AllFreeNovel
Share Us
A tremble shook his hand, but he clenched his fists tighter. He could not allow himself to break. Not yet.
Weylind spun, giving orders to the warrior in charge, before he and Farrendel headed to the stand of trees where they had left their horses. Farrendel did not envy the warriors left behind, who would have the task of burying the dead, then returning to their patrol along the border.
It was a short ride on horseback to the nearest train station where they had left the royal train. Farrendel climbed into his private car, locking the door behind him.
Only now could he break. His hands shook as he dashed to the shower in the water closet. Turning on the water as hot as the train’s water system could produce, he stood under the shower’s spray, blood-spattered clothes and all, and let it wash off the blood.
So much blood. In his clothes. On his skin. Clumped in the long strands of his silver-blond hair. He scrubbed and scrubbed. First his clothes, then his skin, until his skin shone red and raw. And still he could not feel clean.
Blood. Death. He could still taste it. Smell it.
His stomach churned, and he had to brace himself against the wall, heaving deep breaths as he struggled not to vomit.
He hated war. Hated death.
He could not do this much longer. He was so tired. Everything in him was broken.
What choice did he have? He could not allow Tarenhiel to fall. His brother needed him to fight, and he could not refuse, knowing Weylind had a greater chance of dying on the battlefield if he did. With his destructive magic and his illegitimate birth, it was not as if Farrendel was good for anything besides fighting and killing.
This was his life. Fight. Kill. And, eventually, die.
* * *
Pain stabbed beneath his skin.He lay flat on his back, each breath constricted against the stone binding him to the floor. Darkness crept through him, capturing him in a painful haze between unconsciousness and wakefulness.
A hand touched his shoulder. He screamed at the agony and tried to thrash away. They were back. More torture. More pain.
“Farrendel, sason.”
His father’s voice. He struggled toward it. Toward the first gentle hand he had felt in far too many days. How long had it been? He did not know.
He blinked. A form knelt over him. His father’s long black hair blurred with the darkness surrounding them. His drawn face sharpened above Farrendel, and it took all of Farrendel’s strength to force out a single word. “Dacha.”
“I need you to be brave for a while longer, sason.” His father’s hand tightened on Farrendel’s shoulder.
An elf warrior joined Dacha, carrying a chisel and hammer. Each blow, each swing at the rock binding him, tore through his skin, his bones.
But he could not scream. It would bring the trolls running.
Tears streamed down his face. His father’s eyes shimmered wet in the torchlight even as he held Farrendel down.
When his father lifted him from the floor, Farrendel had to press his face into his father’s shoulder to stifle a scream. His head pounded. Stone burned beneath his skin.
Light seared his eyes as his father stepped from the cave. A battle raged around them. One of the elven warriors surrounding them staggered and fell, an arrow in his back.
Farrendel tried to dredge up his magic, whimpering with pain at the attempt. Too much stone and troll magic beneath his skin.
Across the battlefield, Weylind led a charge, a wedge of warriors sweeping in his wake.
His father took a step. Toward Weylind and safety.
Then there was a horrible thunking sound. A choking gasp. His father dropped to his knees, his grip slackening on Farrendel.
“Dacha!” Farrendel gripped his father in shaking arms. An arrow stuck from his father’s back. The light in his father’s eyes was fading, his breaths gasping and blood-filled. He shouted for help. Tried to dredge up enough magic to stop the gathering trolls. Pain flared through his body, until the darkness threatened to drag him under again even as his father gasped out his final words.
“Never forget you are my son.”
Farrendel bolted upright, heart pounding, gasping for breath. The taste of blood still coated his tongue, even though he had washed several times since the battle. Or perhaps it was the blood and torture of that night fifteen years ago haunting his nightmares still.
