Page 55 of Light and Shadow
It’s been a long time since I studied the old language, but I cobble together a phrase telling them to abandon the ship and leave and no one will be harmed.
Tension hangs in the warm air.
Harper grabs the back of my arm. Her hand trembles. “I wish there was a way to cast the darkness from them.”
Someone walks the ramp from the deck toward me.
When he reaches land, I raise my palm. “Hold.”
His English is guttered and rough. “She queen. Her ship.” He slaps his palm against his chest. Crouching in a battle-ready pose, he growls.
Hunched and hissing like animals, dozens jump to land from the ship. With their cheeks sunken and hollow, they barely look elven. Long hair in every color hangs loose around their shoulders in filthy dreads. With empty hungry eyes and rotting teeth, they are barely alive.
“Damn.” My heart sinks, but there’s little choice. I raise my sword and wait for the first one to attack.
Harper releases my arm, but instead of stepping back out of danger, she runs past our lines. She raises her arms, rainbows of light shoot from her fingers into the sky, and screams at the top of her lungs, “No!”
The Aracan stop and stare. Their tattered clothes cling to underfed hunched bodies.
“No one has to die today. You can leave. You can go home or make a home. Venora is poison, she will discard you when she thinks you are no longer useful.” Harper might be the bravest person I’ve ever known. She has no weapons, save the dagger I gave her, and it is still tucked in a sheath at her waist. She has no training or diplomatic skills. Yet, here she stands, face-to-face with forty or more enemy soldiers, begging them to stand down.
I tuck in next to her, the hum of her magic almost as addictive to me as the woman herself. “I don’t think they understand.”
“Then tell them.” Desperation makes her voice sharp.
I translate her words into old elven.
“Queen!” A roar rises from the Aracan. “Queen! Queen!”
Harper thrusts her hands forward, and the rainbow light floods across the witch queen’s followers. It highlights their barely living state.
Some scream, as if in pain.
A few rush at Jax and his flanking forces.
Raising his rusty sword, his face full or horror, their leader rushes toward us.
I step in front of Harper, my sword held horizontally ready to block an attack.
The color drains from the Aracan elf’s face, exposing his pocked flesh. His eyes shine with terror, and he throws himself on my sword, effectively slicing himself in half. Blood splatters and he collapses on the dock.
The rest of the forty or so stare blankly for a moment before running into the darkness beyond the port.
I dislodge my sword from the Aracan. My gut twists. Five more lie dead in front of Jax, Beran, and the others.
“Why would he do that? Did he fear Venora more than death?” Harper kneels and closes his gaping eyes.
“Maybe. I don’t know.” I wish I could ease her sorrow, but there is nothing I can say.
“He’s nothing but skin and bones. Doesn’t she feed her disciples?” Harper’s eyes flash with anger.
Cara steps forward, and taking Harper’s hand, urges her from the ground. She pats her cheek.
Dorian says, “Her tolerance for the physical needs of others is very low. However, perhaps she thinks the supply of willing bodies is endless. She once thought she could win this war with only shadow demons. When she realized they couldn’t do labor, she enslaved elves. She stole the lesser elves from the southern continent and Arcania. They may be easier to influence.”
Jax wipes his sword on the clothes of one of the dead. “We barely drew our weapons. It was more suicide than battle. What kind of magic do you wield, human?”
“I only wished for them to be removed from Venora’s power.” She steps back from Jax, who storms closer.
