by Layla Harper
“Jatta.” Rogar grabs me by the waist and anchors me to his side. “Illusion. Prepare yourselves. The magic is strong.” He takes a huge step back, dragging me with him, the huge war hammer gripped in his left hand, ready to strike. “Reject all you see and hear, female. The magic will warp your perception.”
Shit.
The skin at my nape pricks hot like I’ve been stung.
Everything appears just as it did a minute ago. The sun’s rays fall over the clearing in an auspicious spray of golden light, demarcating the fringe of one fae sector from another.
Light and dark.
We stand several feet from that divide, poised for attack, the Forest of Night’s gloom clinging to our skin. Rogar and Aelinor brandish weapons. I struggle to remove an arrow from the quiver, my back crushed by Rogar’s massive pectoral. Gauron holds on to his horse’s reins, the fidgety animal jonesing to join his pal who already bolted into the forest—a sentiment I wholeheartedly concur with.
Like a flash of copper lightning streaking across the turf, the first ripple of magic rolls into the clearing. Or I think it’s magic. I can’t tell. My body tenses, waiting for something to happen.
“Stay still,” Rogar whispers in my ear. “We do not know where the illusionists are positioned. This may be a trap to force our retreat back into the forest.”
“So how do we know?
“We do not. We wait for our enemy to reveal themselves, and then we fight.” The look he serves me is filled with angst and something else. Something tender. “Whatever happens, do not leave my side. Do you understand? Do not allow the magic to separate us.”
I nod because I have too much air in my throat to form words.
Gauron dismounts from his horse. The animal gallops into the forest as if he’d been burned. Holding one arm around his middle, Rogar’s second unsheathes his sword. “For honor. For Drengskador!”
Aelinor and Rogar lift their weapons and join the chorus.
The strange red-brown ripple advances at a high rate of speed, moving across the ground like a body of rushing water.
“Oh God, what is that?” I jump back into a wall of steel.
The moving shape begins to take form—a swarm of creepy crawlies I can’t quite make out from this far away.
Please, no. Not spiders. Don’t let it be spiders.
Or scorpions.
Fuck, there’s got to be hundreds of thousands of those things wriggling toward us, if not more.
I squeeze my eyes shut, a primal scream building in my throat. When I open my eyes, the plague of vermin hasn’t slowed. “I don’t think that’s an illusion.”
Rogar doesn’t answer.
Too afraid to yank my gaze from the incoming mass, I dig my elbow into his side. “We need to run. Now.” Head-to-toe tremors invade my body. “Rogar.”
Oh God. Oh God. Oh God. They’re less than ten feet away. And, they’re not spiders.
Or scorpions.
Or cockroaches.
They’re… centipedes. Big, ugly centipedes. Each one nearly a foot long.
“Rogar!” I scream at the top of my lungs.
He’s frozen in place, fingers digging into my waist like a vise of solid ice. Aelinor and Gauron are in the same positions, rooted to the ground, extremities stock-still.
Fear flares in Rogar’s eyes and it explodes into my chest. And I realize…
Oh no.
I’m the only one not affected by whatever fucked-up magic that’s inhibiting their ability to move.
The swarm reaches Aelinor first, creeping over her leather boots and sliding up her legs, covering every inch of skin and fabric. A splinter group breaks off from the main artery, weaving to Gauron, while a larger clump veers from farther down the vein, heading in our direction. An odd percussion of hiss and clicks accompany the invasion, ringing like an alarm.
Move.
We have to move.
With my arm wrapped around Rogar’s waist, I attempt to heave us sideways, forward, backward. In no time, the arthropods have engulfed Gauron’s body, and they’re not just swarming anything they come in contact with.
They’re feeding.
Tears stream down my face. I bash the bow at the stragglers crawling up Rogar’s boot, stomping the others at my feet. Screams—my screams—pad the air. And then desperation hits. My mind goes black, one instinctive urge fueling my every action.
Survival.
