Ruined King (Night Elves Trilogy Book 2)

by C. N. Crawford

  For an instant, Gorm’s gaze flicked to me. It was only a second, but the expression was easy enough to read. Pure fury.

  He started to introduce Revna. Presumably, he thought she would be able to intimidate Ali. He was wrong.

  “Oh, we’ve already met,” Ali cooed, her eyes glacial. “Shame we didn’t meet during the melee. There’s something I meant to pay back.” She lifted her hand, displaying the nub where Revna had severed her ring finger.

  For the first time in my very long life, I saw my sister completely on her heels. “Oh, yes,” she stammered. “Well, I will try to make sure that doesn’t happen.”

  “Enough pleasantries,” said Thyra suddenly. She nodded at the Vanir leader. “Now, I don’t believe we have been introduced.”

  He was tall, with the typical Vanir appearance: ebony hair, green eyes, and bronzed skin. He wore a black vest that exposed thick, muscular arms. His trousers appeared to be made of buckskin. He had a rough look, as if he was about to go bear hunting.

  He bowed deeply, then spoke. “I’m Swegde, Regent to the Empire of the Vanir.”

  Thyra frowned. “Regent? I thought the Vanir were led by an emperor?”

  Swegde bowed his head solemnly. “Our Emperor died unexpectedly a few weeks ago.” He shot a sharp look at Ali, and a heavy silence fell over us. Bit awkward, given that the Emperor’s assassin was right here.

  “Well, now that everyone is properly acquainted,” King Gorm interrupted, “let us chat over drinks.” He walked to the entrance of the mead hall, saying, “This way,” over his shoulder.

  He was taking us out to the courtyard? Odd. He had something planned.

  When we reached the arched doorway to the Citadel, I paused. Normally, exiting the Citadel would cause the Helm of Awe to shock me. My mind spun as I tried to piece together what Gorm’s play was.

  In the center of the courtyard stood a large structure that I recognized as the royal barge. Constructed from mahogany and large glass windows on all sides, it looked a bit like a very large 19th century carriage. Unlike the stately carriages of the Victorian Era, however, gold gleamed on every surface.

  Odd to see it resting on the frozen courtyard stones. Before Ragnarok, Gorm had spent hours floating on the lakes of Elfheim on the barge, drinking copious amounts of mead.

  Swegde’s dark hair caught in the icy wind as he turned toward the king. “What is this contraption?”

  Gorm held out his arms, smiling. “This is the royal barge.”

  “But there is no water,” replied Swegde. “What does it float on?”

  “Come aboard and all will be revealed.”

  A guard opened a pair of gilded doors in the side of the barge. As we lined up, I noticed Ali seemed to be doing her best to stay as far away from me as possible. The relationship between us, at this point, seemed as frozen as the world around us. I tried desperately to put her out of my mind as I boarded the barge behind the king.

  I couldn’t focus on Ali when I needed to stay alert, to anticipate Gorm’s actions. If he tried to hurt those around me, I would cut him to ribbons even if the helm fried my mind.

  As I stepped inside, I felt a slight wave of disgust. The last time I’d been inside the barge had been over a thousand years ago, and I’d forgotten how ostentatious it was. Virtually everything was gilded, from the frames of the windows to the bar; even the seat cushions were stitched with shining golden threads.

  King Gorm led us out a door and onto a small exterior platform with a golden railing.

  A High Elf dressed in a captain’s uniform followed after us. “Where to, Your Majesty?”

  Gorm lifted his hands expansively. “Let’s show them the city.”

  The captain whistled sharply, the sound echoing in the otherwise empty courtyard. Then, a massive flock of giant moths swooped down from the sky. They were so large and numerous they blotted out the stars, and the beating of their wings stirred the frigid air, blowing up clouds of snow from the ground.

  From each moth hung a thin golden cord. As they circled above us, more High Elves climbed onto the roof of the barge. Dressed in blue uniforms, they began to tie the cords to a large brass ring in the center of the barge’s roof.

  The captain climbed into a small seat on the roof. “Ready, men?” he shouted. “Aloft!”

