Ruined King (Night Elves Trilogy Book 2)

by C. N. Crawford

  Ali

  The guards led us into the yard and lined us up in front of an old gallows. It was a massive wooden scaffold with enough room for five nooses. I shivered at the sight of it.

  “Maybe they’re going to hang someone,” whispered Hulda excitedly.

  “You are far too enthusiastic about that prospect.” I was trying to ignore her, but my stomach clenched anyway. I’d assaulted a guard. If anyone was going to be executed, it would likely be me.

  The gallows were ancient. With no access to the sun, trees couldn’t grow in the Shadow Caverns. This meant that anything made of wood had to have been built before Ragnarok—a thousand years ago, when my people had lived free under the sun and the stars.

  Around us, prisoners whispered, and eventually, a guard yelled, “Quiet!”

  Silence descended as the warden ascended the steps of the scaffold, flanked by a pair of guards holding iron batons. The warden was a thin elf with close-cropped silver hair and a narrow nose.

  He stepped to the edge of the scaffold and held out his hands. “Prisoners, you have been brought here for an important announcement.”

  Then, he stepped back and crossed his arms across his chest. Ten seconds, thirty, a minute passed. He didn’t speak again.

  “What’s going on?” whispered Hulda.

  I shook my head. “No idea.”

  The warden leaned over and spoke quietly in one of the guards’ ears. The man shrugged. I was starting to get the impression that no one knew what was happening.

  “Tell us where you got that ugly face!” shouted a prisoner near the end of the line.

  The pair of guards spun in the direction of the voice.

  “Who said that?” demanded the warden.

  There was no response. We prisoners might be bold, but we weren’t stupid.

  The warden and his guards stood there for another minute, and I stared at the gallows, trying not to imagine what it would feel like to die there.

  Another shout rang in the darkness: “Cat got your tongue, warden?”

  Before the warden could answer, the air behind him began to shimmer with dark magic that had an oily sheen, and my breath caught at the sight. With an electric crackle, the magic rapidly expanded. For a long moment, it hung there like a tiny black hole until a robed figure stepped through.

  Instinctively, I whispered, “Skalei,” under my breath, but of course, my blade didn’t appear.

  Around me, prisoners gasped. Hulda’s mouth fell open. Even the warden, who must have known this was going to happen, looked surprised. This type of powerful magic was reserved for the upper echelons of Night Elf society. Most Night Elves had never even seen a spell performed.

  The robed figure stepped to the edge of the scaffold, pulling back their cowl of thick, gray fabric. I recognized Thyra, one of the three Shadow Lords. Slung over her shoulder was a matching gray satchel. She looked even more stooped and aged than she had a few weeks ago.

  “Prisoners of the Audr Mines,” said Thyra in a surprisingly clear voice. “I have an important announcement that affects us all, from the Shadow Caverns all the way down to the prisoners in the blackest tunnels. We have negotiated an armistice with the High Elves. For the next month, there will be no hostilities.”

  My heart leapt as a low cheer erupted from the line of prisoners. This was exceptional news, even if it didn’t do much to help us personally. Our families would be safe. In the thousand years of our confinement under the earth, the High Elves had never stopped trying to ruin us. If they’d agreed to a truce, it was a potentially giant breakthrough.

  Or, as I quickly started to suspect, a trick.

  A suspicion that Thyra immediately confirmed. “However, the High Elves have called for a Winnowing.”

  At these words, gasps arose. It had been a thousand years since the last Winnowing.

  “And you agreed to this?” the warden blurted out, his nostrils flaring with fear.

  Thyra’s tone was grave. “Something drastic must be done to change our circumstances. This year, our mushrooms are blighted. It’s not only prisoners who are starving. We are all starving. Your families have no food. The great High Elf sorcerer Galin has returned. His magic is already strengthening the wall. This is our only chance to free ourselves. This is our only chance, and I mean our only chance, to survive.”

  “What has this to do with us? The prisoners are weak. If there is to be a Winnowing, you must send our best fighters. Not these wretches!” The warden was practically yelling at Thyra. If he wasn’t careful, it would be his corpse swinging from the beam of oak above his head.

