One year later

Titch sat on the bank holding a fishing rod. He had decided a lake that spawned a magic bridge once a year must also have other magical properties, including monster fish. So far he’d caught nothing.

They had arrived two days earlier after spending the last year fighting the hill bandits for which the local area was infamous. Roona, in particular, punished these outlaws with a viciousness that made even Davidor wince. To the point the bandits would abandon their hideouts as soon as news of the Murder Elf’s approach reached them.

The family of five travelled from one end of the province to the other and back again, but never more than a few days ride from the lake. The missing sixth member was always in Roona’s thoughts, and concern had become a permanent feature of her face. Instead of his usual relentless teasing, Davidor responded to her irritable snapping with gentle reassurance. Titch considered them both to be on the threshold of senility. Only old people worried so much about things they could do nothing about.

Bubbles surfaced around the bobbing lump of cheese attached to Titch’s string, but nothing happened. Worms, centipedes, chunks of bread—he had tried them all with little success. The double full moons would appear in a few hours and he was determined to catch something awesome before then.

“What if I used a rabbit as bait?” he asked the figure lying beside him.

Fen lifted the handkerchief covering his face, his head murky from a daydream about a redhead he met in West Noreen. Or possibly North Weleen. “Huh?”

“The bigger the bait, the bigger the fish, right?”

“Sure,” said Fen. “Why not chuck in one of the horses? You’ll probably catch a whale.”

Titch turned to his other side. “Hey, Gart. Gart. GART!”

Gart, who was only an arm’s length away, stopped sharpening his sword. “What now?”

“What’s the best way to hook a big fish?”

“Send it a note saying you’ll meet it under the clocktower at sunset, and don’t turn up. Only works on really dumb fish, though.”

“Hey!” Fen sat up. “She didn’t turn up because something must have happened. You don’t always have to assume the worst about people, you know?”

“Yeah,” said Gart. “Something came up right when you ran out of money.” He stuck a finger in his mouth and hooked his cheek to the side.

“Ugh.” Fen fell backwards onto the grass. “I’m the only one in this family with any romance in his soul—how is it I’m so unlucky in love?”

“Maybe you’re using the wrong bait,” said Titch.

Fen looked at his little brother through narrowed eyes. “Don’t talk stupid. I am the bait, what could be better than me?” He slapped the handkerchief back on his face and tried to picture the clocktower girl, whose name escaped him for the moment.

“Titch,” said Gart, “did you finish sharpening your throwing knives?”

“Of course. All done.”

“Where are they? In your saddlebag?”

“Yeah. Why?”

Gart got to his feet. “Because if I don’t cut my finger just looking at them, I’m going to throw you in the lake and see if I can’t catch myself a more reliable sibling.”

“Wait, wait.” Titch dropped the fishing rod and scrambled to his feet. “There was one that wasn’t quite as sharp as I’d like, I’ll just give it a quick polish.” He sprinted past Gart.

Gart followed him into the small camp they’d set up around a fire pit. He raised his sword and ran his eye along the blade. Sharp enough to cut a floating blade of grass, but grass rarely attacked him. Steel armour was more likely to be his target, and the sharper the edge the better. He tried to recall where he’d put his collection of whetstones as he slid the sword into its scabbard, and nearly walked into his mother.

The top of Roona’s head barely reached Gart’s chin, but his advantage in stature made the look in her eyes no less terrifying.

“Your sword’s sharp enough,” she said. “We’re going to collect Igail, and then we’ll leave. No fighting will be required.”

“Clearly, you don’t know your daughter. The sooner you marry her off to some unsuspecting dolt, the sooner she’ll be someone else’s problem and not ours.”

Roona slapped her palms onto his chest. It took all his strength not to take a step back.

“Gart, you used to adore her when she was little—what happened?”

“What happened was you and Dad did a terrible job raising her. You spoilt her rotten, let her think she could do no wrong and let her read too many books. Far too many.”

Roona’s stern glare turned quizzical. “You think reading’s the problem?”