And it isn’t pretty. A piece of my soul breaks as I fight Rogar’s hold. As I realize only one of us will come out of this shit show alive. His grip weakens, and I break through. Several of the centipedes curl around his knee-high boots, pinchers piercing leather.
With a yell, I swipe at them, barreling my shoulder into Rogar’s chest. “Move. God, please, move.”
Cold steel presses against my neck.
I still. In the next second, the illusion disappears. The centipedes. The woods. My friends. The acrid scent of smoke assails my nose.
“If you want your king to live”—someone presses their mouth to my ear—“cooperate.” An arm locks around my chest, the one belonging to the female holding a knife to my throat. I snap my head up and away from the blade as she rotates me around. Gauron and Aelinor are enmeshed in a battle against several fae beings, and Rogar…
No.
In his warrior form, he’s caught in the grip of a ginormous troll, feet dangling in the air. His fangs are latched onto the monster’s flesh, but from the veins bulging against his skin, he’s struggling to breathe and fighting the troll’s hold with everything he’s got.
My orc king isn’t a quitter. He’ll fight to the end.
“Stop. I’ll cooperate.” This is all my fault. “Whatever you want, I’ll cooperate. Just… don’t hurt them. Please.”
The woman laughs. “Like you had a choice.”
Magic flares, blinding me. The world spins out of control, and the last thing I hear before surrendering to the darkness is the orc king’s anguished howl.
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Excerpt from Fae King’s Hunger
Chapter One
Rogar
Something about this route—the crispness of the leaves on the trees, the movement of the wind, the rich tang of pine invading my nose—makes my heart pound. Things appear normal.
Too normal.
I slow, keeping Kyra in my sight.
Gauron raises a fist, gaze raking across the landscape.
Kyra’s tenses. “What?”
“Something is off.” I feel it with every bone in my body. But what, I cannot discern.
Aelinor dismounts and sets her palms out, letting her magic roam the perimeter, stalking the danger circling our location. Our eyes meet. The slight shake of her head does not appease the wariness clawing my ribcage.
She shrugs. “The mist?”
“No,” Krya answers. Her hand tightens on the bow. “The mist didn’t follow us across the swamp.” She glances about. “Where’s Gray?”
Gray?
I inhale, filtering through the scent of moss and damp soil, but catch no whiff of the warg. Lowering my shields, I explore our link. He is close, but something blocks our connection. Only one thing has the power to interfere with our link and manipulate what we see and feel.
Magic.
“It is an illusion. Prepare yourselves. The magic is strong.” I grab Kyra and wrap my arm around her waist while drawing my war hammer with the other. How could I have missed the signs? The same crofter’s house we passed earlier pokes through the trees but without the smoke rising from its chimney. “Reject all you see and hear, female. The magic will warp your perception.”
My mate’s eyes grow wide with fear, the acrid scent building with each passing minute. I will allow no harm to befall my càirdeil. By Ulda, should it come to her life or mine, I will gladly give my dying breat
h so that she may live to see the rise of the dual suns on the morrow.
Holding her close, I whisper, “Stay still. We do not know where the illusionist is positioned. This may be a trap to force our retreat back into the forest.”
Kyra presses her body against mine. “So how do we know?”
“We do not. We wait for them to reveal themselves and then we fight.” Which puts us completely at the enemy’s mercy. My skin itches with the need to change into my battle form, to let the rage building inside me bear justice on those who seek to harm what is mine.
Taking several steps back, I comb the encompassing landscape for hints of the vile wizardry camouflaged in breezy winds and lush foliage. Yet despite the warning burning at my nape, I see nothing. “Whatever happens, do not leave my side. Do you understand? Do not allow the magic to separate us.”
She nods and her knuckles go white under the pressure of her grip around the bow.
My second jumps off the restless animal clomping the ground in distress. Flanking Gauron, Aelinor unsheaths her sword.
“Oh god, what is that?” Kyra slams into my shoulder. Her eyes bulge, gaze fixated to a spot beyond the forest’s border. “I don’t think that’s an illusion.”
