Ruined King (Night Elves Trilogy Book 2)

by C. N. Crawford

  Next to me, Revna shifted nervously. “Where are they?”

  “They’ll be here soon.” My voice was quiet. I fought the urge to run across the Common, to search for Ali. I had to be patient and trust that she would be fine.

  I glanced at the sky, now tinged with the faintest stain of peach. Dusk was almost upon us. If the Night Elves didn’t show up before the sun set, they’d forfeit the Winnowing entirely. And if that happened, I was certain Gorm would use it as an excuse to destroy them once and for all.

  Behind us, the sun dipped lower, and shadows darkened the alleys between the townhouses along Beacon Street. I rolled my shoulders, trying to relieve the tension in my muscles. If this were a thousand years ago, my body would be electrified with battle fury. I’d already be looking forward to dipping my sword in enemy blood, dedicating each death to Freyr. As a lich, I’d forgotten the gods entirely for a thousand years. And now their loss had come roaring back to me.

  But Freyr was dead; none of this meant anything anymore, and my mate was out there, in danger. The thrill of battle was as dead as the gods, and I only wanted Ali in my arms again.

  If we won the Winnowing, my father would destroy the Night Elves. But if we lost, I’d be the first one the Night Elves tried to kill when they came into power. They wouldn’t succeed, but I’d have to exile myself.

  The only question was if Ali would join me.

  I clenched my jaw, trying not to think about her. She’d visited me then left, literally throwing herself out my window. Part of me wondered if some strange magic was at work, but she’d seemed as solid as the floor beneath my feet.

  “There.” Revna pointed into the distance. “Do you see them?”

  I squinted, wishing, not for the first time, that I had a bit of Ali’s Night Elf eyesight to help see in the dark. At this distance, I could discern only shadows—but then I spotted figures moving quietly between the red brick buildings. When they stepped into the light, I recognized the silver hair of the Dokkalfar. Definitely Night Elves. My heart quickened.

  “They’re here,” I said.

  Slowly, the Night Elves filed into the Common. My stomach tightened. Though there were three hundred of them, the same number as in our cohort, there looked to be far fewer.

  They looked small, weak. Easy to break. Emaciated, their arms were sinewy. They brandished a motley collection of swords and shields. Worse, while I was dressed in a full suit of plate armor, I didn’t see so much as a single link of chainmail among them. They were woefully unprepared for the fight to come. Clearly, they’d agreed to this out of complete desperation. They were out here fighting for survival, sacrificing three hundred in an attempt to save the rest.

  My stomach sank as they formed up into a loose line facing us. Fear coursed through my veins, as cold as the snow at my feet. If we were British soldiers, the Night Elves were the Minutemen. And, like the British soldiers at the first Battle of Lexington, I knew with gut-wrenching certainty I was about to participate in a bloody massacre.

  I scanned the faces of the Night Elves. I couldn’t see Ali anywhere, but presumably, she was among them. Once I found her, I would have to do everything in my power to protect her. I had to keep her alive.

  Even if I hadn’t seen her in my vision of the future, Wyrd had bound our souls, and I felt that more strongly than anything.

  Again, I scanned the line of Night Elves. Worry snaked up my spine. She’d told me she’d received a mark. Where was she?

  My muscles tensed as a shout rose from our ranks. King Gorm had begun to stride along the front of our line. Dressed in gold plate with an ivory cape slung over his shoulders, he looked every part the military commander. I wondered how many elves realized how nervous and fearful he actually was.

  “Welcome to Midgard.” The king’s voice boomed over the snowy field. As he paused to allow the sound of his voice to reverberate over the frozen ground, a figure stepped from the line of Night Elves.

  Dressed in gray and holding only a small dagger, the Night Elf was wrinkled and stooped. I recognized her as Thyra, the oldest of the Shadow Lords.

  “Thank you for calling for a Winnowing, King Gorm.” Thyra spoke in a clear voice. “We look forward to fighting in this melee. May the blood spilled today bring glory to both our peop—”

  “The sun has almost set,” Gorm cut in. “Is everyone aware of the rules of the melee? No arrows. No wands. I have posted guards on the roof of the old carousel to watch the action.” He paused to let the information sink in before he continued. “There are three hundred combatants on each side. No one leaves the field until half have fallen. Is that acceptable?”