  Thyra ignored him. “The terms of the armistice are that all elves are to be subject to the Winnowing. Trust me when I tell you I don’t want to send convicts and prisoners to the tournament that will define the fate of our people, but that is what we agreed on.”

  “I don’t understand!” the warden nearly shouted. “The purpose of a Winnowing is to kill off the weakest of us. To strengthen our bloodlines. What does it have to do with the war?”

  For the first time, Thyra smiled, silver eyes gleaming. “We have agreed on a new set of terms, warden. The tribe with the most remaining elves will rule over the others. If we win, the war is over. The High Elves will become our subjects.”

  A massive cheer rose from the ranks of prisoners, but the warden was having none of it. “Not to put a damper on the fun, but if the High Elves beat us, then we are to be exterminated, I assume?”

  Thyra flashed him a sharp look. “Yes, but if we win, we will have dominion over them. We will be able to escape the confines of this prison.”

  “It must be a trap. King Gorm would never agree to this.” I had to give the warden credit; he wasn’t stupid.

  Thyra glared at him. “What other choice do we have? Our people are starving. They can’t eat rocks, and we have nothing else. We will have to win by our wits.”

  “Sorry, what exactly is a Winnowing?” asked a younger guard.

  “Good question.” Thyra paused to gather herself. “In the time before Ragnarok, elves held Winnowings to end conflicts between warring factions. Without them, wars could go on for hundreds of years. Back then, we selected the strongest among us. A Winnowing is a grand tournament of death. Three hundred from each tribe fight in a series of contests. Each tribe gets to choose a contest, and the tribe with the most elves alive at the end is the winner. Many die, yes, but not as many as would die from a thousand years of starvation.”

  My mind whirled. A Winnowing. An opportunity to free the Night Elves from the Shadow Caverns. A chance to kill High Elves, to gain supremacy over them. I was all in. One hundred percent. We’d have to kill Galin first, though, and I knew it would not be easy.

  I raised my hand. “I volunteer!”

  Thyra held up her hand, shaking her head solemnly. “If we allowed volunteers, we’d be slaughtered. The High Elves have a brutal and well-trained army. Ours is”—she spoke carefully—“less efficient. We negotiated that all fighters would be randomly chosen from all levels of elf society. That’s why even convicts will fight in the tournament. This is why I am here.”

  “And how, exactly, do you intend to choose the contestants?” the warden growled.

  “Every able-bodied elf receives a lot. If your lot is marked, you must fight.”

  “And if we decline?”

  “You’ll be executed,” said Thyra, looking pointedly at the row of nooses.

  My hands clenched into fists, my shoulders freezing in a rigid line, it was taking all my will power to stay in line. I had to be part of this. It was the perfect chance to redeem myself, to become the North Star that Mom had always thought I’d be.

  What if this was my destiny?

  “I must be part of this!” I shouted.

  “Quiet!” shouted the warden. The ends of the guards’ iron batons pointed in my direction. “The next inmate who speaks out of turn will get double shifts for a week.”

  I bit my tongue. Double shifts were a deat
h sentence.

  Thyra appeared unfazed by the warden’s outburst as she continued, “I have brought lots for everyone in the mines.” She pointed to the gray satchel at her feet and spoke to the warden. “Distribute the contents to the inmates, but they are not to open them until I give the word.”

  The warden bowed deeply as he collected the satchel. Quickly, he passed it to the nearest guard. “You heard the Lord. Distribute these among the inmates. Then take some for yourselves. No one opens their lot until she says so.”

  The guard leapt from the scaffold, then hurried to the far end of the row of prisoners. Slowly, he walked down the line of inmates. When he reached me, he handed me a small piece of parchment sealed with a blot of black wax.

  He moved on to Hulda, then farther along the line of prisoners, as the warden and Thyra watched mutely. When the guard was done, he hurried back to the scaffold.

  I stared at the parchment in my hand, which was now the singular focus of my existence. This was my chance at freedom, at redemption. And perhaps revenge for Galin’s betrayal. This was my destiny. It took every fiber of my being not to rip it open then and there.

