Page 51 of A Courage of the Chosen

“Run, little girl.”

Chapter 15

Elsie

The howling starts at the edge of the forest as the sky tips from pastel to inky, and the quaint farming village stutters into silence. People have minutes, if not seconds, to lock their doors and hide. There are no walls to protect them. No gates to shelter them from the nightmares that stalk this land. All they can do is secure themselves as best they can and pray that they survive another night.

Lights in the small cottage at the outermost edges are the first to wink out when the screeching of Brollachan wrenches through the air.

I hover above the scene, a spirit caught in the wind, as shadows spill out from the tree-line with the horrors of Elfayne contained within. It cuts across the rolling fields of wheat and grains, and creatures that were once Seelie, but now vessels of corruption, sprint alongside it through the tall grasses with their talons ready; fathomless eyes locked on the collection of homes.

I yearn to save them. To use my light and strike down the thirty or so demons hurtling toward innocents with the intent to kill and maim. Dorche soldiers aren’t far behind, and amongst them, a prominent figure that I’d know anywhere.

Towering above them all, hazel eyes ablaze even in the dark, jaw working as my pendant twinkles innocently over his shirt. Tavish strolls along while his minions carry out their horrid mission.

Roaring and cursing, I try to force my way down to stop him hurting anyone else, and fulfill the vow I made over Granny’s funeral pyre to watch him burn and bleed.

I remain suspended in time, compelled to watch as Brollachan and Dorche rip doors off their hinges like they weigh nothing, and pile into the scattered buildings.

When the screams of the villagers drift in my direction, I cry alongside them. Men and women and children are dragged from their homes by those that were once in the same position as them while the Brollachan instill enough panic to keep most of them subservient. And I can’t stop it.

The power to truly face the Dorche runs through my blood, sealed to my bones and the core of who I am, yet there’s not a single thing I can do to help these people.

My people.

Some of them come willingly, cowering away from the darkness that’s terrorized Elfayne for too long. Some fight with every last bit of strength they have. There’s one or two Aotrom among them, but their mist is no use against the shadow-wielders.

It’s not long before those Seelie are overpowered and slaughtered brutally in front of their families. It’s quick and bloody, and the rest stop fighting after the pile of bodies becomes too agonizing to count.

No home is left untouched, and the Dorche tear through the village until they’re satisfied no one remains hidden.

As the small group is shoved into submission before a person they believed to be fighting this war alongside them, Tavish dips his chin.

The Dorche soldiers sheathe their weapons and splay their hands out toward the surrounding fields.

In unison, they send out streams and streams of shadow, and swathes of it consume the life work of the villagers. Where their power touches, decay follows, and tall, healthy grains wither away into nothing. The washed-out stones of houses are coated in a layer of ash the blackest of black, and even the air becomes tainted with their magic.

And those people are forced to bear witness as their entire world implodes.

Tavish steps forward, and I watch his mouth move yet his words don’t reach me.

A static energy builds around him, one that makes my own magic squirm in my chest as he uses the Craobh Beatha. Pure darkness spills from his fingers, one that I know intimately, and his eyes become those obsidian pools that are filled with nothing but ice and pain.

He encases the group of around forty Seelie in it, engulfs the waiting Brollachan and Dorche, too, and disappears into his power, leaving the bodies of the dead behind and the knowledge that this is what’s to become of Elfayne if I don’t do something to stop him.

◆◆◆

Shadow-walking. That’s what I’ve decided to call it when Tavish uses his darkness to disappear. It seemed fitting, and when I told my friends after explaining what I saw in the dream, their reactions were mixed.

Brodie said he liked it. Eòghann laughed.

And Rach said, “Girl, you’ve read too many romantasies.”

But the name has stuck, and they’ve all started using it.

Seems distant now though, as my days follow a pattern that’s growing as tedious as it is frustrating.

Every day for the last nine days, I’ve sat in the council chamber and heard the same story on repeat. Wagons not making it to their destination. The guards sent with them missing. Villages being swarmed by Brollachan and Dorche, without a hope of beating them back. What hits the hardest is that the children are always left behind. They’re taken to orphanages and homes where they can recover, but they’re left wondering what’s become of their parents.