  A hundred yards away, I saw Thyra nod, glaring at him.

  “Good,” he shouted over the wind. He turned, pointing to the old carousel, to the High Elves crouched on its frozen roof. “In addition to being armed with stunning spells, I have tasked these elves to count the fallen. When the three hundredth elf falls, they will stop the fight. The side with the fewest deaths wins the trial.

  Gorm was beginning to walk to the back of the line when Thyra spoke again. Her voice cut through the frozen air like a hot knife. “King Gorm, I have one question.”

  King Gorm spun on his heels. “What is it?”

  “Respectfully, sir, who cut off your balls?”

  A hush fell over the field as King Gorm’s face turned a deep red.

  “What is this impudence?” he bellowed.

  “Why are you walking to the back of your soldiers?” Thyra pointed her dagger at Gorm. “Only a coward refuses to lead his men into battle.”

  I did my best to suppress a smile. Thyra was goading Gorm, trying to provoke his temper. I wondered if this insight into his character had come from Ali.

  Gorm’s eyes blazed with anger, and his normally melodious voice cracked with rage. “Feral hag, you are going to die for those words.”

  He drew is sword and leveled it at the line of Night Elves.

  “Kill them!” His voice boomed. “And bring me the bitch’s head.”

  Chapter 11

  Ali

  Bo, the other Night Elves, and I were hidden in the snow along the edge of a frozen grove of maple trees. To our right was the carousel. Spread out in front of us was the line of High Elves facing off against the Night Elves. Snow whirled in the air, catching the last rays of the sun. A gentle hill sloped up to our left, toward the Citadel. I scanned the line for what must have been nearly the thousandth time.

  I had bracers on my wrists and a leather cuirass protecting my chest. The light armor would give me a speed and agility advantage.

  But where was Galin? If he was among the High Elves, I couldn’t tell which one was him. They all looked identical in their armor, gleaming in the golden sunlight.

  Fear gnawed at me. What if he hadn’t come? What if he was too powerful to risk? I didn’t think that was the case—he was their greatest fighter. But it was possible that I’d spent the last sixteen hours shivering in the cold snow for nothing.

  I was here to kill him. This, without a doubt, was going to be my best chance. Had my plan failed?

  I’d imagined this moment a hundred times while I was in the mines. He was enormous, six foot five and built like a warrior—but I had stealth on my side. Whatever advantages Galin might have in strength I could easily counter with speed and agility.

  It wasn’t a guaranteed win. But I had a shot, and a shot was all I needed to redeem myself.

  In the distance, King Gorm screamed at Thyra, something about “the bitch’s head.” He was so angry I could see his white cloak shaking from here. His words echoed, then faded into silence. The air fell still. For the briefest of moments, a hush fell over the battlefield. Only snowflakes moved, sparkling in the long rays of the setting sun, rosy in the light.

  Then, with a howling battle cry, the High Elves charged.

  A painter would call this time of day the golden hour, when the light glowed like honey. It glinted off the armor of the High Elves, off the
steel blades of their swords, off the churning snow at their feet.

  “Hold,” I whispered under my breath to Bo and the other Night Elves hidden beside me. “Hold.”

  The High Elves sprinted, racing closer and closer to the Night Elves. All eyes were fixed on Thyra. She stood stiff as a statue, her arm held straight up, the tiny dagger glinting in her wizened fist.

  The plan was simple. When Thyra lowered the blade, the Night Elves would raise their spears. Bo and I had spent the night hiding them in the snow, and they were ready to kill High Elves. If we got the timing just right, Gorm and the High Elves would be unable to stop in time. Their momentum would cause them to literally impale themselves.

  The High Elves were halfway across the field now. A white miasma of snow billowed around them. A few more seconds and the trap would be set.

  “Hold,” I whispered.

  Then, with a crack like a thunderclap, an inky circle appeared at the edge of the Common.

  The High Elves slowed. I could see the confusion spreading through their ranks as the circle expanded, growing larger. Even from my distant vantage point, I knew what it was. A portal.