  The barge lifted smoothly into the air, and the wind rushed over us as we rose. In moments, we were flying above the Citadel. A few snowflakes fell from the night sky, and the frozen city of Boston spread out below us. Twinkling lights nestled within a vast expanse of darkness. As the barge climbed higher, the breeze stiffened, and the snow grew heavier.

  In her black leather, Ali looked tense, her fingers always twitching as if she planned to call her dagger.

  She had good reason to be tense.

  “Let us go back inside,” Gorm called above the wind.

  Back in the cabin, a veritable smorgasbord of pastries had been arranged on tables, along with great steaming carafes of hot chocolate and coffee. Red velvet sofas had been pulled up around a gilded coffee table.

  “Make yourselves comfortable,” said Gorm.

  I kept standing, my mind always churning, strategizing how I’d make my move if I needed to.

  “We have much to discuss,” said Gorm. “I thought the next contest should be a battle on moths above the city. No armor, and this time we’ll allow weapons like crossbows and javelins. It will be spectacular, elves flying like birds, fighting in the sky. A little messy when one falls, but I have men who can clean it up.”

  The Regent shrugged. All eyes turned to Thyra.

  “While I do agree a battle on flying moths would be spectacular,” said Thyra, “I remind you that article eight of the Winnowing contract states that the Night Elves get to choose the time, place, and rules of the second contest.”

  Gorm’s lips compressed to a thin line. “And what will those be, then?”

  Thyra nodded slightly at Ali. “Astrid, will you explain the rules of the contest?”

  “Of course.” Ali crossed her legs, leaning back on the sofa with her arms spread out like she owned the place. “In the Shadow Caverns, we have no sun. No light to grow grass. There are no horses, no cattle, no beasts of burden of any sort. We have only the occasional goat and mushrooms. That’s it. All Dokkalfar, young and old, must run or walk if they wish to travel. So, in honor of my people’s humble lives, we will be hosting a foot race—”

  “A foot race!” Gorm interrupted, laughing. “There must be fighting. How are elves going to die in a foot race?”

  “Your Majesty,” said Ali, cold as ice, “please allow me to finish.”

  Gorm nodded, fuming.

  “We’ll have a foot race. It will start on Bunker Hill and end in front of the Old State House. Elves may bring any weapons they like, as long as they do not shoot projectiles. Same rules as the melee.” For the first time since we entered the barge, Ali’s eyes met mine. “And this time, no magic. None whatsoever.”

  Chapter 18

  Ali

  Gorm’s eyes narrowed with rage as I finished describing the rules of the foot race, and his impotent anger gave me a bit of satisfaction.

  “Of course the Night Elves want to run.” His voice cracked with anger. “That’s what you do, right? Run and hide. You need to come up with a proper contest, not some nimby-pimby street scuttle.”

  I shrugged. “We’re in charge of this contest, so you’re just going to have to trust me when I say that plenty of elves are going to die. Believe me when I say you’re not going to want to be in last place, although, given your age and physical condition, that is entirely possible.”

  Gorm’s face turned nearly crimson. “Do not speak to a king with such insolence.”

  “Sir, let me remind you that earlier tonight you called a Shadow Lord a hag and a bitch. I will describe you however I damn well please.”

  Perhaps it was my imagination, but I thought I saw a flicker of a smile ghost across Galin’s lips.

&nbs
p; “Gods dammit!” shouted Gorm, throwing his mug across the interior of the barge. It shattered above a velvet sofa, splattering the gold cushions with hot chocolate. After a moment of tense silence, he stalked over to the bar.

  Next to me, Thyra whispered, “Nice work.”

  “Will two days be enough time to prepare?” I whispered back.

  “Definitely.”

  I turned, looking out the windows and marveling at the view. Whorls of snow flittered through the air outside. Far below us, I could just barely see the lights of Boston. A quiet movement caught my eye, and I looked up just in time to see Galin slip out the door to the balcony.

  He would be alone out there. This was a chance I had to take.

  Quietly, I rose and slipped outside.

