First Blood

by K. Gorman

  He really hadn’t seen elves before.

  Where was he from?

  The fey had mentioned something. What had they called it? Non-Zemiari disruptions? She searched her mind, recalling Jorire’s stuttered description.

  …Like two places running together. We saw new rocks, buildings, an odd metal construct—not goblin, we’d know. There were things that looked like they were melted together—

  And bodies. Human bodies, but foreign. Not Zemiari.

  Had Matteo come from a different world?

  His weapon had certainly looked different. A firearm, definitely, but unlike anything she’d ever seen or heard of. Definitely not goblin—no craftsman marks for one, and no trace of their artificing for another. Everything about it spoke of perfection. Perfect lines, perfect symmetry, perfect balance…

  She studied Matteo, watching him move. He’d ridden the horses similar to how Treng rode, but the fighting stance he adopted was different. It looked habitual to him. Hesitant, yes, and with his brow furrowed in a questioning expression as he followed Doneil’s lead, but his footwork flowed smoothly, and he never dropped his guard.

  Doneil threw a couple of punches—light, glancing, easing into the spar.

  Then, he went for a takedown.

  Catrin watched him move in, well familiar with the styles of the rnari. It was a simple one he was going for—distract the upper hand, slide in, lock a heel behind the opponent’s lower leg and shove the opposite shoulder—

  But Matteo was ready for it.

  With a smooth, effortless-looking twist, he grabbed Doneil around the torso, spun them both around, and flipped him into the dirt.

  Doneil gave a strangled squawk, quickly cut off by an oof.

  Her laughter burst loud into the trees.

  “Oh, heavens,” she said, a grin splitting wide across her teeth. “You’re right, Doneil—I feel much better!”

  “Oh, shut up,” came the muffled response. Doneil’s head, somewhat bedraggled by dirt, came up to scowl at her as Matteo let him go. He picked himself up, brushing the dirt from his leathers.

  “No, go on.” She smoothed her features, not quite managing to contain the flutter of laughter that still spasmed her chest. Her grin peeked out in a flash of canine teeth that she knew he wouldn’t miss. “Keep testing his muscles. I’m getting a fantastic idea of someone’s fighting ability.”

  “Temdin,” he swore. “Don’t you always get beat up by Treng?”

  “With swords only,” she reminded him sweetly. “With blades and straight hand to hand, I always come out on top.”

  Most of that, she knew, was due to her race advantage. Had she been human, Treng would likely have schooled her, but elves were just too strong and fast.

  Doneil made a disgusted noise in his throat. His hand came out, pointing to her. “I’m doing this for you, don’t forget.”

  “And I’m ever so grateful.” She leaned forward, taking in the scene with renewed interest, gaze flicking between them with a happy hum. Matteo, for his part, kept his expression shuttered, which made her even happier.

  “Please,” she said. “Do go on.”

  “Gods save me,” Doneil muttered as he slid himself back into fighting stance. “This is just base entertainment for you.”

  “Your rnari reputation rides on it,” she informed him, giving him a mock salute with her off hand as she leaned back, fully aware of the grin that stretched her face.

  He muttered something else under his breath, then got serious.

  This time, Doneil was cautious. Slower, more careful, his expression a solid, blank frown that mirrored Matteo’s intense look. Her own grin slid off as the two stepped in, a buzzing energy filling her body. They traded a few feints and darts—Doneil lunged inward with a Second Circle ‘joust’ that had Matteo backing swiftly across the earth in defense. Dust rose from the ground as his boots thudded down in a skitter.

  Then, as before, Doneil went in for the takedown.

  Matteo exploded into motion.

  He didn’t try to flip him—not this time. Instead, the two locked in a standing struggle, Matteo’s sudden advance forcing Doneil to retreat. Doneil’s foot came out, but Matteo kicked it away and shoved his leg down, forcing Doneil back another step.

