She drew one of her Twins and urged her horse to gallop toward them.
“All of you, enough!” she shouted, holding the sword out wide. Turock looked her way, glaring. Talon obediently halted his movements. The other spellcasters, all twenty-two of them, pulled up before they collided with the soldiers’ rears. At the sight of such a display, many in the sellsword divisions laughed.
Rachida rode sidelong up to the angry and flamboyant man. Turock puffed out his chest as if to challenge her, which Rachida answered by swiping at him with her sword at such speed that he didn’t have time to react. The blade flashed against his cheek, creating a thin red line. The man flinched, his hand coming up to touch the wound as a dollop of blood dripped onto his bright green robe.
“You bitch,” he said, eyes wide.
Rachida leaned forward in her saddle, resting the flat edge of her blade against Turock’s neck. “Call me bitch one more time, and I slice your throat. Trust me, as of now nothing would bring me greater pleasure.”
Turock’s expression suddenly brightened, and he forced a smile. “Why, dear Rachida, I wouldn’t dream of it.”
“You best not.”
“And don’t think to cast some sort of spell, either,” said Quester with a wink. “My man Pox Jon over there is deadly with throwing knives. He can bury four in you before you get the words out of your throat. Isn’t that right, Jon?”
Pox Jon nodded, reached into his belt, and pulled out three stumpy blades. “Got a few right here, matter of fact.”
Turock visibly swallowed, looking all around him. His fingers started twitching, and sweat pooled on his collar, even though the temperature during this early afternoon was mild. To Rachida he seemed ridiculous; this was a man of Paradise, surrounded by soldiers from the kingdom that was now, technically, the enemy, and yet it was as if he had just then realized that fact. For an obviously brilliant man, he was rather stupid.
“I. . I’m sorry,” he told Rachida in a low voice.
“Say it louder,” demanded Talon.
Rachida held up a hand. “No, that is fine.” She sheathed her Twin and sidled closer to Turock, leaning in. Even though her sword was secure, he still seemed wary. “Listen: I don’t wish to hurt you. But we are about to enter Dezren territory. I don’t know how relations are between elf and human in Paradise, but it is chilly at best in the east. So please, let us not attract undue attention to ourselves while we tread through their land. Once we cross the Corinth, you can go on all you like. Do we have a deal?”
She stuck out her hand. Turock hesitantly took it, his head cocked oddly to the side.
“Deal,” he said, though it sounded like his thoughts were far away.
“Good. Now let’s go.”
The spellcaster cleared his throat. “Uh, one more thing, Rachida my dear.”
“What?”
“What’s happening over there?”
His eyes glassed over as he pointed across the field at the thickly packed forest that bordered the Corinth River. Rachida followed his gaze, seeing movement within the trees, the branches swaying, and the underbrush rustling. It was probably just a wolf or an elk or-
It wasn’t a wolf, or an elk, or any other animal for that matter. Instead, a tall elf, with deeply bronzed flesh and long, satiny hair, burst from the foliage. He was a Quellan and therefore very far from home. The elf ran with abandon, his arms and legs pumping vigorously as he crossed the field of swaying reeds. Rachida’s hand fell to her sword, preparing to draw it should the elf attack, but she noticed that he brandished no weapons. He was running strangely, as well, leaping into the air every few moments and waving his arms at them.
Sensing her men tense behind her, Rachida raised her hand and signaled with a fist.
“Hold!” she ordered.
The elf was on them in an instant, and as he passed them by, dashing through the ranks of soldiers and sellswords, Rachida heard screaming, endless streams of syllables that were alien to her ears. The sound of his shouts elapsed as fast as he did, like the screech of a falcon as it soared through the sky and disappeared over the horizon. The men parted for him, allowing the elf to sprint across the opposite field and disappear into the massive trees of the Stonewood Forest. When he was gone, Rachida gawked at her sellswords, confused.
“What in the name of the gods was that?” asked a bewildered Pox Jon.
“An elf,” Quester told him.
“No shit.”
“He was saying something,” said Rachida. “What was it? I couldn’t make it out.”
“Sounded like nonsense to me,” Talon said, trotting over toward the spot where the elf disappeared. “Just gibberish.”
“It wasn’t gibberish,” said Turock. Rachida turned toward the absolutely terrified-looking spellcaster. It made her uneasy to see him so. What’s more, she now heard a steady thrum, one that vibrated her saddle.
“What did he say?” she asked.
“Noro, nuru e taryet,” the spellcaster said. “It’s Elvish for ‘Run, death has arrived.’ ”
As if on cue, a horribly loud trumpeting rang out, causing most of the eight hundred men gathered on the road to cover their ears. Countless birds squawked and flew from the treetops in bunches. Quester clammed up and actually appeared frightened for the first time since Rachida had met him. Rachida’s head whipped back around, and she looked on as the tall trees to the east began to sway, their budding branches snapping like so much kindling. Her horse whinnied nervously and then bucked.
Then, in a flash of dust and an explosion of dirt, the tree line exploded outward. What rumbled out of the forest was huge. Menacing. Evil. Impossible.
And it was coming their way.
“Flee!” shouted Rachida. Her mind blank with fear, she spun her panicked steed around and hastened into the forest in the other direction, followed by the soldiers and sellswords, while death closed in from behind.
CHAPTER 43
And so history repeated itself.
Aullienna Meln, the princess of the Stonewood Dezren, walked along the twisting skywalks that formed the causeways of the city within the trees. Only this time, Carskel didn’t walk behind her, prodding her along. Instead, he was by her side, his hand in hers, a triumphant smile plastered across his face. He looked down, his eyes unabashedly taking in every inch of her.
“You look beautiful,” he said.
She did her best to force her cheeks to flush, thinking about the first time she and Kindren kissed. “Thank you, my love,” she said, speaking with her best innocent quiver while squeezing her brother’s hand. “It means a lot that you should think so.”
Carskel beamed and turned away, gazing down the jewel-lined skywalk and the group of elves that had gathered toward the center of Stonewood. “Desdima did her best work. I am glad I spared her life.”
Desdima had been Lady Audrianna’s personal tailor, one of the original thirty-two that had escaped from Dezerea and the Quellan oppression. The work Carskel referred to was the garb Aully now wore; a gown of spun satin, white as the northern snowcaps, embellished with shimmering crystals. The gown was long and flowing, the train trailing five feet behind her. The sleeves were form-fitted, the material billowing out at her wrists like a flower, and the collar clung tight to her neck all the way to the base of her jaw. The back was bare, though her naked flesh was hidden by her long, golden hair, teased and curled and pinned with roses, cornflowers, and pink silkwood blossoms. The dress was formfitting yet comfortable, a work of art that conveyed the conservative nature of the Stonewood culture while still suggesting the sensual nature of a coupling. It had been made originally for her wedding to Kindren.