Page 112

More elves run from the ship like ants, realizing their comrades are under attack.

There are too many for us to hope to fight. Thinking I have a solution, I pull the massive lever up, shutting off the lift’s mechanisms. Grimly satisfied, I watch as the gears grind to a halt.

Unfortunately, it appears the elves have a lever from the sea platform as well because no sooner than the cables come to a stop, they groan to a start again.

“Ram the elf’s sword in the lift’s gears!” Clover yells as she sends yet another arrow flying.

Immediately, I retrieve the sword and do as she says. The machine makes a horrible noise, twisting the steel sword like soft metal until it’s jammed tight. With one last metallic groan, smoke begins to pour from deep within. The cables come to a stop with a loud creak, leaving several elves stranded halfway over the water—just out of attack range.

But we’re not finished yet. There are still men to fight atop the cliff.

I pick up my sword, hoping there’s no residual magic coursing through the metal, and then duck as more flames are sent my way. As I dodge them, from the corner of my eye, I see Bartholomew run into the open. His new blade is drawn, and he wears a determined look that terrifies me.

“Bartholomew, no!” Pranmore cries, dousing the flames of the elf who’s preparing to attack the young man. But the elf isn’t alone.

Too near Bartholomew, another High Vale pulls a dagger from his belt, perhaps sensing the boy will be an easy kill. He lunges for the young duke, stabbing the blade into his side.

Bartholomew yells and stumbles back, clutching the wound. He falls to his knees, and his mouth opens with shock.

My vision blurs, and I let out a guttural cry. I cross the small area, cutting down any and all who get in my way. The elf rises above Bartholomew, dagger raised and already slick with the young man’s blood, but before he can deal the final blow, my blade meets his back.

Going limp, the elf falls to the ground.

The night becomes silent except for the hum of the lanterns. The skirmish is over…and we have come out victorious—but not without great cost.

Clover is at Bartholomew’s side in an instant, pressing her cloak over the wound to staunch the flow of blood. “Pranmore! He needs you!”

“Sorry, Henrik,” Bartholomew grits out when I kneel by his side. “I wanted to help.”

“You were brave,” I assure him, hiding my fear.

Clover removes her cloak as Pranmore lowers himself, and then the elf pulls aside the torn fabric of the duke’s doublet. Bartholomew hisses as Pranmore prods the wound to discern the extent of the damage. “It’s deep, but it didn’t tear into anything vital. It’ll be an easy injury to heal.”

Relieved, I rise to give the Woodmore space to work.

Responsibility hits me hard as I survey the fallen around us. I kneel a little way away, lowering my head.

“Henrik?” Clover says softly a few minutes later. “Are you all right?”

Looking up, I nod.

She settles on the ground next to me, careful to keep her eyes averted from the dead. “Does it get easier in time?”

I turn to her, studying her in the firelight. “I hope it doesn’t ever get easier for you, Clover. I hope you’re never put in this position again.”

After I say it, my eyes wander to the sea platform. The stranded elves have managed to slide down the cables, and they loiter on the ship's deck like angry ants. Worry plagues me, and I realize this very well might be the beginning of another war. If the High Vales are truly making a new army, Clover will likely fight again. If war breaks out in Caldenbauer, she won’t have a choice.

Clover’s jaw trembles, and she shakes her head. Trying to smile, she says, “I hope you never fight without me by your side—because I am a very good archer, and you would be wise to remember it.”

Gently, I take her chin and tilt her head toward me. Her eyes swim with emotion, and I brush my other hand over her cheek, wiping away her tears. “You are anexcellentarcher, Clover.”

More tears pool in her eyes, and her shoulders shake. I pull her close, letting her cry.

“They would have killed Bartholomew if they could have,” I say softly. “And you, Pranmore, and me. I know it is difficult, but you saved us.”

Bartholomew joins us a few minutes later, after Pranmore heals his wound.

“Henrik,” he says softly, absently rubbing his side with his eyes on the ship. “This was their land before humans ever settled here. In some ways, I can understand why they would want to take it back.”