A messenger came panting through the woods. Venick knew what the boy was about to say, even though it couldn’t be possible, because Ellina wasn’t back yet. She wasn’t back, and so how did the Dark Army know where to find them? Yet the messenger’s words were clear.
“They’re coming.”
???
Ellina’s heart ratcheted. She held herself perfectly still.
Balid turned slightly, revealing his profile. Long nose, sharp chin. Those small, sunken eyes. He still had not spotted her, hidden as she was in a thin crevice between two boulders, though he appeared to be listening. His face was rapt with attention.
Ellina knew how to be silent. She knew how to step, to move with the earth rather than against it, to make herself weightless. She could turn around, go back the way she had come.Escape.
Yet she still wore her bow. Her arrows seemed to strain against her back.
Ellina slid the weapon—slowly, so slowly—from her shoulder. She did not have much room to draw. Her elbow butted against the stone. It would affect her aim. And this bow did not belong to her—she had left all of her possessions in Igor. Ellina had borrowed the bow from a fellow archer, meaning she did not know the weapon’s temperament, was not accustomed to its handling. That, too, might affect her accuracy.
Escape.
She didwant to escape, but not from this clearing. Ellina was a prisoner. She had been, ever since Balid had stolen her voice, which was more than merely a voice. It was part of her identity. Precious to her.
She wanted it back.
Ellina allowed herself to imagine it: how she would sink an arrow into Balid’s skull. How his death would come quickly, without time even to gasp. After: the return of vibrations in her throat. A waterfall of words. If Ellina killed Balid, she would regain the ability to speak lies, yes, but also truths.
The wanting poured over her like rain over a desert. She yearned to speak the truth. To Venick. To her new friends, her comrades, even her sister. Ellina had spent her entire life hiding behind a wall of lies. She did not want to do that anymore.
She nocked an arrow. Pulled the bowstring tight.
The bow creaked. Balid whipped around, seeking the source of the noise as Ellina ducked back out of sight.
A silent curse. Did the bow’s owner really not oil her weapon? That oversight had just cost Ellina her chance. But she had been lucky, too. Though Balid surely heard the bow’s creak, surely recognized it ashers,given the hollow reverberance of this place, he could not tell which direction it had come from.
Realizing that he was exposed, and under fire, he darted out of sight.
Ellina followed.
???
The Dark Army came from all sides, sweeping through the trees like a howling wind. It was an instant, vicious attack.
The sounds of battle became deafening. The boom of a cannon. The clash of steel against green glass. Venick lost sight of the road in the initial crush, and though their original plan was clearly out of play, terror spiked through him at the thought of Ellina reappearing without forewarning. She’d be riding straight into a massacre.
You fool.
It was a sign of his stunned mind, that he fixated on this rather than on the onslaught before him. Ellina wouldn’t ride blindly into this massacre. Reeking gods, she’d be able to hear the fighting from leagues away. Yet he couldn’t stop looking for her.
It wasn’t until an arrow whizzed through the air by his head, piercing the eye socket of the soldier to his right, that Venick snapped back to reality.
Their line was devolving into an unsteady wave. Enemy elves began breaking through. Venick watched a southern elf slide past the resistance’s front ranks, slit the tendon behind a man’s knee, and take his horse for herself. More enemy elves followed suit, swarming through their defenses like termites into wood, exploiting the weak points, the openings.
“Hold the line!”
Venick blocked the swing of an incoming sword, then gripped the green glass of his own blade with his gauntlet, punched it sideways into the enemy’s neck. A burble. A jet of red. He ripped the cloth from his face and shouted again. “Theline.”
This time, his command seemed to catch, rippling down the ranks. Men shored up their shields, closed gaps. The resistance, adjusting to the situation, began to reform into a layered circle facing outwards.
To an untrained eye, this formation seemed logical. The Dark Army had them surrounded, so in order to hold their position, they needed to create a ring. Yet Venick knew that a circle was the worst kind of formation in this situation, one that would only make it easier for the Dark Army to press them in, blocking their ability to regroup or escape. They’d have to fight their way free or be trapped.
“Line,” Venick shouted furiously, hauling his sword up again, sinking the point into another enemy. His arm pumped. His lungs dragged in a gulp of air. “I said line, not cir—”
