65

Encamped

Wendy

This was not going as I had planned.

Finn had come to me three days ago about the Älvolk threat, and I had prepared my army accordingly. I had hurried to get here, hoping if we arrived in Áibmoráigi soon enough, I could meet with the Älvolk leaders, and this could end in diplomacy instead of war.

I had dressed for that occasion—an emerald military-style jacket with brass and jeweled buttons paired with pleated culottes—but my hopes for mediation left me feeling foolish as I ran across the battlefield. Yet I didn’t let that slow me down.

I gave out orders as I moved, directing my guards and aides to get the base camp set up. We had a main camp at the mountain summit, but that would be too far and too treacherous a journey for our wounded. With a dragon lighting the First City on fire, injuries were a certainty.

In my nine-year reign as Queen of the Trylle, I had unfortunately seen my kingdom through two wars. I had personally fought and killed in battle. But as I watched my friends and allies clash under the green fog of dragon breath, the ground already bloody and burning, I had never seen anything lay siege so quickly.

It would kill us all if we didn’t find a way to stop it.

“Wendy!” Loki, my husband the King, called for me.

He was behind me, helping to hurriedly erect tents. The tarps were made of tanned Tralla hides, imbued with cloaking and protection, which the enchanters thought would help them withstand fire and minor assaults.

I turned back to see him discarding his jacket and taking up a sledgehammer, presumably to pound the tent stakes into the ground. His hair was damp with sweat despite the chill in the air, and his dark honey-colored eyes were wide with worry.

“If you must stay on this damned mountain, will you at least go inside the shelter?” He motioned to the tent. “You can’t command if you’re burnt to a crisp.”

He had a point, so I told him to stay safe, and I went into the tent to see that the others were already getting a makeshift medical station set up. Patrik Boden—the Markis Ansvarig I had spoken with many times when the Älvolk had held Finn’s foster daughter captive—seemed to be heading up the effort, along with a few Trylle healers.

But wounded were already coming. Someone pulled in a Skojare soldier, his body half burnt and bloodied, crying out in pain. One of the Omte that joined my volunteer army—a lovely young woman with dark auburn hair and peach-colored scrubs—dropped to her knees beside him and immediately went to work.

“What do you need?” I asked, since all the other available hands were busy constructing the medical tent and base camp.

“Gloves and gauze to start,” she said. When she glanced up at me, her eyes widened in surprise. “You’re the Queen.”

“And you’re the medical professional,” I said. “Tell me what you need.”

“Gauze, scissors, and disinfectant swabs,” she said, and her focus immediately went back to the patient.

I ran over to the trunks of equipment—helpfully labeled and carried up the mountainside by Vittra hobgoblins—and quickly gathered what she needed. When I returned, she’d moved the patient onto a cot and was injecting him with a painkiller in his unburnt arm.

“Thank you, Your Majesty,” she said as she pulled on the gloves I had brought her.

“Call me Wendy,” I said, and I slid on my own pair of gloves so I could assist her.

“I’m Rikky,” she replied with a quick smile. “Rikky Dysta.”

“Nice to meet you,” I said, and went to work helping her.

We got the soldier stabilized—as much as we could given the situation—and the sounds of the battle raged on outside. Swords clashing, fires crackling, monsters roaring, and trolls screaming . . . mostly screaming.

Two more injured were brought in, and Rikky enlisted a healer and Patrik to start doing triage.

Across the canvas covering the tent, a pattering sound trickled above us, and the sound reminded me of hail. The canvas rippled, and I heard a girl scream right outside the front flaps.

I ran out and saw that a pack of spiders the size of fat house cats were on the tent, descending on a teenager. Two of them launched themselves at her—one clung to her leg while she tried to pull another smaller one off her arm.

I focused my energy at them—when I was angry or frightened I had the ability to harness it and direct it at other living things. In other trolls, it caused a pain inside their head, short but intense, like they were being slapped.

In the spiders, apparently, it had a much more aggressive effect. Because all at once, the spiders exploded—their thick abdomens bursting with gooey innards. The girl lifted her arm over her face, but she couldn’t hide from the gooey lemon-lime splatter. And then she just stood there, screaming.

“Hey.” I took her shoulders, and she finally stopped. Soot and ash clung to her long brown hair, and blood—red and green—was smudged across her cheek, and I realized she was only a few years older than my son, Oliver. “What’s your name?”

She stared blankly forward and blinked slowly. “M-Minnie.”

“Minnie, you’re okay.” I wiped the blood off her face. “You’re going to be okay.”

Nearby, I heard my husband yelling. I couldn’t see him—I thought he’d been out here, securing the tent, but his voice sounded like it was coming from around a crumbling tower nearby.

“Go inside,” I told Minnie, and let go of her. “They’ll make sure you’ll be fine.”

She nodded and started toward the tent, and I turned and took a step toward where I heard Loki shouting, “Fall back! Fall back before they eat you alive!”

And then he rounded the tower. Thrown over one shoulder, he carried a limp body in a Trylle uniform, and he had his other arm around a Kanin soldier with a bloody stump for a right leg. Thanks to Loki’s preternatural Vittra strength, he carried them easily.

“Get back, Wendy!” he yelled as he hurried toward me. “There’s a lot more coming.”