  For a second, the two men stood there, muscles bulging, arms and torsos weaving like constrictors as they attempted to get the upper hand.

  Then, Matteo dropped.

  Doneil let out a surprised yelp as they both went down. There was a brief skirmish of flailing limbs, and a struggling attempt to grapple.

  Within a few moments, Matteo had him pinned again, this time with a leg lock on his arm.

  Catrin’s grin nearly ate her face.

  “You were definitely right, Doneil,” she cooed. “This is highly entertaining. And to think—this is after he did a million sets of push-ups.”

  And the fact that he’d gone toe to toe with Doneil for strength? Her impression of Matteo’s ability had jumped to a whole new level. Humans just weren’t built for that. It was like comparing a deer to a horse—while both were strong, an elf’s muscles were just that much denser, allowing for more explosive feats of strength and flexibility. That, and the woodcraft senses that buffered their reactions and environmental awareness.

  Doneil groaned, extricating himself from Matteo’s hold.

  “Maybe this is the real reason I retired from the rnari. You’re welcome to try anytime, Catrin. Show us all what the Twelfth Circle is made of.”

  A buzz of giddiness ran through her, light as a butterfly’s touch, and another grin spread across her face.

  She rose and unbuckled the sheaths of her blades.

  Matteo’s attention snapped to her.

  So did the prince’s.

  Odd, she thought, hiding her reaction as the weight of his gaze crawled through the side of her body. They’d taken down demons together just two nights ago. He knew what she was capable of.

  And why did she feel his stare so much? It was like being next to an electrical current.

  She ignored him, dropping her sheaths and their harness in a neat pile, and strode forward. Matteo waited, an expression of watchful uncertainty clouding his expression.

  His gaze dropped to the muscles that bulged at her sides. Either that, or the tattoos that covered them. She kept still, letting him take a good look.

  The prince’s gaze still crawled through her side.

  This time, the memory of Tarris’ green eyes slipped into her mind.

  She shoved it back down.

  But her expression must have rippled, because Matteo noticed. Dark brown eyes held hers, the strong brow furrowed above him. He tilted his head in a quick uptick, holding her stare.

  A question.

  That was not something she was about to try explaining to him. Or anyone else involved.

  In answer, she gave a tilt of her own head and made a gesture to encompass his body, eyebrows lifting in their own question.

  Was he okay to fight?

  His expression shuttered immediately. He gave a curt nod, shifting into back stance.

  She mirrored him.

  Then, they began.

  She let him take the lead to start—she intended to draw this out, let him feel her out, test her—and he did. A quick step forward, to check her reaction, a dart to the right. She let him land a smack on her bicep, the blow glancing.

  With every movement, Doneil and Nales’ attention burned into their skin. The forest quieted around them, and a slow breeze slid between them, the air thickening with the scent of rain. Her steps were sure and light, movements fluid, the instincts of a rnari as habitual to her as the sound and movements of her mother tongue. The smell of dirt rose in her senses, mingling with the sweat and leather.

  After about a minute, he finally made a real move.

  The throw was light, efficient, expertly done, and she let him do it. She didn’t even touch him as he stepped in, grabbed her wrist—and he tensed, already sensing
the wrongness of her ease, but he was committed. His thigh blocked hers, hip connecting, and he dropped her over his leg.

  As the world spun, she spun with it.

  Momentum was her ally. Even in her early training days, she’d shown a natural ability to harness it—one she’d honed both in the strict, brutal training grounds of her ambitious rnari regime and in the wilds of the Raidt’s surrounding forest.

  So, when he made to swing her onto the ground, she simply grabbed him, added a step up to her momentum, flipped over his back, and pulled them both over.

  They landed in a conjoined thud.

  A strangled noise came from his throat, and he twisted immediately, but she planted a foot into his lower back and shoved him firmly off, already rolling to her feet.

  She backed off, allowing him to recover.

  He did so, locked eyes on her, and charged.

