Tuva swung her weapons until the blade caught in the skin did not give easily. The creature whipped its long neck around, and Tuva barely got in another blow—chipping off a chunk of shell—before it bit her.

She let out an agonized scream as the murder snail chomped into her arm. I could hear the teeth grinding against her bone.

I grabbed the kasteren axe still stuck in the shell, using the handle to pull myself up. I straddled the muscular neck of the snail, and it finally released Tuva. Before it could snap back at me, I drove my sword through the top of the head with a wet squelching sound, and it fell dead.

Tuva lay on the ground, convulsing, and her fresh bite wound dripped with red blood and frothy green venom.

65

Encamped

Wendy

This was not going as I had planned.

Finn had come to me three days ago about the Älvolk threat, and I had prepared my army accordingly. I had hurried to get here, hoping if we arrived in Áibmoráigi soon enough, I could meet with the Älvolk leaders, and this could end in diplomacy instead of war.

I had dressed for that occasion—an emerald military-style jacket with brass and jeweled buttons paired with pleated culottes—but my hopes for mediation left me feeling foolish as I ran across the battlefield. Yet I didn’t let that slow me down.

I gave out orders as I moved, directing my guards and aides to get the base camp set up. We had a main camp at the mountain summit, but that would be too far and too treacherous a journey for our wounded. With a dragon lighting the First City on fire, injuries were a certainty.

In my nine-year reign as Queen of the Trylle, I had unfortunately seen my kingdom through two wars. I had personally fought and killed in battle. But as I watched my friends and allies clash under the green fog of dragon breath, the ground already bloody and burning, I had never seen anything lay siege so quickly.

It would kill us all if we didn’t find a way to stop it.

“Wendy!” Loki, my husband the King, called for me.

He was behind me, helping to hurriedly erect tents. The tarps were made of tanned Tralla hides, imbued with cloaking and protection, which the enchanters thought would help them withstand fire and minor assaults.

I turned back to see him discarding his jacket and taking up a sledgehammer, presumably to pound the tent stakes into the ground. His hair was damp with sweat despite the chill in the air, and his dark honey-colored eyes were wide with worry.

“If you must stay on this damned mountain, will you at least go inside the shelter?” He motioned to the tent. “You can’t command if you’re burnt to a crisp.”