  Galin was standing by himself at the far end of the balcony. He leaned against the gilded railing looking into the darkness.

  Should I push him, then claim it was an accident? He was their greatest weapon. I’d seen it for myself, the godlike damage he could wreak on his enemies. He was like an angel of death.

  Undoubtedly, it would be the best thing for my people if he were dead. Taking the High Elves’ best fighter out would give us an enormous advantage in the Winnowing. Considering he’d gotten me thrown in prison, I owed him nothing.

  But when he whirled to look at me, his golden eyes burning, I felt it again. That feeling of glass shattering in my heart. “Hello, Ali. Have you come to try to kill me again?”

  “I’ve considered it.”

  “You won’t be able to.” His deep voice slid around me like a warm caress, and I breathed in the scent of wood smoke and sage.

  “It would be best for the Night Elves if you were dead,” I whispered.

  Galin gave me a slow, seductive smile. The next thing I knew, he was standing before me, hands on either side of me, gripping the railing. He was boxing me in, giving me a look that was sensual, carnal. It was a gaze that slid into my soul, as though he could see every inch of my secret desire for him. In the freezing air, heat rippled off his body.

  “The gods are dead,” he said, “and nothing means anything, except this: we are bound to one another. I don’t know why. Only the Norns truly know the ways of Wyrd. The link between our souls commands them to be together. If you try to sever the link, Wyrd fights back. You are mine and I am yours.” His low voice heated my blood.

  I clenched my jaw, trying to block out the intensity of his stare. This situation was all wrong, and I felt like my legs were about to give way. “Am I actually your mate?”

  His eyes gleamed. “Can’t you feel it?”

  A vernal scent curled around us, and my body was growing warmer. I could feel it—like our souls were twined together. I ached to be near him. And that was what made me feel like my heart was breaking. I swallowed hard. “Maybe.”

  “So why are you so eager to see me dead? I thought we were allies.”

  “Oh, did you?” I spat. “So why did you fuck me over? You betrayed me. You told the Shadow Lords about us, that I helped their worst enemy. You knew exactly how that would turn out. With me in prison.”

  He shook his head slowly. “What are you talking about?”

  “I was imprisoned in Audr Mine because of you. Forced into hard labor. You wrote a letter to the Shadow Lords, and that was the result. Since I received a marked lot, I've spent every moment with the Shadow Lords. I shouldn’t even be talking to you now.”

  And yet, I was here like an idiot, because I was drawn to him. Because I could feel his soul calling to mine. I had to kill him, but I just wanted to be in his arms. When I was with him, it was like I could feel the world coming alive again.

  Galin narrowed his eyes. “I wrote no letter, Ali.”

  I stared at him, frustration simmering. “Who the fuck wrote it, then?”

  “You were imprisoned? Then how did you come find me in the Citadel?”

  “What? You sent me into the mines to die. You said you’d come for me, and you didn’t.”

  A muscle twitched in his jaw. “I’ve been trying to get to you. This helm stops me. I’ve been working to remove it, but it’s enchanted with powerful binding magic. If I try to leave the Citadel or hurt my family, it shocks me. Gorm is terrified of what I’d do without it. As he should be.”

  A fluting voice cut him off: “Oh, Galin! What are you doing with that Night Elf?”

  My stomach fell as I watched Revna saunter over to us.

  “I’m sorry, did I interrupt something?” she said in her sing-song voice, her eyes narrowing suspiciously. “A lovers’ tête-à-tête?”

  Galin turned away from me, casually leaning back against the railing. “I do believe she was considering throwing me over the side.”

  Revna glared at him. “You’re needed in the cabin,” she said walking back towards the cabin.

  Without another word, Galin stalked off, one hand by the hilt of his sword.

  My thoughts were a storm of conflicting emotions, and I was left alone, looking out into the winter night. Above me, hundreds of giant moths flapped, black silhouettes against the already dark sky. The barge swayed slightly, like a boat on a gently undulating sea.

  I felt like my soul was splitting in two. One half of me wanted to achieve my destiny, to fulfill the promise to my parents. The other half of me simply wanted to run away with Galin.