  This time, she took him down the front, swinging them both in a grappling roll. Rough earth and stone thudded into their shoulders, and his hand gripped her forearm like a vise, attempting to bring it up. She resisted, broke loose a second later, and jammed her other arm up close to his neck.

  He took them for another roll.

  But, when she attempted to continue the momentum, her hip smacked into a fallen log.

  His weight pressed down on her back, and his hand clamped down on her wrist again.

  From the side, Doneil gave a crow of triumph as Matteo overcame her resistance and managed to trap her arm into a lock.

  She clenched her teeth and grunted. Her muscles strained as she lifted both herself and Matteo up, one-handed, and turned her back. His weight fell from her, limbs a jumble of movement as he tried to swing his legs up, trap her torso.

  She was on him in a second. Pulling them both into a roll—another one—she captured his right wrist, brought it up to her shoulder, and shoved her knee down into his back.

  He grunted into the dirt and struggled. She eased and rode him out as he tried to buck her off and out-maneuver her.

  Then, he stopped.

  A second later, his free hand tapped the dirt.

  She relaxed her grip and eased off him.

  “And that’s why you don’t pick fights with the Twelfth Circle.” Doneil’s tone was light and dry as summer-bleached bones, and a wicked curve flicked the corner of his mouth upward.

  “Yes,” she said, her humor light between breaths. Idly, she brushed off the loose dirt and leaves that had attached themselves to her during the rolls. “Though I can think of a few other reasons.”

  “Like the continued existence of my head on my shoulders?” Doneil suggested. “Or were you referring to the politics?”

  She snorted. “Those two things aren’t usually separate from each other, I’ve found.”

  Rnari politics—or, to put it more bluntly, the in-house drama that came from such a competitive school—was hardly a secret. Being who she was, bloodlined and with a serious ability to defend herself, she’d managed to avoid most of it, but she’d heard stories from others she’d trained with.

  On the ground, Matteo had recovered. His face had a questioning look.

  She shot him a grin and held out her hand.

  He hesitated—just for a moment—then took it.

  Then, after he straightened, to her surprise, he gave a short bow and held out his arm.

  Exactly how the fey prince had offered her his.

  A smile tucked the corners of her mouth.

  He’s learning.

  Good. He’d need to. The world was dangerous enough, especially if you didn’t speak any of its languages.

  She took it, stiffening only a little as his fingers touched her inner arm—Temdin, was she going to have to find an extra piece of armor to cover that area? It felt so exposed.

  This time, fortunately, he didn’t notice. Or, if he did, he didn’t press.

  She dropped her hand and stepped away.

  “Okay—Doneil, you prep the foodstuff. I’ll go find us some firewood. We’ll rest here tonight, then leave with the sun.”

  Picking up her blades from where she’d left them, she buckled them on as she walked toward the edge of camp—up the near slope, where the wood might be drier—then caught the look on Nales’ face.

  He was still staring at her, same as he’d been before—only now, there was a distinct expression of shock on his features as he watched her move.

  Ah. The fight.

  Perhaps he hadn’t believed her Twelfth Circle claims.

  An easy thing, she supposed. When they’d fought together, it had been night—hard to see, in a human’s eyes, and a time when things were more brushed under the metaphorical rug. And cutting demons was an entirely different matter than winning against someone at wrestling.

  Still, though, he stared.

  She shot him a cheery smile, gave him a two-fingered salute—in the rnari tradition, casual greeting to a superior, and definitely mocking him—and turned into the forest.

  Chapter 13

  The light of the low fire cast the trees in a dim, orange glow. Not enough light for a human to see by, but her elf eyes had no trouble piercing the dark.

  The forest was her home.

  And, around her, it breathed.

  A part of her drank in the feeling—the sensation of collaborative movement, the way the canopy overhead rustled like a single force, the stars piercing the branches in a cold light. Her woodcraft formed a latent connection with almost every aspect of the forest around her, and it made a happy sigh at the base of her being.

