I’d imagined this moment a hundred times while I was in the mines. He was enormous, six foot five and built like a warrior—but I had stealth on my side. Whatever advantages Galin might have in strength I could easily counter with speed and agility.
It wasn’t a guaranteed win. But I had a shot, and a shot was all I needed to redeem myself.
In the distance, King Gorm screamed at Thyra, something about “the bitch’s head.” He was so angry I could see his white cloak shaking from here. His words echoed, then faded into silence. The air fell still. For the briefest of moments, a hush fell over the battlefield. Only snowflakes moved, sparkling in the long rays of the setting sun, rosy in the light.
Then, with a howling battle cry, the High Elves charged.
A painter would call this time of day the golden hour, when the light glowed like honey. It glinted off the armor of the High Elves, off the steel blades of their swords, off the churning snow at their feet.
“Hold,” I whispered under my breath to Bo and the other Night Elves hidden beside me. “Hold.”
The High Elves sprinted, racing closer and closer to the Night Elves. All eyes were fixed on Thyra. She stood stiff as a statue, her arm held straight up, the tiny dagger glinting in her wizened fist.
The plan was simple. When Thyra lowered the blade, the Night Elves would raise their spears. Bo and I had spent the night hiding them in the snow, and they were ready to kill High Elves. If we got the timing just right, Gorm and the High Elves would be unable to stop in time. Their momentum would cause them to literally impale themselves.
The High Elves were halfway across the field now. A white miasma of snow billowed around them. A few more seconds and the trap would be set.
“Hold,” I whispered.
Then, with a crack like a thunderclap, an inky circle appeared at the edge of the Common.
The High Elves slowed. I could see the confusion spreading through their ranks as the circle expanded, growing larger. Even from my distant vantage point, I knew what it was. A portal.
What in Hel was going on? Whatever it was, it had completely fucked up my concentration. And that was not ideal.
A figure charged from it. He had black hair, wore silver bracers on his arms, and was waving a flag above his head, shouting. Behind him, more figures emerged. All of them had hair as black as ravens’ wings, eyes green as emeralds.
The Vanir. What the fuck were they doing here?
The High Elves slowed their charge, then stopped. Even Thyra turned to look. All eyes were on the new arrivals, probably wondering what was going on.
A new voice cut through the winter air: “We demand to participate in the Winnowing!” one of the Vanir shouted. He wore finer clothes, and a hawk was perched on his shoulder. If I had to guess, I would say he was their new leader, considering the Emperor was dead.
For a long beat, no one spoke.
“Who the Hel are you?” Gorm finally bellowed, breaking the silence.
“We are sons of Freyja, elves of golden plains and purple mountains. You may know us as the Vanir.”
“You were not invited—”
“Do you deny the laws of Elfheim?” the Vanir leader interrupted. “Is it not true that any tribe declaring an ongoing conflict may participate, and select three hundred fighters? We have harbored resentments against the Night Elves and High Elves since Ragnarok. We demand a chance to prove ourselves, to conquer through a Winnowing.”
Gorm stared at them. Even Thyra looked confused. Why would they want to be part of this? It made no sense.
“We only wish to add our blood to the battlefield,” said the leader of the Vanir. “So that we may also have a chance at supremacy over our foes.”
“No—” Gorm began, but the Vanir leader ignored him, turning instead to Thyra.
“Night Elves, do you recognize our right to fight in this melee?”
“Technically, yes,” said Thyra slowly. “You are correct. Since the dawn of time, all tribes of elves have been allowed to fight in Winnowings.”
“Then it is decided by a majority,” the Vanir leader said. “As is our right and privilege, we will join this battle. We will spill our blood on this frozen land, help slay the weak and feeble.”
Gorm took a hesitant step back, towards the line of High Elves.
By this point, the Vanir had formed into a third line, perpendicular to the lines of Night and High Elves. This was a battle formation that I hadn’t anticipated, and that likely no one else had, since it made no fucking sense whatsoever.
I swallowed hard. Muscular and strong, the Vanir warriors wore silver bracers, had steel plates sewn into their shirts, and held curving sabers. They were ready for battle.
Their leader looked to the elves atop the roof of the carousel, then spoke in a booming voice. “The total is now nine hundred. Stop the melee when four hundred and fifty remain.” Then, the Vanir leader drew his saber with a shout and charged forward. “Brothers, let us show them no mercy!”
Chapter 12
Galin
My chest heaved. Sweat stung my eyes, and blood pounded in my ears. At the moment, it was hard to remember a time when this had sent a thrill through my body, when battle felt like it all had meaning. When death had served a greater purpose and the gods imbued us all with glory.
With my soul back, I felt the loss of the gods, a world devoid of meaning without them. When they’d died, I had, too. Having come into my living body once more, the loss was fresh to me now, a sharp blade in my heart.
With each movement on the battlefield, I felt that loss gnawing in my chest, eating at me. The only bright spark in this world of darkness was Ali.
I had no idea how long I’d been fighting, and I was only fighting defensively. I didn’t want to kill Night Elves, just to stay alive and to protect Ali.
Still, my arms ached from slashing, stabbing, and parrying. I’d killed, and would continue to kill until either I fell or I found Ali. And yet, as much as I scanned the elves around me, I didn’t see a single sign of her.
All around me, blades clashed, steel scraped against armor. Elves grunted with exhaustion and pain. The cries of the dying mixed with the shouts of the living. The mass of battling elves surged in random directions, driven only by each elf’s desperate fight for survival.
As I stepped over a body, steel flashed in my peripheral vision, catching my attention just in time. I parried, my blade carving through the attacker’s neck. Another one dead, and my sword gleamed scarlet.
Something slammed into my helmet, and my vision flashed white. I faltered. My visor was smashed, stuck, and I couldn’t see. I couldn’t see.
The fucking Helm of Awe didn’t help the situation.
With a snarl, I ripped off my helmet. My blade dripped with fresh blood as I breathed in the frigid air. An elf nearby took a spear in the neck, and warm droplets sprayed the side of my face. All around me, elves fought, bled, and died. And I knew only one thing with certainty.
We were losing.
Without the gods, without purpose, perhaps I wasn’t the secret weapon they’d imagined.
Five minutes earlier, the Vanir had slammed into our right flank. They were clearly more interested in killing us than in slaughtering the Night Elves. Now, we faced two enemies, not one.
Unencumbered by plate armor, the Vanir leapt and spun, dervishes with razor-sharp sabers. I’d seen five High Elves fall in the first ten seconds alone. I killed the Vanir one by one, whirling and cutting them down, but my heart wasn’t in it. Not like it used to be.