“They’re afraid of me.” The realization burrowed between Venick’s ribs, wedged and stuck. “Because I’m human.”
“Because you move like a human,” Dourin corrected. “You are too aggressive.”
“I don’t even know what that means.”
“You throw your weight around. If I were a horse, I would not want you riding me either.” Dourin’s expression softened. He came forward, set a hand to Venick’s shoulder. “If you want to ride a sighted homing horse, you will need to learn to move like an elf. To gain control of yourself. Become more fluid.”
“And if I can’t learn?”
Dourin nudged him towards the buckskin. “Then you must be grateful for what you can get.”
???
Their party moved slowly, first south, then southwest. The land below Evov was barren, the earth scattered with clumps of dry grass that looked grey and withered, that not even the horses wanted to eat. Often the trail would narrow, wedging elves together, sometimes even forcing them to move single file.
Venick never liked that. He avoided it whenever possible, riding ahead in search of alternatives. When none could be found, Venick would go first, then turn and wait as the elves came—slowly, so slowly—along behind him, squeezing between boulders or over natural river bridges one at a time. Venick would watch, and scan the surrounding lands, and try not to think about how vulnerable they looked all spread out like that. How easy it would be for an enemy to ambush them. They’d be picked off like target practice, one by one.
It’s what he would have done. If Venick was in Farah’s position, he would have ordered a battalion to ambush their budding army now, while they were untrained and unprepared and exposed. Farah must know that a resistance was gathering against her, which meant she must also know thatthiswas her best opportunity to end that resistance. As the days wore on, Venick found himself scanning the horizon, watching for the attack he was sure to come. He could almost see it: southern elves emerging from behind rocks. Southern elves rising over the top of the hillside. The glint of their green glass arrows, bows cresting in their hands. He imagined Ellina among them, and Venick could see this, too: her slender shadow, her wind-tossed braid, the sharp outline of her silhouette. She would shoot them down as she had shot Dourin’s horses down. As she had almost shot Venick down, once.
But Ellina never came. The southerners didn’t. The land remained still.
Venick’s horse was named Eywen, and she was a problem. Oh certainly, she wasrideable, but only in the loosest sense of the word—she tolerated Venick on her back, but little else. And indeed, her blindness, rather than tempering her spirit, seemed to fuel it. Venick imagined the mare’s delight as he urged her one way and she went the other, as he pulled back and she charged ahead. He felt his will grinding against hers, like teeth.
“You’re going to get me killed,” he muttered to the horse after a spectacularly bad run, gripping her mane in frustration—but not pulling. Just squeezing tight. “I swear to gods you’re going to kill us both.”
“I would too, if you hissed at me like that all the time,” said an elf named Lin Lill. She was a former legion ranger and the benefactor of Venick’s horse tack, which she’d agreed to lend him in exchange for a price yet to be named. Lin Lill rode bareback now without the use of halter or reins, leaving her hands free to pin Venick with an accusing finger. “Do you think Eywen cannot sense your frustration?”
Venick blinked.
He loosened his hold.
After that, they started to learn better. Venick stopped jerking the reins and began speaking softly in elvish, which Eywen seemed to prefer over mainlander. Eywen learned to listen to Venick’s clicks and murmurs and to trust in his guidance. Slowly, they settled into each other. Then she was unfailing.
The mountains shrank behind them. Soon, they were nothing but a hazy smear.
They neared Abith. Venick and Dourin had carefully weighed the risks of visiting a city so close to Evov, eventually deciding that Abith was a better option than Lorin or Vivvre because of its size and location. The city was small—meaning there was a chance that it had escaped Farah’s notice—but still large enough to have everything a growing army might need: weapons, armor, dry goods, and the potential to recruit more soldiers.
In the evenings, Venick worked with the elves on battle formations, teaching them how to move as a single unit, how to regroup quickly in case of a surprise attack. They ran drills, Venick hollering himself hoarse as he coached the elves through a dozen possible battle scenarios. He showed them what to do if an enemy split their ranks, how to react if they lost their commander mid-fight, how to recover if an explosion rendered them deaf.
It had happened to him once. Venick had been nineteen. That year, like most years, they’d gone to war with the highlanders after those men attempted to invade the Golden Valley. The highland leader—a man they called the Elder—wanted the land because it was fertile and lush, good for growing crops. Also good for collecting wildflowers, which were used to make potions and perfumes and other, less savory materials. The lowlanders had defended that valley for centuries, and as Venick’s regiment set out to war early one summer morning, they promised each other they’d defend it again.
They hadn’t. The Elder, it seemed, had grown his army. There had long been rumors of the man’s ever-expanding wealth and resources, but the lowlanders weren’t prepared for the sheerscaleof it, the seemingly endless supply of arrows and cannonballs and bodies. When highland troops were lost, they were quickly replaced. When food ran low, more was sent in. The Elder’s army was no mere army. It was a living, breathing machine.
A month into the fighting, Venick’s men were desperate. What they’d done was later praised as a stroke of brilliance, but at the time Venick had seen it for what it was: a last resort.
They called a retreat. The highlanders—believing themselves triumphant—flooded into the valley. For three nights they celebrated on that stolen land. Their victory songs rang throughout the basin.
On the fourth night, Venick and six other men loaded their supply wagons with as much black powder as they could manage. They drove the wagons into the valley where the highlanders slept. Venick remembered fields of hip-high golden wheat. Corn sprouting from its stalks. Moonlight flowed into the valley like a river of light.
A trail of black powder was poured in a straight line from the wagons to their group of seven waiting fifty paces away.
Venick hadn’t lit the match, but he’d seen the man who had.
It sparked. The flame ran down the line.
They ran, and seconds later an explosion shook the world. It rendered Venick temporarily deaf. Though his vision remained unharmed, loss of hearing made the world look strange. He’d watched smoke cover the moon.
That year, the valley and all of its crops had burned. But so had their enemy.
