Page 86

The soldier holds one of the gnome men by an ankle, and he dangles him upside down.

The man fights like a cornered cat— lashing out with teeth and hands, gurgling out every insult he can think of. Like his companions, I only recognize half the words.

“We do not have a quarrel with you,” Henrik says, exasperated. “We are simply passing through this territory.”

“Trespassing!” a man at the back of the gathering yells.

Henrik turns hard eyes on him, ignoring the gnome who continues to harmlessly flail at his side. “All of Caldenbauer belongs to King Algernon. I am a servant of His Majesty, sent upon his errand.”

This receives a chorus of murderous mutters, but Henrik doesn’t flinch. “If you let us pass, we will ignore this act of treason. If not, I assure you there will be more soldiers prowling this region very soon.”

“Not if we kill you!” snarls the gnome dangling from Henrik’s hand. “We’ll cut you down to size and then leave your mangled carcasses in the woods for the wolves!”

“Big words for a man hanging upside down,” I taunt, unable to help myself.

Before my offhanded comment can bring about another altercation, a nearby voice yells Henrik’s name.

“Lady Clover?” Pranmore says when he calls again. “Bartholomew?”

All eyes turn on Pranmore as he steps into the clearing.

The usually handsome elf looks like death. His skin is blotchy, a strand of his long hair is tangled in his antlers, and his eyes are red.

As soon as he spots us, he comes to a slow stop. His gaze travels over our new acquaintances, and his mouth slowly falls open.

“You…you are…gnomes of Doria,” he stutters, and then his face transforms with pure rapture, and he falls to his knees and begins toweep.

25

Henrik

“What’s wrong with him?”the tall gnome at the front demands, looking at Pranmore as if he’s diseased.

“He’s…” I fight for the right word.

“Emotional,” Clover grits out.

I turn my eyes on her and then inhale sharply. Blood runs down her arm from a gash that seeps beneath her fingers.

Tossing my angry prisoner aside, I close the distance between us and pry Clover’s hand away from the injury. Her arm hangs limply, worrying me more than the lacerated flesh.

“It hurts,” she hisses, trying to shy away.

“Let me look at it,” I coax. “Can you move it?”

“I haven’t tried.”

If a tendon has been slashed, she might lose the use of her arm unless Pranmore is skilled enough to heal it—and it will be my fault.

I should have sent her home.

Clover whimpers as I pry her fingers from her arm, losing her bravado. She’s like a hellcat when provoked but a coddled lamb once she’s injured. Though she’d like to be a hardened adventuress, she’s a lady at heart.

“I did that,” a gnome woman says, raising her sword as if she’s accepting an accolade. “That was me.”

“Stay quiet, Delga,” the Dorian man toward the front says, perhaps the leader of their band.

Once he’s composed himself, Pranmore comes forward and bows low before the gnomes. “My people thought you were gone, lost forever. You haven’t shown yourselves in almost a hundred years—I am so humbled and grateful to stand before you now.”