  My heart was shattering, and I had to get ahold of myself. Gods, it would have been easier without this bond, without the Norns entwining our souls. It was easier when I had simply wanted him dead. Now, I had no idea what to make of myself. The North Star was supposed to kill Galin, to avenge our people. Without that, what was I?

  I didn’t want to let Wyrd dictate my life the way he let it. I wasn’t like Galin—a relic from another time, a royal. He came from a time of living gods, of mysticism and awe. I’d grown up scrounging for scraps, living in caves and eating mushrooms.

  We made our own fates in the caverns, and I intended for it to stay that way. Fuck the soul bond.

  When you were born to be a king, of course you believed in fate. You believed you inherited a throne and a crown because the gods had decreed it must be so, not because you came from a long line of tyrants who took what they wanted. But what had Wyrd ever done for people like me?

  I gripped the freezing railing, my palms sticking to it.

  I didn’t know what I would do now. All I knew was that I would write the story of my own life—not the Norns, and not Wyrd.

  Chapter 19

  Galin

  I slammed the door to my quarters and summoned a bit of magic to lock it behind me. I stalked toward my desk, muttering, “Finnask,” to uncloak my hidden spell books.

  My body burned with fury. I was being played, and I had a good guess as to who might be playing me.

  Whatever had happened reeked of Revna’s influence. Had she come to my room disguised as Ali? I shuddered to think of what I might have done with her. In fact, that horrible thought had me nearly wanting to activate the helm to burn the idea away.

  Whoever it was must have convinced a witch—a seidkonur —to change her appearance to look like Ali’s doppelgänger. No, it could have been even easier. She wouldn’t have had to get a seidkonur to help her, because my father could have done it.

  Two strokes of Levateinn, Loki’s wand, and he could make Revna look like anything. All he would need was a tiny bit of Ali to build off. And they had that, didn’t they? Revna had cut off Ali’s finger. A little leftover blood on the stones would do it.

  Rage simmered. As soon as I defeated this helm, the royals would be dead, and I would rule as king. I traced my fingertips over the rune glowing on my chest.

  I crossed to the window, staring absently at Boston’s ruined skyline.

  There had to be a way to break the spell that bound the helm to my skull. Every spell had its weakness, its fatal flaw.

  Take my wall, for example, the very thing that had first led Ali to despise me. I’d spent months ensuring no e
lf could cross it, but I hadn’t counted on vergr crystals. Totally inert, the wall was completely permeable to them. All a Night Elf had to do to cross into Midgard was toss one through to the other side and teleport. When I’d first constructed the wall, I hadn’t known vergr crystals existed. The Night Elves had discovered them somewhere in the bowels of the earth only after they’d been imprisoned.

  This was the problem with binding magic. There was always some edge-case, the magical equivalent of a security flaw. Like computer hackers long ago, a good sorcerer could find a way to break any spell. The trick was to think outside the box. What angle hadn’t the makers of the Helm of Awe considered?

  Magic wouldn’t remove it. It couldn’t be destroyed by physical means, only weakened a bit. This made sense. Any sorcerer worth their salt would have anticipated both of these approaches.

  I turned from the window and began to pace the length of my room. There had to be something I wasn’t thinking of, something that the creator of the helm hadn’t considered. A secret weakness, an Achilles heel.

  What if …

  I stopped short in the center of my room. There was one thing the helm couldn’t prevent me from doing. It couldn’t stop me from separating my soul from my body and ascending to the astral plane.

  Quickly, I sat on the flagstone floor and, closing my eyes, allowed my soul to drift free. I hovered just above my corporeal form, looking down at myself. But the helm didn’t hum; no bolt of white-hot magic threatened to fry my frontal lobes. This was to be expected. I wasn’t trying to leave the Citadel or attack a member of my family.

  I allowed my soul to drift out the window, then peered in at my body still cross-legged on the stones. The helm remained quiet, completely inert. It couldn’t sense where my soul was located.

  The next step was to test the family angle. Darkness descended as I allowed myself to ascend into the astral realm. All around me, the souls of elves flickered like stars.