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Why There Is Blood

A s the warriors pass below, our tree-top village lies dormant. Usually, it’s filled with life, but now, there’s no sound, no laughter, no rustling of leaves. Everyone is hiding in their homes, clutching their families, hoping we won’t be discovered this time.

The warriors march slowly in formation along the powder-white Gann Gavannoa, the forest road that bisects Parae. Dry snow swirls up along the sides with each step. All I hear is the rustling of armor and the clinking of shields, the chilling sound of war.

The soldiers are rigid and focused, too numerous to count. The road between the tall, frost-covered tree trunks is wide, but they fill it quickly. As they pass beneath us, a bitter stench of dwarf steel, labored breaths, and sweat invades our home, an intrusion that doesn’t belong in Valeanrae.

In our forest, I hang upside down in the vines, feet tightly wrapped in twisted fibers.

I’m alone, just as I want it. High above their heads, I watch the star elves, dwarves, and humans march along the road below.

I can move my arms freely without risking a fall, and more importantly, I can shoot if necessary.

I should climb higher into the trees to ensure I’m hidden, but if they can’t see me, I can’t see them, and right now?—

One of the star elves at the back of the line looks straight at me.

I stop breathing, and the stench of dwarf steel disappears.

It feels like my blood turns to ash, flaring up in a volcanic eruption inside my veins.

I freeze, staring blindly into the warrior’s red, deadly eyes.

He sees me, clear as day, through the elm-shaped gaps in his steel helmet.

Did he hear me? Smell me?

There’s only a spark of hesitation before he raises his arm and draws his bow.

His two nearest comrades follow his lead, eyes scanning the trees.

Searching for their target. Searching for me.

Saxx!

I nock an arrow against Brínnsesta and tighten my legs around the vines.

They creak in protest, slipping between my calves as my muscles strain to keep me steady.

My heart pounds in my ears as I draw the string back.

My palms grow slick, and my upper arm stretches against my shoulder blades.

I close one eye, inhale deeply, and exhale as I aim.

Sweat drips from my forehead even though we’re in the heart of Llyavesamsa, the long winter.

Obey, Brínnsesta. Please obey. I can’t afford to miss. Breathe with me, focus, shoot straight. Relax, just like that. Here we go, shoot or be shot.

Afryea, give me courage, and Arephna, grant me strength.

I make my choice and release the string.

But Brínnsesta betrays me. The string vibrates like a rippling wave.

Oh, no!

The arrow flies toward the soldiers, landing just short of their heavy steel-capped boots. All three warriors break formation and charge toward me.

How am I supposed to fight star elves? And what if they call for reinforcements, or the others realize what’s happening? They wouldn’t just kill me; they’d find Parae, and then it would only be a matter of time before they summon Akares and?—

Focus!

The rest of the soldiers march on in formation, eyes fixed straight ahead, oblivious to those charging toward me.

I duck as a striped arrow zips past my head so fast the air tickles my scalp. This is bad. Star elf arrows can carry anything from poison to curses and black magic. Even a foot wound could be deadly.

My options are: escape and swing back into the Star Tree, or stay and fight. If I flee, there’s a risk the star elves will follow. They’ll discover our village, and my family and I will die. I can’t take that risk. If I stay, I may die. But only maybe.

I throw Brínnsesta over my shoulder and glide down the vines. My palms chafe and burn as I duck and crouch, whipping my head from side to side as arrows fly past my head.

I’m still high among the trees and need to get down faster.

Another arrow. Swish . Thin tufts of my hair fly into my mouth, nose, and eyes.

Swish. An arrow tangles in my hair and rubs against my ear.

I slide down, keeping a firm grip to avoid falling too fast or getting entangled in the vines.

They lick me like flickering snake tongues.

I land softly, quickly ducking behind thick, gnarled roots.

The cold snow bites at my bare feet as I dash forward.

The air is heavy, saturated with the scent of incense smoke and the damp, musky odor of wet badger fur.

A narrow passage opens ahead, barely wide enough to squeeze through.

My quiver scrapes against the rough stone, the sound a sharp whine, like knife blades drawn too slow.

Above, the ceiling of tangled roots arches just high enough for the star elves to pass.

They’re after me. Their armour is loud, like tin plates crashing to the floor, spinning and clattering until they stop and fall silent.