  As an elf of the Raidt, this—being in the forest—was home.

  The other part of her stared at the closest ember, a low, deep orange color, and tried not to think of the flicker of fire on stone.

  It always came back to her at night, during the quiet times—most likely because it had happened at night, but it still pissed her off. And it pissed her off even more that she couldn’t seem to get over it, that, no matter how hard she trained, no matter how many times she told herself that it wasn’t a big deal, that she could just make up for the incident and prove her loyalty with perfect, unquestionable service, it wasn’t enough.

  Her brain always looped back, as if those few moments with Tarris were all it could focus on.

  As assaults go, it hadn’t been that bad of one. Ten fiery hells, she knew what happened to others, both in and out of the ranks. Rivka had been raped by her own father, for gods’ sakes.

  All Prince Tarris had done was touch her. Force her up against the wall. Press his lips to her surprised mouth.

  And she’d broken his hand for it.

  She hadn’t meant to. It had been instinct. Something she’d followed through with on many combat tests.

  The Council hadn’t seen it that way. As a rnari, she should have had more control. And she agreed with them.

  She should have foreseen the problem and taken measures to prevent it. Perhaps worn a more quilted gambeson under her armor or a tunic that covered her arms. Something to hide her figure.

  Doneil’s words from before came echoing back to her.

  ‘It doesn’t matter if you make yourself rail-thin or fat as an elephant. He would have still come for you.’

  She sighed.

  She doubted he was right, but he did have a point. Tarris should have behaved better.

  But he was a prince. He could do that and get away with it.

  As she stared into the dark between the trees, it took her almost a minute to realize that her entire body had gone rigid, muscles as taut as baler’s string, ready to run.

  Anger flickered like fire.

  She was a warrior. She did not flee.

  With another sigh, she forced herself to relax. And tried not to think about it.

  A snap in the forest lifted her attention to a different location between the trees. She didn’t see what caused the noise, but a few seconds’ listen gave her a likely culprit—a raccoon, the third one she’d heard since taking watch, though her woo
dcraft indicated that at least two of them had been the same creature circling back.

  She relaxed into her spot, trying not to think of fire, or of green eyes in the dark.

  If I ever see that prince again, I’ll break his other hand. For all the trouble he’s caused me.

  She wouldn’t, of course. After this, she was expected to return to the Raidt and uphold her duties in the palace—duties which included guarding Prince Tarris.

  In fact, she was due to become his bladesworn.

  As her father guarded the king, and her mother guarded the queen, so she would guard their son through his expected ascendance.

  She’d follow the path her bloodline had made since the Raidt elves had split from the light.

  As much as it amused her to contemplate Doneil’s schemes—he was right, taking the undersworn loophole would piss off the Council, and send a giant ‘fuck you’ to Tarris, which brought a certain bubbly cheer to the small, petty part of her—disgrace was not an option.

  But, hells, what had happened to the world? Messed-up spells, demons, broken gates…

  Who had done this?

  Pulling her sleeve up, she studied the mercari binding on her bicep, the spiraled letters and script that formed her connection to Kodanh.

  She’d been the only rnari to call him in a generation. None of her peers had managed it. The ice lizard. Ruler of the Annatwensi Glacier.

  And now, the connection was dead.

  She frowned down at the runes. With a heavy breath, she pulled on the magic.

  The pain was instantaneous. Like the ink had turned into a hundred biting ants. Made of fire. Blood welled on her skin. She stared at it. Then, she let go of the connection.

  The pain lessened. After a few seconds, the blood began to trickle down her arm in a slow rivulet.

  A hollow feeling scraped through her chest as she stared at it.

  Gods, my life is just going to shit.

  The rustling came from the edge of the trees again. The same raccoon as before. She let out a sigh and leaned forward, stretching out her back. It had come closer, no doubt smelling their food, and she was getting bored enough to let it.

  Maybe one of them would wake up to her petting a wild animal.