  Finally, Thyra spoke. “You may open your lots.”

  I tore open my paper. I forgot to breathe. My stomach became a bottomless void.

  But the page before me was a faded beige, entirely devoid of markings. I had not been chosen. Fate had not worked in my favor.

  And you know what? Fuck fate.

  Anger rose in my chest. My hand shook. Fate or not, I had to be at the Winnowing.

  Next to me, Hulda whispered, her voice trembling with fear, “What color is yours?”

  I stared at my paper, disappointment searing me. “White.”

  Slowly, Hulda turned her parchment toward me. Inside was a smear of clotted blood. Fate had chosen this idiot.

  Fate was obviously wrong—because someone like Hulda would not save us.

  What happened next wasn’t so much a plan as a primal instinct; a series of steps that would get me what I wanted. What I needed. A chance to redeem myself, and to save my people. A chance to keep Barthol safe, and every other Night Elf. This Winnowing needed real warriors, and I was as good as it got down here.

  Quickly, I stole a glance at the scaffold. The warden was speaking to Thyra. The guards were inspecting their papers. No one was looking in my direction. Time to put my assassin skills to use.

  I spun, lashing my arm like a bullwhip. My fist hit Hulda in the throat.

  “Mmgghhh—” She fell, clutching her neck. Her lot fluttered above her like a vermilion butterfly.

  I snatched it, crushing it in my fist.

  And that is how I deal with fate.

  Then, I dropped my unmarked lot onto her quivering form.

  My heart rejoiced. I knew then that I would have my revenge. I was one step closer to killing Galin, to becoming the North Star. Even if fate wasn’t on my side, I would write my own.

  Chapter 6

  Galin

  I sat at my desk with a fresh piece of parchment spread out before me. As I raised my hand to write, I felt my fingers cramping. My mind was a knot of twisting emotions. Rage, regret—and, worst of all, a sense that I was losing control. That maybe my vision of becoming king would never come to pass, or worse—that I wouldn’t have Ali by my side.

  I looked up from the paper. In the darkness of night, Boston’s buildings spread out before me like the stones of a distant cemetery. Crumbling and broken, they were an ever-present reminder of a better time, a glorious age snuffed out by machinations over which it had had no control. When I had been the Sword of the Gods. Ragnarok had sentenced man and elf alike to an eternally frozen existence, and it still disoriented me.

  My fingers tightened on my quill. When I became king of the High Elves, I would find a way to fix this. Turn back the curse, thaw the world. Was this my destiny? Was this my fate?

  My spell could wait. Tomorrow, I’d organize the runes and glyphs, I’d paint them on my chest once more. I’d been up the entirety of the previous night composing the fortification spell. What I needed was sleep.

  I pushed my chair back and blew out the candle. I stripped off my shirt, trying not to think of my perverse sister ogling me, then stepped out of my trousers and collapsed onto my bed, one arm thrown over my eyes. Satin and down enveloped me.

  I closed my eyes, willing myself to relax. But each one of my muscles was tense, taut. As much as I twisted and turned, I simply couldn’t get comfortable. A bed wasn’t for me.

  I crawled out of bed and onto the floor. Even if the past thousand years seemed like a dream, my body seemed to remember them. After all that time sleeping on stone, my coiled muscles rebelled at the gentle cushion of a mattress. I closed my eyes, then opened them again.

  Flames danced along the logs in the hearth, crackling as they burned, but I needed total darkness to sleep. I traced a sharply angled C in the air, muttering, “Kaun.” Magic flickered over my bare skin, and the fire went dead.

  I closed my eyes again. Finally, darkness, where I now felt most at home, welcomed me. I breathed slowly, allowing my muscles to relax. My aching body yearned for sleep, but I stirred again. I still had another task to complete.

  The Helm of Awe clinked on the stones as I shifted position. Revna was right—it was a manacle on my mind. A golden cuff that stopped me from killing the king and all his guards. A chain that kept me from leaving the Citadel.

  Almost.

  There was one place the crown couldn’t follow me. I exhaled deeply, and magic crackled over my skin. Then, I allowed my soul to break free of my body. In an instant, I’d ascended to the astral plane.