“Easy, female. Tell me what you see.”
She doesn’t answer. Hands shaking, she reaches for an arrow from the quiver seated at her back. Her nostrils flare, and when she looks in my direction, her eyes are wild and unfocused. “We need to run. Now.”
“Kyra, breathe. I will let no harm befall you.”
Her gaze darts left and right in a frenzied sweep, her body vibrating with fear. To my left, Aelinor pivots. With her sword held on guard, ready to strike, she mirrors my second who begins to shift into his battle form. Both warily watch a moving shape. One I do not see.
Jatta.
They are all under an illusion.
All, but me.
I attempt to connect to Gray’s mind once more, but the magic’s grip is firm. No sound stirs. With my senses numbed, my orc abilities are stripped, forcing me to await my enemy’s first move.
“Rogar,” Kyra screams. “Oh god. Oh god. They’re huge. Shit. They’re huge.” With tears streaming down her face, she bats the bow in a manic swing, yelling, “Move. Move. Oh god. Move.” Kicking her feet, she barrels her shoulder into my side.
To hold an illusion this powerful, the bearer needs to be within range. My hand clamps Kyra’s hip. I cannot let her escape. If she eludes my hold…
“Reveal yourselves,” I bellow.
In this deadened silence, Gauron’s grunts are the only thing I hear. Aelinor thrusts her sword in the air. At her back, Gauron falls to one knee clenching his torso, pain etched across his features. Beside me, Kyra’s panic morphs into abject terror.
“Release my people.” A helpless rage burns through my words. “It’s me you want.”
Kyra’s movements are erratic. Nails dig into my arms. Feet stamp into the ground. Her body wrenches uncontrollably, and as strong as I am, my grip begins to loosen. I’m about to haul her over my shoulder when the magic stifling my awareness weakens.
Gray’s essence slams into my consciousness. Kill. Kill. Kill.
A voice booms through the haze. “Se.”
Part?
The illusion wavers.
“Rogar, King of the Orcs, I seek your counsel.” Through the mist, a small army approaches led by a red-haired norn dressed in the long flowing dress of her kind.
“Rowena.” I clench my teeth. Gauron was right to warn me about the witch. I was a fool not to listen. Growling, I point my war hammer with menace. “Harm my people, and I will destroy you.”
“These are dark times, Rogar, son of the rightful queen of Regnir.” Her smile is sweet and as deceptive as the tongue stirring rumors of my past. She halts several arm lengths before me. Her group of ten, mixed-race fae warriors fan out to her rear. “Calm yourself. If you do as you are told, no harm will come to your friends.”
“You are many things, Rowena, but I had not thought you a fool.” Or a liar. My eyes settle on the unarmed troll and the two norns moving to flank her side, and although none show signs of attacking, Kyra’s exertions leave me handicapped should they strike against us. “Is this how you choose to repay a life debt, witch?”
“That life debt is why your court still stands.” She takes two steps forward. “It cannot be helped, your highness. What I have to disclose must be done under the guise of secrecy. Like you, I’ve my own to protect, and we both know the loyal Gauron and your clever shaman would never allow me to whisk you away alone, now would they?”
The hair at my nape stands. I pull Kyra closer, but I cannot shield her from the norn’s probing gaze.
The witch’s chin lifts, curiosity wrinkling her elfin features. She angles her nose and samples the air. Recognition flares in her dark eyes. “Human?” Magic sparks, settling on my skin like a web of oily silk. “How dare you bring death to my door.”
My fangs burst from my gums. “The woman is under my protection. Think well before you act, for I promise you, I will not.”
“Stubborn fool. This would have been so much simpler had you arrived alone. But the risk to Lithyr is too great, outweighing the possible alliance a mighty orc king might provide.” She turns to the troll. “Gerd, seize the king, but do not maim him. I have faith Drengskador’s leader may yet see reason.”
The troll breaks formation, taking huge strides in my direction.