They’ve entered the passage, their labored grunts and heavy footsteps echoing behind me. And they call themselves elves. Pathetic. Elves should be soundless. We’re graceful creatures, not clumsy like the smooth-eared or the thick-eared.

They’re getting closer, but they haven’t spotted me yet.

The passageway curves, snaking around a bend.

I catch a glimpse of snow gleaming in the dim light up ahead.

Reaching the end, I hoist myself onto the thick roots, my fingers sinking into the wet snow as I pull myself upward.

I have only a few sparks before the warriors reach the entrance.

Quickly, I pull out an arrow, angling Brínnsesta downward into the wide gap between my feet.

Inhale, aim. Exhale, draw the string back. Completely soundless. Not even a tree elf would hear me.

The footsteps thunder below, growing closer. They’ll reach the gap at any spark.

You must be ready, Brínnsesta, and you must obey me. Do you understand?

She feels stiff and unruly, as always. She’s never liked me, even though I created her. Secretly building a bow was challenging, and it took a long time, so long that making another has never been an option.

Some bows loathe their owners so deeply they eventually kill them. I should be thankful Brínnsesta can still be used and doesn’t completely hate me.

A helmet races by below, a ray of sunlight glinting off its surface, momentarily blinding me. I crouch lower, drawing the string farther back as the next helmet appears. Except I can’t see the throat underneath, only silver steel gleaming everywhere.

I throw myself down, hooking my foot halfway into the tangled roots.

The air below stirs with powdery snow and the clink of armor.

My arms move swiftly. Please, Brínnsesta, obey.

I run my hand quickly over the wood before I shoot, deliberately aiming high, anticipating her usual stubborn bucking.

And it works. The arrow flies precisely where I want it, slipping between the helmet and the chest harness.

A scream, a spray of blood, and the body collapses to the ground.

She’s predictable, my bow, and I can use that to my advantage. As long as I feel her mood, I can manage her bucking.

With that, I shoot the next star elf. He falls heavily, like a stone from the Sun Tree.

I cast a glance toward the distant army. They shouldn’t hear the screams, so there’s no reason for them to turn back.

The surviving star elf bursts from the thick, twisted roots, turning toward me as if he already knows my exact position. He shoots. One arrow collides with the one tangled in my hair, another tears straight through my hip skirt, and the third whizzes past, a whisker from my navel.

I dive to the ground, catching myself with one hand, Brínnsesta gripped in the other, and roll through a flurry of snow. Quickly, I spring to my feet, zigzagging to dodge the star elf’s arrows.

Panic pulses in my temples, blood boiling in my veins. I reach for more arrows, but there’s only one.

Where are the rest?

Gone. All gone.

I nock the arrow and duck, locking eyes with the enemy.

His gaze burns like fire. So close. Only an elf’s length away.

I tighten the bow, my nostrils filling with the stench of sweat and star-elven skin.

I can hear his controlled breathing, the slow, steady beat of his heart.

To him, killing is nothing. He’s certain he’ll win.

He studies me, a mix of rage and curiosity flickering in his eyes as he takes in my appearance, my thin, ice-blond hair, nearly the same color as my pale skin.

His gaze lingers on my eyes, and I know why.

One is blue, like the icy depths of winter water, while the other glows yellow, like smoldering coals. They always attract attention.

I fire from below. His eyes narrow, then widen. Everything slows as the arrow flies. His fingers slowly curl around his own striped arrow. They press it in place. Tighten. His arrow is already nocked, ready to fly. Ready to tear through me.

If he shoots, I die.

Brínnsesta growls, breaks free, and lunges aside, slipping through my fingers, snapping me back into the present. Time speeds up again.

My arrow finds its mark, sinking into the star elf’s carotid artery. I don’t have time to stop, to slow down, to think. I throw myself at him, landing on top of the hot, pulsating stream of blood.

Sliding off him, I fall onto my back and stare at the gloomy sky. Gray and impersonal, like a typical day during Llyavesamsa, except for a few gaps in the blanket of clouds, where faint rays of sunlight break through.

I sit up, burying my hands deep into the cold, crunching snow until they touch the frozen earth beneath. Inhaling, I scan the scene before me. The blood, the footprints, and Brínnsesta… lying over there.

I exhale slowly, my gaze drawn to the hand protruding from the tangled root tunnel. The air is thick with the stench of stale, raw death.

I killed them. I succeeded.