  I floated in a void. Most would fear this place, since it was so like death. But I’d already been dead. It was blacker than any cavern, inkier than the depths of the sea; I felt smaller than the tiniest of dust motes, a speck in an infinite plane. And yet, it wasn’t completely dark. All around me, tiny lights flickered like distant stars. The souls of elves.

  “Ali,” I whispered under my breath.

  Like a plummeting meteor, my soul blazed across the astral plane. A light gleamed in the distance, growing brighter and brighter. Even though I’d seen it a hundred times now, the awesome beauty of Ali’s soul still astonished me. The perfect complement to my own. The gods were dead, but this was the closest I’d come to divinity.

  As our souls neared one another, our connection glowed, the astral manifestation of fate—Wyrd—that bound us for eternity. My heart ached. I could see every detail of my mate’s soul, but I couldn’t touch or communicate with it in any way.

  If fate had declared us mates, why had she not been in my vision of the future, where I’d seen myself as king?

  I didn’t know, but just being close to her soul eased my despair at the frigid wreck the world had become. I hadn’t felt this despair for a thousand years as a lich, but now—alive again—it was drowning me.

  If I could visit Ali’s soul on the astral plane, that meant she was alive. That I’d saved her from certain death at my father’s hands. I’d sacrificed my chance to be with her to ensure she was safe and at home with her people.

  A sense of peace enveloped me, and only then did I allow my soul to drift back to my body.

  “Prince Galin!”

  A gruff voice roused me from sleep. I cracked open my eyes. A guard stood above me, grimacing.

  “What do you want?” I croaked, my neck stiff and cold. I really needed to stop sleeping on the floor, and I should probably stop sleeping naked if guards were going to barge in here.

  “The king has requested your presence at breakfast.”

  I rubbed my eyes. “I just saw him last night.”

  “He demands to see you now.”

  I groaned, crawling to my feet. Towering over the guard, I watched him shrink back from me. He was shaking. “Fuck off while I put some clothes on,” I grumbled.

  Two minutes later, dressed in a clean shirt and pants, I was following the guard up one
of the Citadel’s many stairways. I actually felt relatively well rested, my limbs imbued with strength. The floor might be hard, but it was familiar.

  When we reached the king’s chambers, the guard pushed open the gilded doors, and I followed him inside.

  “Prince Galin,” he said, announcing my arrival.

  Buttery light streamed in from the windows. King Gorm, Revna, and Sune sat at a table laden with food. Plates were heaped with croissants, butter rolls, fruit jellies, and scrambled eggs. The king slathered a croissant with orange jam while Revna and Sune sipped from coffee cups.

  My stomach rumbled, and it took me a moment to recognize what hunger was. Hunger for real food instead of blood—another thing that kept disorienting me.

  Revna looked me over. “Still sleeping on the floor?”

  “It suits me.”

  “It seems very manly,” she said.

  “Revna!” Sune’s lip curled. “Please tell me you’re not flirting with him.”

  At least my brother and I had that disgust in common. Probably the only thing we agreed on.

  Her eyes went wide. “Of course not!”

  The king waved at an empty chair, his fingers sticky with jam. I could see it still—the fear in his eyes. He tried to mask it, but it was palpable.

  “Sit,” said the king. “Sit. Stop arguing. You must try these preserves.”

  I sat, but didn’t take any of the food. “Why am I here?”

  “Why are you here?” The king laughed like this wasn’t the first time he’d ever invited me to breakfast in a thousand years. “Because you’re my son, of course. We’re having a family breakfast. I wouldn’t dream of excluding you.”

  Just a happy family here. Never mind that he was trying to kill my mate, that he laughed at the thought of her starving to death. Never mind that I fantasized about severing his head from his body.

  “I said, why am I here?” I growled.

  I watched as the pale hair on his arms rose, and he seemed to shrink away from me. Even before he answered, I winced as the Helm of Awe began to hum. This close to him, the circlet was hypersensitive to anything even vaguely threatening. The anger in my voice alone was enough to activate it.