  What in Hel was going on? Whatever it was, it had completely fucked up my concentration. And that was not ideal.

  A figure charged from it. He had black hair, wore silver bracers on his arms, and was waving a flag above his head, shouting. Behind him, more figures emerged. All of them had hair as black as ravens’ wings, eyes green as emeralds.

  The Vanir. What the fuck were they doing here?

  The High Elves slowed their charge, then stopped. Even Thyra turned to look. All eyes were on the new arrivals, probably wondering what was going on.

  A new voice cut through the winter air: “We demand to participate in the Winnowing!” one of the Vanir shouted. He wore finer clothes, and a hawk was perched on his shoulder. If I had to guess, I would say he was their new leader, considering the Emperor was dead.

  For a long beat, no one spoke.

  “Who the Hel are you?” Gorm finally bellowed, breaking the silence.

  “We are sons of Freyja, elves of golden plains and purple mountains. You may know us as the Vanir.”

  “You were not invited—”

  “Do you deny the laws of Elfheim?” the Vanir leader interrupted. “Is it not true that any tribe declaring an ongoing conflict may participate, and select three hundred fighters? We have harbored resentments against the Night Elves and High Elves since Ragnarok. We demand a chance to prove ourselves, to conquer through a Winnowing.”

  Gorm stared at them. Even Thyra looked confused. Why would they want to be part of this? It made no sense.

  “We only wish to add our blood to the battlefield,” said the leader of the Vanir. “So that we may also have a chance at supremacy over our foes.”

  “No—” Gorm began, but the Vanir leader ignored him, turning instead to Thyra.

  “Night Elves, do you recognize our right to fight in this melee?”

  “Technically, yes,” said Thyra slowly. “You are correct. Since the dawn of time, all tribes of elves have been allowed to fight in Winnowings.”

  “Then it is decided by a majority,” the Vanir leader said. “As is our right and privilege, we will join this battle. We will spill our blood on this frozen land, help slay the weak and feeble.”

  Gorm took a hesitant step back, towards the line of High Elves.

  By this point, the Vanir had formed into a third line, perpendicular to the lines of Night and High Elves. This was a battle formation that I hadn’t anticipated, and that likely no one else had, since it made no fucking sense whatsoever.

  I swallowed hard. Muscular and strong, the Vanir warriors wore silver bracers, had steel plates sewn into their shirts, and held curving sabers. They were ready for battle.

  Their leader looked to the elves atop the roof of the carousel, then spoke in a booming voice. “The total is now nine hundred. Stop the melee when four hundred and fifty remain.” Then, the Vanir leader drew his saber with a shout and charged forward. “Brothers, let us show them no mercy!”

  Chapter 12

  Galin

  My chest heaved. Sweat stung my eyes, and blood pounded in my ears. At the moment, it was hard to remember a time when this had sent a thrill through my body, when battle felt like it all had meaning. When death had served a greater purpose and the gods imbued us all with glory.

  With my soul back, I felt the loss of the gods, a world devoid of meaning without them. When they’d died, I had, too. Having come into my living body once more, the loss was fresh to me now, a sharp blade in my heart.

  With each movement on the battlefield, I felt that loss gnawing in my chest, eating at me. The only bright spark in this world of darkness was Ali.

  I had no idea how long I’d been fighting, and I was only fighting defensively. I didn’t want to kill Night Elves, just to stay alive and to protect Ali.

  Still, my arms ached from slashing, stabbing, and parrying. I’d killed, and would continue to kill until either I fell or I found Ali. And yet, as much as I scanned the elves around me, I didn’t see a single sign of her.

  All around me, blades clashed, steel scraped against armor. Elves grunted with exhaustion and pain. The cries of the dying mixed with the shouts of the living. The mass of battling elves surged in random directions, driven only by each elf’s desperate fight for survival.

  As I stepped over a body, steel flashed in my peripheral vision, catching my attention just in time. I parried, my blade carving through the attacker’s neck. Another one dead, and my sword gleamed scarlet.

  Something slammed into my helmet, and my vision flashed white. I faltered. My visor was smashed, stuck, and I couldn’t see. I couldn’t see.

