Maysant watched in horror as the elves followed her mother’s orders to march back to the shore and leave Doros for Gailwyn.
“I don’t understand,” she said to Gashta.
Behind them, the orcs were fighting the strange army that had invaded from Agitar. In front of them, her people, who had come here to help the orcs, were abandoning them in their greatest time of need.
“I’m going to speak to my mother,” Maysant said to Gashta—the orc she wished she could call a friend. They had formed an uneasy truce over the last few days. It was more than Maysant could have hoped for, especially since Gashta’s sister, Nishta, really seemed to hate her. “Do what you need to do.”
With a nod, Gashta turned her back on Maysant and took off for the battle fray, her sword raised and a war cry bellowing from her lips.
Maysant made her way through the throngs of departing elves toward her mother’s tent. The flag flew high while her servants took down the tent. Her mother was already mounted upon her white horse, sitting proudly with her back straight and her chin up.
“How can you do this?” Maysant said, without bothering to greet her mother in the typical fashion. At the moment, Maysant cared little for tradition. “You came here to help, and now you’re leaving?”
Her mother looked down her nose at her daughter. “We tried to help, but the orcs would not accept our ministrations. We tried to heal their sick, but they would not do as we said. We tried to protect them with the barrier, but they would not leave it up. They repeatedly rejected our offers of help. Why should our elves die helping a race so haughty?”
“Haughty?” Maysant spat the word back at her mother. “You think the orcs are being haughty? They are fighting for their very lives while you look down on them. We need to stay. We need to fight!”
“I will not allow any of my elves to die in the name of this ridiculous battle between orcs. If they wanted our help, they would have accepted it when it was so generously offered. Let them kill each other. I have no more use for this place.” Queen Ambrielle waved a hand in the air as if she were swatting away a gnat.
Tears fought to burst from Maysant’s eyes, but she gritted her teeth and held them back. She wouldn’t turn and run away. She was ashamed of the elves, ashamed of her mother.
She stood her ground. “I won’t go with you. I’m going to stay and help as best as I can.”
Her mother shaded her eyes with her hand, looking over Maysant at the battle raging in the background. Then she looked down at her only daughter again. “It’s just as well. I have no need of you in Gailwyn.” She pressed her heels into her horse’s haunches and took off at a trot to the west.
Maysant’s jaw dropped. She’d expected an argument, a blow-up greater than any they’d ever had. But this… this she hadn’t expected.
“Maysant!”
She whirled around. Her brother, Kazrack, stood nearby, his hands gripping the reins of a horse.
“What?” she snarled at him. He probably wanted to get a word in, too.
Kazrack looked down at the tips of his boots. “I’m staying, too.”
Maysant rubbed her ears. “Excuse me?”
“I said I’m staying, too. Our mother is running scared.” Kazrack slowly looked up at his sister again.
Tilting her head to the side, Maysant studied him. This was the last thing she’d expected to hear from her pompous brother. “Why?” She had to know it was for the right reasons. Kazrack had already tried to take the throne in Agitar once. If he still harbored fantasies of grandeur, Maysant needed to know. She would fight with the orcs, for the orcs. Not for herself.
“I’m starting to see things a bit differently,” Kazrack said. “Perhaps Mother isn’t the magnificent leader I once thought she was.” He ran his fingers through his white mane. He looked a bit disheveled, which was very uncharacteristic. He took more pride in his appearance than anyone Maysant knew.
Maysant held out her hand. “Then come with me. We’ll fight beside the orcs.”
“I’m not sure I’m the fighting type,” Kazrack said. “Is there something else I can do?”
Maysant resisted rolling her eyes. Her brother was changing, but it was going to be a slow process. “Maybe you can help the injured?”
“Blood?” Kazrack shrank back. “I don’t think so.”
“Then stay out of the way. I’ll find something for you when the fighting is over. I don’t have time to waste when I could be out there helping.” Maysant patted her brother on the shoulder. “I’m proud of you. I’ll see you soon.”
Before Kazrack could answer, she took off toward the battle.
As she approached the battle fray, Maysant drew her bow and nocked an arrow. She let it fly, and tracked its flight path with her sharp eyes until it landed directly in the chest of one of the infected orcs.
The orc flailed, her arms and legs jerking spasmodically, and pulled the arrow out of her chest. She threw the arrow to the ground and looked around, furious, for the source of the missile. Her eyes settled on Maysant. With a howl from Maysant’s worst nightmares, the orc charged toward her.
With a steady hand, Maysant pulled another arrow and shot the orc in the shoulder. Despite the wound, the orc kept moving toward her with renewed focus. Maysant shot another arrow, and then another.
The orc still didn’t stop coming.
Maysant backed up, then tripped and fell to the ground. She scrambled back to a standing position, but her feet got tangled up in the bowstring, and it snapped. Maysant grabbed one of her arrows instead. She held it tight in her hand like a dagger, ready to defend herself when the orc got closer.
And she knew it would. The orc was unwilling to give up, despite the arrows sticking out of her body. Maysant had hit the orc’s heart, or damn close, and still the orc wasn’t affected. There was something in the air that day, giving the orcs a boldness she’d never witnessed in any of the infected in the encampment. These orcs were different, made more resilient somehow by evil magic.
Maysant’s heart pounded. This was it. Even on a good day, she couldn’t overpower an orc. They were naturally bigger and stronger. She was only a wisp of a thing. All she had were her arrows, which the orc could snap with its bare hands. And no one would help her. They were all too busy fighting for their own lives. Hers was no more precious than theirs. She respected that, honored it, and prepared for whatever hand fate dealt her.
She thought of all the things she’d done wrong since leaving her homeland—and tried to forgive herself. Even a mote of forgiveness would help her on the journey to a peaceful afterlife. Tears began to stream down her cheeks.
As the orc approached, Maysant could smell the stench of rot emanating from its decaying body. Bile rose in the back of her throat and threatened to spew forth. Maysant swallowed hard, forcing herself to face the orc bravely in her final moments.
The orc loomed over her, reaching out with her pocked arms, green fingers grasping. Maysant closed her eyes and held an arm over her face. She couldn’t bear it any longer. She surrendered to whatever was about to happen.
She heard the orc make a strangled noise, probably preparing to bite her, and then a thump.
Maysant peeked out from behind her arms, afraid to see its snarling teeth in her face. But instead, the orc lay on the ground, its head bashed in.
A dark, hulking shadow covered the orc’s body. Maysant followed it to its source.
Ghrol.
“Msent safe.” Ghrol looked at her, his eyes sad.
“Oh, Ghrol!” Maysant leapt to her feet and threw herself into his beefy arms. “I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry for what I said to you before. I regretted it immediately, but then you were gone, and I couldn’t tell you. I’ve missed you so much! I’m so happy you’re okay!”
“Msent frnd.” Ghrol rested his chin on her head and hugged her back.
Maysant pulled out of the embrace. “Yes, we are friends, the dearest of friends. Now, tell me, do you want to fight alongside me and help the orcs?”
Ghrol’s eyes narrowed as he looked over the battle waging on the prairie. “Bad orcs. Ghrol kill.”
“That’s right, Ghrol,” Maysant said. “Just the bad ones, okay? If you aren’t sure, ask me.”
Ghrol smiled, drool forming at the corners of his lips. Then he took off into the fray, destroying infected orcs right and left with his impressively strong arms.
Maysant grabbed her bow and restrung it with extra sinew she kept in her quiver. Within moments, she was lobbing arrows at infected orcs, making Ghrol’s job easier. Hope swelled in her chest as she convinced herself she and Ghrol could single-handedly turn the tide of battle.