“You will regret the day you betrayed me, witch.” With a roar, I shove my mate behind me. Well over a head taller than me, the troll’s body is covered in a thick, green, armour-like skin. Massive arms hang past his knees, ending in clawed hands. He stands on three-toed feet, has a large nose and ears, and a hairless body.
My war hammer is useless against this creature. He will regenerate quickly from any slash to his flesh. To defeat Gerd, I will need to get close enough to sink my dagger into the only spot on his body not protected by his thick skin.
His ears.
With the troll down, I can take out the norns, shatter the illusion, and free Aelinor, who will help me defeat the remaining army.
But the first step?
Getting seized by the troll.
For my plan to work, my capture must look authentic.
Amidst Kyra’s frantic screams, I lunge for the creature’s legs, swinging my war hammer at his ankles. His massive arms drive toward my legs. I dodge a claw and stab the hammer’s handle into his right kneecap. The troll grunts and then grabs me by the neck, lifting me off the ground before burrowing his stubby fingers into my trachea. Reaching for the weapon sheathed inside my left boot, I bite his arm and kick my legs closer.
“Throw the transportation charm,” the norn commands.
The troll retrieves something in his pocket and flings the object behind us. The bitter tang of magic punches the air. A doorway glimmers where they had been naught but air and grass.
Clocking my right fist against his jaw, I throw one punch after another in a futile attempt to slow his march to the portal. I cannot let this troll carry me through. I cannot leave Kyra, Gauron, and Aelinor alone and unprotected and at the mercy of these traitorous witches. My left hand is inches away from the hilt tucked inside my boot when the troll crosses into the portal.
My lungs lock. Forces inside the vortex push, pull, and threaten to suck each of my organs out of the nearest orifice. When the sensation stops, a wave of nausea builds in my gut. Magic weakens orcs, and the elf blood coursing through my body isn’t enough to counter the effect.
The troll drops me to the ground. Dagger in hand, I roll to my feet and assume a defensive position. The drive to kill, to sink my claws into my enemy and squeeze the life from every limb overwhelms years of restraint. Years of becoming more elf than orc. Years of undoing the sins of my ancestors.
I shake my head to clear my rage. Days of perpetual darkness leave my eyes sensitive to the bright light of our dual suns. Smoke hangs heavy
in the air along with the scent of death.
Where in Alfhemir am I?
The portal closes. Rowena marches past, boots striking the cobblestone road in the center of what had been a vibrant town.
A town I recognize.
Keeping the troll in my line of sight, I swing my focus to the side of the narrow road. The broken walls of several huts jut from the charred ground. Ash and stone sit in heaps where a foundation once stood. The more I search, the more devastation I find.
Jatta.
This blackened village is Lithyr. Can this be another illusion? Another carefully laid manipulation? To what end? “What happened here?”
“Four days past, the goblins raided the village,” the norn begins, her voice low. “They searched every home, inn, and tavern, looking for you. They marched under the Wild Hunt’s banner.”
My throat goes dry. I see no life on these barren streets. As a free city, Lithyr is a beacon of hope to hundreds shunned by fae society—half-bloods, lower fae, species like the norns who are hated and feared for their magic.
“This is all that remains.” Rowena circles back and stops beside the seething troll facing me on my left. A soft breeze blows through the billowy layers of her blue dress. “Most royal visits are preceded by notice. Yet I never received word of your pending arrival. Of course, if I were harboring a human among my court, then I too would keep my travel plans secret.”
“Where are the survivors, Rowena?” I refuse to believe all life perished here. “You have separated me from my court with an elaborate ruse. Perhaps what you show me here is false as well?”
She laughs, the sound shrill in the dead space that was once Lithyr. “Is that what it will take to appease your conscience, my lord? Then yes”—she throws her arms in the air with flourish—“this is all an illusion.”
I wait for the curtain of magic suspended over the city to dissipate, but the charred landscape remains unchanged.
“Enough with the games, Rowena.” The longer I stand here trading barbs with the norn, the more danger befalls my mate. “What have you done with my commander. With the human under my protection?”