Page 8 of Black Sea

“Your king has made his decision,” the general went on. “And so has mine.”

“It’s the wrong decision,” I interrupted.

He made an annoyed face, and for a moment I thought he might spit in disdain. Instead, he held back, and his frown deepened. “Our supplies are running low. We won’t survive the coming winter.”

“We offered you fields to cultivate,” Araton finally spoke in a calm tone despite squeezing the reins in his fist. “Right here where we’re standing now.” He pointed at the fertile plains behind us. “Why won’t your lord accept them?”

“We will help your farmers work the land, so it yields its fruits faster,” I added, gazing at each soldier with hope. “And in the meantime, our druids will analyze your lands to discover what’s harming them and how to heal them.”

“We don’t need your druids, she-elf!” the man bawled at me with such anger that a string of saliva stuck to the beard on his chin. “We just want the Crystal!” His mount became frisky, and he struggled to control it with one hand. “We helped you take it back during the Great Battle. We have the right to use its power!”

I curled my lips in indignation. The right. As if, to them, Calien was nothing more than an object that could be passed from hand to hand.

“Give it to us,” the general commanded. “Or we will force you.”

By reaching Aegel. They wanted to sow terror and flood the streets of our city with the blood of its citizens. They wanted to bring death to a place of peace.

Until we submitted to them.

A surge of blind rage overtook me, causing me to abandon all attempts at negotiation, draw my sword, and raise it toward the bright sky while Ringil began to paw at the ground.

“Heed my words, humans!” I shouted. “My name is Nauriel, daughter of King Erech, heir to the throne of the Elven Kingdom, and keeper of Calien’s Crystal.” I let the anger in my voice reach into the hearts of the soldiers on the other shore, whose young faces showed a shadow of fear. Then, staring at the general, I added, “And I shan’t let you take it.”

His face crumpled like leaves in flames. “Then a new war begins,” he declared.

An icy shiver ran through me to my bones, as for a moment, I thought I didn’t hear the general’s rough voice.

I thought I heard Mornon’s resounding one.

The man put his helmet back on, lifted his arm, and lowered it firmly, grinning at me.

The next moment, the men’s army split into two groups. A pair of large carts, pulled by draft horses and filled with beams of all sizes, moved forward along with a guy who had brown skin, bamboo jewelry, and wore clothing typical of his people—a wide tunic that reached up to his knees, and trousers that were wide at the top and tight at the ankles.

“A witch,” Araton hissed.

“Exiled,” I added immediately, glaring at him. I refused to believe that the witches had decided to support the men in this attack.

The witch stood beside the general and greeted us by kissing two of his fingers and then touching his forehead.

“Do what you’ve been handsomely paid for, savage,” the man ground out, stepping aside.

The witch’s white teeth stood out on his dark face as he flashed a wolfish grin. Then he moved closer to the riverbank, took a deep breath, and slightly spread his arms, palms facing the sun as he closed his eyes.

The next moment, wrapped in spirals of golden light, the beams in the carts soared and began to flow toward the river.

“By the Spirits,” my brother cursed in a low voice.

The witch was brought here to build a bridge.

2

No, not one bridge. Two bridges, I noticed with horror as I watched the structures form in just a few seconds. Too few.

Suddenly, Araton turned his stallion toward our soldiers. “Don’t let them put a single foot on our land,” he commanded in Elvish.

They all nodded together, and the archers nocked their arrows in perfect sync.

I nodded to Araton and galloped toward the second bridge. As the last beam lined up in front of my mare’s hooves, matching the wet ground, I told our soldiers, “Don’t kill them.”