“It is when it fills her head with crazy ideas.” Gart raised a finger on either side of his head and twirled them around. “Heroic princesses, kingdoms needing to be saved, magical squirrels who do the laundry—when princesses are brats, kingdoms are just a collection of idiots, and squirrels are terrible at housework.”

He placed his hands on his mother’s shoulders. “There’s zero chance she went into the The Vale without knowing the exact size of the Great Library, and a plan to stay there. She’s had a whole year to come up with part two of whatever ridiculous scheme she’s been working on. We’re not going to be able to out-think her—violence is our only option. You go for her legs and I’ll put her in an arm bar. If we can stop her getting to her daggers, I think we can take her.”

Roona placed her hand on the side of Gart’s face. “Your father used to do that too, make light of a situation to make me feel better. I know you’re worried about her—I am too—but we have to let her make her own decisions, even if they have disastrous consequences.” She gave him a sharp pat on the cheek and lowered her hand. “In any case, she’s been able to slip out of your holds since she was seven. You’ll have to come up with a better plan than that.” She turned and walked back to the fire.

Gart sighed. His birth had changed his mother’s life forever, separating her from the world she came from. He endeavoured to try and put a smile on her face whenever he could, but rarely succeeded.

“Secret mother-son meeting?” asked Davidor.

Gart turned to find his father standing there, eating a large, juicy plum. “How is it I can never catch you sneaking up on me?”

“We all have our blindspots,” said Davidor. “The bigger question is why you haven’t noticed the army about to descend on us?”

“Army? Where?” Gart looked around but other than his family, the meadow appeared empty.

Davidor pointed at the horizon. “Birds have been scattering in that direction for about an hour. Judging by the frequency, more than a hundred men. They should get here around nightfall.”

Gart gazed intently at the birds wheeling freely in the distance. “How can you tell how many there are from a few birds flying around?”

“He can’t,” called out Roona. “He knows we aren’t the only ones aiming to cross the Moonlight Bridge. The 1st Legion of the Horde will be returning after three years on patrol. He’s teasing you.”

Davidor shook his head sorrowfully. “Elven. No sense of fun.”

Titch ran towards them with three small daggers in his fist and a whetstone in his other hand, haphazardly sharpening everything at once. “The 1st Legion? They must be pretty good, right? The best of the best. I could join them as a scout or something. Just for a year, like Iggy.”

“We’ll have to see,” said Davidor. “You could try asking their commander. He’s considered the greatest Elven warrior, after your mother, of course. Jimnar Set Neer, the Crusher of Hopes and Dreams.”

Gart looked closely at his father’s grinning face trying to determine what, if anything, to believe. “Set Neer?”

“That’s right,” said Davidor. “Your mother’s little brother.”

Gart turned towards his mother, confused. “You never mentioned you had a brother.”

Roona straightened from tending the fire and rolled her shoulders. “We aren’t very close. He’s always resented me for being born first. And he isn’t the crusher of hopes and dreams, his title is garel fel tesu. There isn’t a direct translation, but literally it means the one who destroys the enemy’s hope.”

“My version’s catchier.” Davidor turned his head and spat out a plum stone. It sailed through the air, over the lake. A large fish, pig-snouted with glossy red scales glinting in the afternoon sun, leapt out of the water and snapped the stone in its tusked jaws. It disappeared with a splash.

“My fish!” yelled Titch, running towards the water.

***

The 1st Legion arrived well after dark, heralded by the clank of armour and the occasional waft of horse dung on the breeze. Two hundred men, marching behind six riders on fierce warhorses, filed into the meadow.

Both moons had risen but hadn’t reached their zenith. The lake glittered under their light. The bridge had yet to appear. Davidor and his family had broken camp and were readying their horses when the Legion’s lead group stopped a few metres away and a voice called out a greeting in Elven.

Roona climbed into her saddle and returned the greeting.

A horse left the group and walked forward. The rider was a large elf, wrapped in a voluminous cloak allowing occasional glimpses of the metallic strips woven into the clothing beneath. His horse snorted as it came to a stop almost nose to nose with Roona’s mare.