  The fucking Helm of Awe didn’t help the situation.

  With a snarl, I ripped off my helmet. My blade dripped with fresh blood as I breathed in the frigid air. An elf nearby took a spear in the neck, and warm droplets sprayed the side of my face. All around me, elves fought, bled, and died. And I knew only one thing with certainty.

  We were losing.

  Without the gods, without purpose, perhaps I wasn’t the secret weapon they’d imagined.

  Five minutes earlier, the Vanir had slammed into our right flank. They were clearly more interested in killing us than in slaughtering the Night Elves. Now, we faced two enemies, not one.

  Unencumbered by plate armor, the Vanir leapt and spun, dervishes with razor-sharp sabers. I’d seen five High Elves fall in the first ten seconds alone. I killed the Vanir one by one, whirling and cutting them down, but my heart wasn’t in it. Not like it used to be.

  And no one had anticipated the Night Elves’ spears.

  The other High Elves had slammed into them at a full sprint, and the spears had torn through our armor. I’d lost my cuirass, dented beyond repair. My armor had been damaged. Now, I fought bare-chested, wearing only pauldrons for protection.

  Screaming, a Vanir charged me, black hair flying and emerald eyes bright with bloodlust. For the briefest second, I wondered if I’d met him in Vanaheim, but I didn’t have time to think about it before he was upon me. His saber was a streak of silver slashing at my now uncovered head.

  With the speed of a storm wind, I thrust my sword up, parrying. Hot sparks stung my face as our blades met, and I knocked him back. He twisted, trying to slash again, but I hacked downward. Fresh blood streaked the snow.

  “Galin!”

  I spun in the direction of my name.

  Like a cursed apparition, Revna appeared beside me. Her hair was matted with blood, and like me, she’d lost her helmet. Unlike me, when her golden eyes locked on mine, her expression was one of pure ecstasy. Strange to think I’d once felt that battle lust. Now, it felt perverse.

  “How many?” Her voice fluted melodiously, in awful juxtaposition to the carnage around us.

  “What?” I whirled, cutting down another Vanir who charged for me.

  Revna grinned excitedly. “I�
�ve killed eight, maybe more.”

  Out of the fray, a Night Elf lunged with a spear. I chopped the weapon away. “Haven’t been counting,” I replied breathlessly. “Where’s Gorm? Sune?”

  But she was already gone, back into the swirling maelstrom of blood and blades. I was on my own again. Free for a moment.

  I scanned the battle around me. Elves were fighting. Shouting. Screaming. Dying.

  The Vanir were advancing. The Night Elves stabbed the fallen with their daggers and pressed in upon us. The battle was turning against us, but I didn’t care. Because all I wanted was to make sure Ali was safe. I scanned the battlefield for her, trying to see her beautiful face through the haze of blood and steel.

  Then, I smelled it. It was a scent—her scent--jasmine. Ali. I felt her presence, her soul near mine.

  Acting only on instinct, I whirled. From the trees behind me, a group of Night Elves charged. My eyes locked on my soulmate. With her silver hair flowing behind her, Skalei tight in her fist, and her eyes blazing with rage, she looked like a goddess of war. My heart leapt. Fatigue, exhaustion, and fear evaporated, replaced by relief. She was alive. This time I wasn’t going to let her get away.

  Her eyes fixed on mine, her face a mask of pure, unadulterated rage.

  My heart skipped a beat.

  Ali was coming for me, and it looked like she wanted me dead.

  I charged toward her.

  Chapter 13

  Ali

  I caught a glimpse of the most heartbreakingly beautiful face I’d ever seen, and that was enough. Every fiber of my being said I’d found Galin. I felt like ice was shattering in my heart, but I would end him.

  Calling Skalei and drawing my sword, I raced down the hill toward the battle at a dead-out sprint.

  I bounded fast over the snow like a skipping stone, heading towards him. A Vanir swung a saber at me, but I easily dodged the blade and, with a spin, slashed my sword across his throat. Without missing a beat, I pushed forward. The trick was to never stop. Never give the enemy a chance to regroup.