Sunlight on his face, birdsong in his ears, Valenthor fought against a wave of disorientation. He opened his eyes and stared futilely at a patch of cerulean sky ringed by tall treetops. In an attempt to shrug off sleep’s lingering hold, he rolled onto his side.
His dew-soaked clothes and the morning chill clung to his body. He shivered, then gasped, as he sat up. Memories of the elf’s magic, their flight from captivity, and the ensuing battle resurfaced with the sudden sting in his side.
Gritting his teeth, he pulled up his tunic and gently prodded the crusty red line that crossed three ribs. To his surprise, the pain was a mere echo of the previous night’s misery. The wound—caused by Sir Angus’s sword, he recalled—had closed hours ago. The bright red blood staining his fingers had faded to a dull brown overnight.
“You sleep like the dead,” said a muffled voice.
Valenthor flinched and winced again when the sudden movement pulled at the wound. Locke sat straight-backed against a looming oak several feet away. It was no wonder Valenthor hadn’t noticed him before. Locke’s brown cloak appeared to be an extension of the rough bark; his mask’s eyes, a pair of knotholes.
“I was dreaming,” Valenthor said as soon as the idea occurred to him. He thought for a moment, but the details of the dream evaporated. All except for one. “I think I was talking with my wife.”
“Your wife is dead,” Locke stated.
“What difference does it make?” Valenthor demanded, bracing himself against a fresh pain in his chest. “It was but a dream.”
Locke rose and walked over to him. He had the speed and grace of youth, but at the same time, his movements seemed carefully measured, belying a degree of discipline that came only with experience.
Valenthor reminded himself that the man defeated three armed knights with naught but a quarterstaff.
Looking down at him, Locke said, “The gods have been known to share their wisdom through dreams. Might you recall what your wife said?”
Although annoyed by the request—if the gods were real, he wanted nothing to do with them and their cruel ways—Valenthor tried to return to the scene in his mind. “I think…I think she was concerned for me. I assured her that I was safe and well.”
The same unsettling sound from yesterday reverberated against Locke’s mask. Valenthor decided it was surely a laugh.
“Then you lied to her,” Locke said. “The enemy passed quite near our camp at the break of dawn. Verily, our peril grows greater whilst we remain here.”
“You believe Sir Angus still searches for us?”
Locke’s nod was a slight dip of the mask. “That one is a slave of duty. Moreover, he seeks vengeance. Such men would sooner be separated from their manhood than their honor. However, the defenders of the realm are a lesser concern by far. They follow us by finding the natural signs of our passing, but the Jötunn possess other methods for tracking us.”
“The Jötunn?”
“Aye, it was giants, not men, who nearly discovered us,” Locke said. “If the gods smile upon us, our foes will find each other first…and the fewer from either side to survive that confrontation, the better!”
Valenthor considered Locke’s words, confusion furrowing a brow slick with sweat in spite of the late autumn air. “What do the giants want with us?”
“’Twas not happenstance the Jötunn were so near a human settlement at the time of your escape. Mayhap they had been following the elf whilst she ventured westward. Else, an agent amongst the townsfolk informed them of her presence, and they hastened to her.”
Valenthor glanced where the elf lay curled up on the ground, wrapped in the ill-fitting cloak. She had asked him to save her people from the forces of darkness—the Jötunn?
“Did she wake while I slept?” he asked Locke.
“No. Whatever incantation she performed to free you from the prison has taken a toll on her body and mind. I pray she stirs before the morrow. We cannot afford for her to hinder our pace when we set out once more.”
Valenthor spun around to face Locke. “Surely remaining here another day would be folly! We were lucky the giants missed us the first time. If they should return…”
Locke scoffed. “Nay, Valenthor, luck had nothing to do with it. Forsooth, the Fay are not the only ones with knowledge of the gods’ mysteries.”
Valenthor eyed the man warily. “You are a sorcerer?”
Scoff. “The she-elf demonstrated a mastery over the natural elements of this world. My talents are more subtle, a style more suited to stealth and secrecy.”
“Pray tell, what style is that?” Valenthor asked.
“Deception.”
“If he is not a spy, he has his own agenda…”
One of Locke’s hands shot out, and Valenthor flinched. Embarrassed, he accepted the proffered hand and braced against the pain in his side as Locke pulled him to his feet. From his new vantage, Valenthor noticed a complex symbol carved into the trunk of the tree Locke had been leaning against.
“The enchantment will protect us for a while longer,” Locke said. “During that time, you will regain your strength. I will obtain food, but you would do well to clean your wound. A small stream lies beyond that bend.”
Valenthor nodded. He found it difficult to look into the cavernous holes of Locke’s mask. Had the man been horribly scarred during a battle? Had he suffered a deformity since birth?
His eyes dropped from the smooth wood of the mask down to a pendant that served as a clasp for the cloak. The onyx disk was engraved with the silhouette of a wolf’s head encircled by a serpent eating its own tail, a discomforting image to be sure.
Valenthor turned away from his peculiar companion. “You are certain the Jötunn are pursuing the elf?”
“The giants hate all of the gods’ creations, but none more so than the elves,” Locke said. “Rarely do the Jötunn venture this far east. If they plan to lay siege to the lands of the Fay, then it is another sign the final prophecy shall soon be realized.”