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The cloaked rider had a long face and sharp features. His hair was bunched into a top knot, spouting like a small fountain from the centre of his head. “I heard you’d be here tonight. It’s been a while, Sister.”

“Indeed. It’s good to hear your voice after all this time. The Legion looks as impressive as I remember.” Roona turned her horse a little and called out, “1st Legion! Zee-KAH!”

A resounding “Zee-KAH!” was returned in unison by the Legion.

“It seems they remember you, too,” said Jimnar.

“Greetings, Crusher,” said Davidor. “I like your hair. It makes your head look like a pineapple.”

Jimnar closed his eyes for a moment and then turned to look at Davidor. “Is that supposed to be an insult, Saviour?”

“No,” said Davidor. “I like pineapples. They’re delicious.”

“Uncle Jimi!” Titch bounded in front of Davidor.

“I am Jimnar Set Neer, and Elven address their elder relatives par ni, as a mark of respect.”

“Sure thing, Uncle Jimi,” said Titch. “I’m your nephew, call me erratu jem tar.”

The Elven words drew a confused look from the supreme commander of the 1st Legion. “You want me to call you ‘The Midget Under the Table’?”

“What? No. That’s not…” Titch turned and pointed at Fen, who was sniggering into his hand. “You told me it meant ‘Ghost in the Shadows’.”

“Whoops,” said Fen. “My Elven’s a bit rusty.”

Titch stomped towards his brother, pulling out a dagger in each hand. Davidor grabbed him by the collar and dragged him back to his side.

“I hear you’ve been fighting the last of the Undead in the northern mountains,” said Davidor. “All done?”

“Of course not,” said Jimnar. “Did it even occur to you when you killed the Demon God what would happen to his minions without anyone to control them?”

“Was a little bit busy at the time, saving the world and whatnot.”

“Yes, well, luckily we pushed them back to the snowline, where they broke rank and scattered.”

“Are you crazy?” Davidor’s usual mocking tone had become one of true annoyance. “Undead don’t run away. If they fell back it means someone ordered them to.”

“He’s right,” said Roona. “If someone’s able to control them, the next attack might not be the unorganized mobs you’ve had to deal with so far.”

Jimnar, irritated by the implication he had missed the obvious, retorted venomously. “Thank you for your advice, Sister, but since you abandoned your duties as First Warrior, I think it best you stick with what you do best—raising your mongrel offspring and being this halfwit’s personal slu—arghhhh!”

Jimnar’s cry of pain as the arrow hit him in the leg was followed by the sound of two hundred swords being drawn.

Davidor turned to see Gart holding his bow. It was no easy task to draw and fire a bow silently, but Gart had developed the ability to catch the bow string after releasing it, reducing the sound to no more than a soft exhalation of breath.

“Did that boy just shoot me?” Jimnar had one hand held up, stopping his men from attacking. “Is this how you raised an heir to the Seat of Power?”

“No,” said Roona. “I taught him one shot, one kill. Apparently he chose to disregard my training. Now stop whining. It’s just an arrow to the knee. I’ve suffered worse trimming my nails.”

Jimnar pulled the arrow out with a grunt and tossed it away. “True. But you’ve always been—”

“Insult my mother again,” said Gart, “and I’ll take both your eyes. Feel free to insult my father as much as you like. And you don’t have to worry, Uncle. I have no intention of claiming my place as Elven Elder.”

“Whether you intend it or not,” said Jimnar, “your entitlement is already assured. You will one day lead the Elven nation, and on that day, I am sure, an eternal darkness will fall on our people.”

“You know,” said Davidor, “you should probably tell your legion to stand down. It would be an awful shame for them to all die this close to home.”

Roona stood in her stirrups and barked out a stream of harsh-sounding, guttural words. The soldiers all immediately sheathed their swords and stepped back into formation.

“Neat trick,” said Davidor. “What language was that?”

“It’s the royal tongue,” said Gart. “All Elven are bound to obey. It’s only spoken by the first born of the royal blood.”

