hour napping in a corner before rising to check the wounded again. More have died, their bodies hauled away to be burned before sickness spreads. The survivors cling stubbornly to pained consciousness, awaiting any word of the battle's tide. But no messengers have returned yet.

Around midday the ringing clashes of metal drift over the distant hills once more. I mutter a prayer under my breath. Let it be the enemy host shattering against our walls and shields. Vamen's and Althir's cunning must prevail. I refuse to consider otherwise.

I spend the day assisting a harried healer stem bleeding and ease the worst sufferings as best we can. The tents overflow with the fevered and dying. When darkness falls, we begin triaging the least likely to last the night, focusing our waning supplies and energy on those with some flickering hope. It is brutal mathematics, weighing lives like coin. But the onslaught of broken bodies does not abate.

Late into that long night, the young page Gantre comes puffing up to my side. "My lady! You're needed urgently." I follow his lead toward the towering gate, despair gnawing my marrow. Nothing beyond this wall but death awaits. Who could I possibly...

Then I see the hulking shape of Althir being lowered gingerly from a cart filled with other battered soldiers. His left leg ends at the calf, the stump stained dark with crusted blood. But his flint-gray eyes find me across the yard, bright with fervent purpose. Fear clutches my heart as I rush forth.

"My lady Iris! We held them, broke their flanks and scattered their hearts. But other tidings..." He grasps my wrist with fervent strength when I reach his side. "You must go to him. The king's own hand has struck him down."

Dread drops a black veil over my sight. Not Vamen. Gods above and below, do not take him now, not when we are so near to peace. I force frozen words from stiff lips. "Where?" My heart pounds endlessly, a deafening hiss fills my ears.

Althir gestures to another cart piled with shrouded bodies. "The king's pavilion, behind the lines. Boil knows the way. Ride swift as wind, my lady. Before his light leaves this world forever."

I squeeze Althir's shoulder, unable to utter the thousands of sentiments crowding my heart, then sprint for the stables. Throwing a saddle on gentle Amber, I gallop into the night without a backward glance. The wise mare needs little guidance, following Boil's mount unerringly toward the lingering smells of blood and death ahead.

We pass scattered corpses and abandoned siege towers stark against the snow, remnants of the day's carnage. I do not slow even as we pass beyond the farthest sentry fires into eerie darkness. At last Gantre reins up beside a sprawling pavilion lit from within by guttering torches. He dare not go closer, these tents likely still sheltering enemy wounded. With a whispered word of thanks, I slide off Amber and steal forward alone.

Shadows flicker ominously inside the broad tent's sagging folds. I slip under a back flap, blade ready in my fist. No movement or sound within. Cautious, I creep deeper past a table strewn with maps and goblets. The musky animal stench grows thicker...until my foot catches a furry obstruction. I stifle a shriek. An enormous wolfhound lies sprawled on its side, throat slashed open in a crimson grin. Guarantor of the royal line, but useless against an assassin's knife.

Past its bulk, a curtained partition hides the main chamber. I slip through the heavy drapes, steeling my heart for what awaits. Braziers cast lurid light over a scene from a twisted nightmare. Torn tapestries and furniture lay smashed and strewn across bloody rugs. And amid the wreckage, a body pinned beneath the massive corpse of a horned auroch.

I rush to Vamen's side with a choked cry. Blood mats his deathly pale hair in the back, pooled beneath him from vicious gashes across his chest and shoulders. But miraculously, his breath still flutters shallowly past blue lips. As I kneel close, his eyes slit open, clouded with pain.

"Iris..." His ragged whisper barely stirs the air. "You came..."

"Hush. Don't try to speak." I rip cloth strips to press against the worst wounds, fighting the urge to scream and weep. But he grips my wrist with desperate strength, forcing my attention.

"You must go...now. Not safe. His creature...still lurks..."

I glance wildly about, but we are alone. "There is no one here, just ghosts. Now be still!"

He shakes his head weakly. "The shadows...see..."

His eyes fix over my shoulder in sudden alarm. I twist around, following his frightened gaze toward the dark corner behind me. Where a shape detaches itself from deeper gloom, striding forward with reside purpose. A slender elf robed all in black, his hand dripping crimson from a freshly wicked dagger. The king's assassin come to finish the carnage.

"Run, Iris..." Vamen's fading voice spurs me to action. I brandish my own knife, placing myself squarely between the stalking figure and Vamen's helpless form.

"Come no further, hellspawn!" My shout echoes tremulously in the confined space. But the assassin only smiles, an expression utterly devoid of warmth or conscience. He raises both bloody hands, relishing my instinctive revulsion.

"Begorah, she's a fiery wee spit of a thing, is she not?" His lilting accent mocks civility. "But your prince is done for, lass. Stand aside."

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