The wind howled through the trees. Valenthor shivered. “Final prophecy?”
Scoff. “I have heard tell how the great Valenthor turned his back on the gods after they took his wife and daughter from him, but even those without faith know of the Last War…when men, elves, giants, and the gods themselves will meet on the battlefield one final time.”
“She…the elf…believes I am the Chosen One from a prophecy,” Valenthor said. “Do you?”
He half expected to hear that raspy laugh again, but when Locke spoke, his tone was unnervingly sincere. “If I did not, you would be dead.”
* * *
Locke’s words echoed in Vincent’s thoughts as he lay prostrate on a couch he didn’t recognize, staring up at a ceiling he’d never seen before.
He sat up slowly, expecting a flash of pain in his side. It didn’t come. Likewise, the moisture on his chin wasn’t dew.
Of course not! I’m not Valenthor. I’ve never been in a real fight, let alone killed anyone. Valenthor, the elf, that creepy Locke guy…they’re all an invention of my subconscious, whatever that says about me.
Alone, confused, Vincent took in the unfamiliar living room. He had woken up in some unusual places before he quit drinking, but usually the morning-after experience always included a splitting headache and nausea. He felt fine, except for his inability to remember where he had been before waking up as Valenthor with Locke and the elf in the clearing.
Self-consciously, he flipped the pillow drool-side-down and got up to take a look around. One thing was clear from the start. Whoever’s place it was didn’t hurt for money. All of the furniture looked new, and the flat-screen TV was about three-times the size of Jerry’s. The view outside the windows revealed he was on the second floor of a large apartment building. He didn’t recognize any of the cars in the parking lot or the adjacent houses.
Across the room, framed photographs hung on the wall. He was halfway to them when he crossed paths with a brown-and-black cat. The two of them stopped in their tracks, observing each other for several seconds, until Vincent conceded defeat in the staring contest and stepped around the animal.
The first picture was a portrait of a middle-aged couple in fancy clothes. The second one showed four women squeezed onto a couch, wearing what appeared to be genuine smiles. Vincent was just thinking of how much they all looked alike and that they could be sisters when he recognized the one on the end as Leah Chedid.
Their conversation at the Indian restaurant and then Bella’s phone call came back to him in a rush.
“Hello?” he called. “Leah?”
No answer. Feeling very much like an intruder—the ball of fluff was still eyeballing him—Vincent made his way around the apartment. The more ground he covered, the more anxious he felt. After checking the kitchen, a bedroom, and what turned out to be a closet, he came upon another door, one that was open slightly.
“Hello?” he said again, pushing the door timidly. “Is anybody…oh!”
Vincent tensed. Inside, someone stood in front of a bathroom sink. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to barge in.”
Leah didn’t respond. She grabbed a handful of hair, pulled it away from her head, and with her other hand, cut a crooked line through the long black strands with a scissors. The strange act, combined with her continued silence, made his skin crawl.
“Leah?” He almost whispered her name.
She combed her fingers through the hair on the back of her head, formed a fist near the ends, and pulled so hard that her head jerked back. Her other arm had to bend at an awkward angle in order to bring the scissors back to the taught fibers. Vincent flinched as the blades clipped the hair at a severe angle.
“Hey, what are you doing?”
As he hurried to the sink, he caught her reflection in the mirror. The first thing he noticed was the makeup smeared all over her face. The second was that, even as she reached for more hair, only the whites of her eyes could be seen beneath the half-closed lids.
What the hell is going on?
When she brought the scissors up for another pass, Vincent seized her by the wrist. She made a half-moaning, half-whining noise and pulled away from him. Her unrestricted hand yanked at her hair even harder.
“Stop that!” He took her other hand too, trying to get her to release the clump of hair and the scissors at the same time. She was stronger than he expected.
“…won’t know me like this…” she slurred.
“Leah, wake up!”
The hand that had been holding her hair went limp in his hand. At the same time, she pushed forward with the scissors. Vincent swore and quickly withdrew his hand as the blades whirred past him. Leah’s other hand popped back up again. The scissors went to cut the hair that wasn’t there and met her fingers instead.
She squealed but didn’t drop the scissors until he slapped it out of her hand. Her knees gave out, and he managed to slip an arm around her, slowing, if not stopping, her fall to the floor.
Leah started to fight him, swiping blindly at him. Vincent called her name over and over, shaking her as best he could while avoiding her attacks. When her bloody palm struck him in the chin, Vincent slapped her back.
Her eyes opened, and for a moment she didn’t move.
“Leah, you were…sleeping, I think. You cut yourself.”
She regarded him groggily. Then the pain in her hand must have kicked in. She shot upright, gaped wide-eyed at the trail of red running down her arm, and gasped.
Vincent stayed sitting on the floor. As Leah rinsed hair and blood from her hand, he tried to make sense of what had just happened. He knew he was awake, but somehow the struggle seemed more like a dream than anything that had happened to Valenthor.
Leah screamed.
His body reacted to the startling sound by jumpstarting his heart and pumping his limbs full of adrenaline. But all his weary mind could conjure up was now what?
Leah gazed, horrified, into the mirror. The fingers of her uninjured hand trembled as they picked through the uneven strands of hair. Then she bowed her head and closed her raccoon-like eyes.
Vincent, paradoxically tense and numb, watched inky tears flow down her cheeks.