“Handy.” Davidor turned to Jimnar. “I guess that means you’re not allowed to use it.”

“That’s right,” said Jimnar, as a stiff breeze came in across the lake and blew his cloak out behind him. “Not unless my sister dies.”

Gart drew and nocked another arrow.

A white flash filled the lake as the bridge materialised, one moment a reflection on the surface, the next, solid stone. All heads turned to watch, apart from Gart and Jimnar.

“If you wish to shoot me, child, do so. Or do you only attack when people aren’t looking.”

“No,” said Gart, “I want to ask you a question. You’re coming from the northern mountains. Did the journey take you through the Kanas Desert?”

Jimnar raised an eyebrow at the unexpected query. “Of course, it’s the shortest route. Why?”

“Fen, lock down the horse. Titch, take his cloak.”

The two brothers leapt into action before Gart had finished giving out the order. Fen grabbed the horse’s bridle. It tried to pull its head away, but he yanked it down hard and held it low.

Titch jumped up, catching the end of the billowing cloak, and pulled hard. Riders’ cloaks were designed to come away easily so they couldn’t be used to force a dismount in battle. The cloak snapped free and wound itself around Titch’s spinning body until he was all cloak and feet.

Gart loosed the arrow, not bothering to smother its twang. The arrow struck the rear of Jimnar’s saddle. He didn’t flinch, although whether because he didn’t have time or his pride wouldn’t allow it, it would be hard to say. He turned and looked at the arrow and then back at Gart.

Gart lowered his bow and walked forward, bending down to pick up the dropped arrow on the way. When he reached Jimnar’s horse, he grabbed the shaft sticking out from the saddle and pulled it out. He turned the tip towards Jimnar. Skewered on the point was a scorpion, the length of a finger, its legs still flailing.

“Even a child knows you don’t pass through the Kanas Desert without checking for lurker scorpions.” Gart spun the arrow, showing off the scorpions swollen underside. “Egg sac looks about ready to burst.”

Jimnar’s eyes widened.

“Not that an infestation would have killed everyone in The Vale. Just the children. Then, Uncle, you would truly be the destroyer of all hope.”

Gart pointed the arrow at the ground and used the toe of his boot to slide the scorpion off, before stamping it with his heel.

Jimnar turned to look at the rider behind and nodded. The rider rose in his stirrups and yelled, “1st Legion! STRIP!”

The men began tearing off their armour and rummaging through their packs in search of concealed danger. Elven curses rang out as hidden vermin were discovered and smashed underfoot.

Roona walked her horse past Jimnar. “We’ll go on ahead. Make sure you’ve found them all before entering.”

“Of course. I can’t believe I could have…” Even in the moonlight it was possible to see the shock of what he’d almost done had robbed his face of all colour.

“Leave him alone,” shouted Titch, now wearing the cloak although it ran behind him more like a bridal train. “It isn’t his fault. None of you know what it’s like to have a sister who treats you like a kid and steals the string you’ve been saving for important experiments. Don’t worry, Uncle Jimi, you can count on me. I’ll make sure nothing like this happens again. I’ve got my own horse, I just need one of those fancy outfits. It doesn’t matter if it’s a bit big, I’ll grow into ieeeee—”

Fen grabbed Titch under the armpits and yanked him off his feet, pulling off the cloak and dropping it to the ground. He carried the squirming boy over to his horse.

“Commander! Your man is being kidnapped. Save me!”

Gart mounted his horse and followed his parents towards the bridge. He stopped by Jimnar. “You know, I’ve never wanted an Elven title like you and mother. Elf without mercy, destroyer of hope, always thought they were kind of silly. But I’ve changed my mind. Sufu sar kam. Thank you for naming me, Uncle.” He rode on, leaving Jimnar open-mouthed.

“Sufu sar kam,” repeated Titch. “What does that mean?”

Fen pulled Titch’s horse closer to his to ensure no last minute dash for freedom. He frowned. “It means ‘The Eternal Darkness’.”