Page 53 of The Savage Queen

Aisling turned to Fionn, smirking in his throne beside her.

“What is that?!”

His eyes shifted lazily to her, but it was Dagfin who replied.

“Ellén Trechend. Centuries ago, it’s said the Aos Sí that hail from a land called Cruachan in the West, tore open a hole in the veil between this realm and the Other on the eve ofSamhain, ushering in the Ellén Trechend. One of the beasts made by the gods to guard the Forge during the Old Age.”

Aisling’s breathing was short, her lungs small as she beheld it. Growling, screeching, hissing.

“You can’t possibly mean for Lir to slaughter this beast?!” Aisling said to Fionn, louder than she’d anticipated, palmsgrowing slick even as she dug her nails into the arms of her throne.

“You should thank me,” he said, resting his head on his fist. His beaded headdress clicking as he did so. “This will prove what you’re worth to him. Isn’t that what you want?”

Aisling seethed at the winter king. Indeed, it was what Aisling wanted. Beyond her loathing of Lir, and in the depths of her most guilty desires, shewantedhim to want her. Wanted him to need her. And never had she ever believed he truly could or ever would outside his own self-serving motives. Nevertheless, this demon was anything but reassuring. It smelled of ancient caverns in the wild and of logs broken at the end of the fire when the tales became more lawless.

Filverel and Galad noticeably tensed, Peitho gripped the bar at the periphery of the pitch, and Gilrel gestured a silent prayer to the Forge as Lir stalked forth.

The Ellén Trechend struck first, its serpent’s head snapping for the fae king.

Lir stepped to the side easily, assessing the creature as though he bore all the time in the world.

The wolf, salivating onto the pitch in great globs, snarled, its muzzle wrinkling, peeling back to reveal a collection of blade-sharp teeth. So, the hawk head screeched before pecking at Lir with its beak.

This time Lir rolled to the side, gathering to his feet once more.

“Why hasn’t he struck yet?” Aisling asked, to no one in particular. Voicing her anxiety aloud.

“He’s a hunter,” Dagfin replied first.

Aisling glared up at the Roktan prince. His jawline was sharp, clenching his teeth as he assessed the duel for himself. “He bides his time, is patient, studying his opponent before pouncing.”

Indeed, Lir paced before the creature, watching how it moved, when it was most provoked, and when he neared, which areas of its body it instinctively protected.

And although this reassured Aisling, she still cursed the small eternity before Lir at last swiped at the serpent’s eyes when it lunged for him.

The movement was so quick, Aisling almost missed it. Evidence of the onslaught provided in the form of carnage sprayed into the surrounding audience, steaming in the wintry air.

The serpent reeled, baring its fangs, but the second attack was met similarly, forcing the hawk at the right to drive for Lir even as the serpent still recovered.

Lir struck for the hawk as well, but this time, the beast expected it, jutting its beak out first so its more vulnerable flesh was out of reach.

Lir dove out of the way, rolling onto his feet, and striking the center wolf that bit for his head.

The wolf howled as Lir’s axe plunged into its skull.

Dagfin cursed beneath his breath.

“What is it?” Aisling asked.

“The bones of forged-brewed creatures are said to be near impenetrable. It doesn’t surprise me his axes broke bone but releasing the blades might be a more difficult battle.”

And just as Dagfin said, Lir struggled to release his axe from the wolf.

The Ellén Trechend roared, lifting onto its hind legs as Lir pulled for his axe. Yet it didn’t come free, taking the fae king with it. He was flung through the air, hand gripping the axe.

Aisling stood from her chair, reaching for the banister. Sweat beading her brow.

Fionn clapped. “This is more entertaining than I initially presumed.”

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