Page 35 of Shadow Cursed

My eyes widen, both in surprise and in reluctant admiration. If they dared enter the Black Woods, the human army has more courage than I’d believed.

West of Hardrock, deep in the Court of Stone, the Black Woods is the home to the untamed and shy folk who opted to remain on unseelie ground, rather than moving north, to the Wilderness. While few, they're the strongest—the wildest of us. They shoot intruders between the eyes first, and ask questions later. Or never.

"How?" Ciera asks, as startled as I.

Genrion Frost grimaces. "How do you think?"

Ciera's eyes narrow at him. His contempt might be directed toward the humans, but he's speaking to the queen. His pointed eartips redden. “There’s only one way. I think they burned it down, and used their explosives to get to a village."

While it’s no more than a guess, I know it to be true. There’s no other way to take the Black Woods.

How veryhuman.

Their contempt and indifference toward nature has rendered their once-beautiful land practically barren, hence their move toward the Alfheimr empire. I believed I couldn't detest them any more, but as usual, they've proved me wrong. The Black Woods was thousands of years old, some of its trees there for longer than any of us, and now they are probably ashes.

"The spy,” says Ciera, “reports that there are a hundred captives, and that Marren is among them.”

I know that name, but it takes me a while to place it. It's not the kind of name one expects to hear in conversation about living, breathing people.

Marren is a legend. A myth. One of the original travelers who'd moved from the Isle to Alfheimr, in order to leave the control of the overlord ruling us in the old continent. Mother sang some of her tales to me as a child. Some books say she is a wayward goddess, others say she's one of the very first fae to ever come into being. A mother to us all.

"TheMarren?" I echo, feeling left out and stupid, because none of the others seem astounded.

"She leads the elven tribes," Liken casually informs me. “We’ve dealt with her on occasion. She’s ruthless when provoked, but fair and caring. If they were attacked, I'm not surprised she surrendered to protect her people." His gaze cuts to the queen. “We need her for the war to come. If only for her healing powers.”

Ciera nods. She isn’t sharing the spy’s note, but she tells us, "They're being transported to Hardrock as we speak, where they'll be asked to bend the knee to the usurper. If they don't…" She doesn’t need to finish that sentence. The self-appointed queen is going to make an example out of the shy folk.

“Marren will never bow to a child playing queen," Genrion states. "She'll never bow to anyone. They'll kill her."

Ciera shakes her head. "They can't, can they? Marren is as old as time. She'll destroy them all."

Ina, silent until now, shakes her head. "Marren is old because she's wise and has never been one for war. She's no warrior. There's little she can do. That said, her elves are known for their ferocity. A hundred of them would make a difference among our ranks—their skills as archers could take a city. Once, we apprehended one of theirs for taking our spoils, and they practically seized my keep until we gave him back. They’re that strong.”

It has been too long since we've had an actual war—infighting between the courts, resolved at the point of a blade or with a challenge, is common enough, but other than the few who joined the army like me, none of the young folk had been trained for it. I may have spent the last ten years training those who want to improve, and they're stronger than any human, but none of that will be enough.

A hundred archers from the shy folk, who'd been given a bow the moment they could walk? That’s another story. If the legends were true, and they can shoot farther than I can see, we need them. The thought of their joining our ranks has me salivating.

Genrion Frost leans over the central table, pointing to the map. "The Black Woods’s western flank edges the Court of Mist. North, they bleed into the Murkwood, and east, the high court. It’s going to be too close to Hardrock for comfort.”

“Not if we move through the western flank,” Vlari says, suddenly a lot more interested than she seemed to be before.

I can feel her excitement, and I don’t think it has much to do with Marren or her folk, though I could be mistaken.

“Are the prisoners in the Court of Ichor now?” she asks.

Her mother nods.

“Well, to set out on the road to Hardrock, they'll take this path. The only path that can accommodate a hundred prisoners and a number of soldiers.” She follows a trail with the tip of her finger, curving north close to the Murkwood. “Once they reach the capital, we have no chance, but on the road…well. I say we stand a chance.”

Ina nods. “I’ll lead the rescue,” she offers. “Though they’ll never accept it, the shy folk are part of the Court of Ichor. They’re my people.”

No one argues.

“We know our kingdom more than the humans, for one. That said, we have no details about the number of soldiers we'll have to face as of yet. It’s a gamble, but it may be worth it."

A considerable gamble. To move a hundred elves, even bound, gagged, weaponless, and exhausted, the humans had to take five, ten times as many soldiers.

How many fae will we lose if things go wrong?

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