Something else caught Patrick’s eye right then. There were elves winding through the massacre, their neutral-toned clothes torn and spotted with gore. There were quite a few of them, coming from every direction. Someone shouted in the elves’ native tongue, breaking the eerie almost silence. Patrick whirled around, only to see the square-faced elf he and Moira had battled, standing with both his black swords in hand.
The elf was calling his brethren to him.
Patrick sidestepped around the three bodies at his feet, sidling up to Preston. The old soldier had gathered his wits; the only signs of his sorrow were the clean trails that snaked down his bloodied cheeks.
“Be wary,” Patrick said out of the corner of his mouth, tilting his head in the elf’s direction.
Preston understood. His hand fell to the handle of his sheathed sword. The other Turncloaks followed his lead.
The elves continued to gather a few feet from where the anguished soldier of Karak wailed. Patrick did a quick count, coming up with forty-three. The colossal elf in black gathered the others around, shouting in their queer tongue. When that was finished, the elves sheathed their swords and slung their bows over their backs. They began to cross the blood-splattered square, only to stop a moment later. It appeared as if each of their heads looked up to the sky at once.
A whisper on the wind reached Patrick’s ears, nearly undecipherable. Though he couldn’t make out the words, it was obviously the goddess speaking once more, her voice soft and snipped and threatening.
The elves fell to their knees. Their eyes bulged, and their heads were thrown back. Their mouths opened as if to scream, but no sound came out. Patrick inched forward, Preston and the surviving Turncloaks following. Patrick couldn’t believe what he was seeing. The elves’ flesh bubbled and warped, the color darkening to a slate gray. Their eyes retreated into their sockets, and their brows distended. Each of them lurched forward, gagging on an unseen blockage, their lips pulling back, their incisors growing slightly larger. They looked dangerous, feral. Then they all collapsed and writhed there for a moment, until they all fell still.
“What in the name of the unholy?” whispered Preston.
The scene had drawn a crowd around Patrick, blocking his vision and making him wary of the wall of human flesh that closed him in. He might not have been stunted, but with his hunched back and warped spine, he was shorter than most, and he had to hop up to see what was happening. He heard the crowd gasp before it started to back away. Frustrated, he and his remaining Turncloaks elbowed their way through the mass of bodies, seeking the front.
When they reached open air, they saw each of the elves standing and staring at their hands. They no longer looked like elves. Instead of looking noble, they seemed savage, their skin covered with pocks and scars. The large one with the black armor saw Patrick and jolted his head forward, snapping at him. Patrick jumped backward and yelped, his hand instinctively reaching for Winterbone.
The twisted elf’s eyes lost their focus. His head lifted, seemingly glaring at each and every face that stared back at him. Behind him, his brethren did the same. They grunted and hissed. A few of them tried to form words, but their tongues tangled in their mouths.
Then, suddenly, the large one’s head swung around. He gawked stupidly toward the demolished castle, until those deep-set eyes narrowed. A primordial scream left his mouth, and the former elf took off running, drawing those two black swords from his back. His brethren gaped at each other stupidly before they started to run as well.
They were heading for the wailing man, the one with the dead, milky eye.
Patrick didn’t know why he felt inclined to do what he did next. “No!” he shouted, and then took off, grabbing hold of Preston’s sleeve on the way by, tugging the old soldier along. Patrick ran as fast as his uneven legs could carry him, heading diagonally toward the kneeling man. Somehow he kept pace with the sprinting feral elf. He reached back and tugged Winterbone loose, his breath coming in short, painful rasps.
The kneeling man’s head whirled around just as the feral elf drew close to him. The man fell back on his hands, groping on the ground beside him for something, but he wasn’t quick enough. A pair of black, glinting blades cut through the air.
Patrick dove forward and lunged with Winterbone. The feral elf’s swords crashed into his with a hollow clang. The elf’s strength was immense, but somehow, even though pain spiked into his back, Patrick’s powerful arms didn’t yield an inch. Their blades remained locked, just a whisper away from the kneeling man’s face.
The man’s good eye looked from Patrick to the elf and then back again. Patrick took a deep breath and brought his arms up with as much force as he could. The large elf was knocked backward, giving Jacob Eveningstar’s protector a chance to roll out of harm’s way. The other deformed elves closed in from behind, brandishing their own weapons and squealing like rabid animals. Patrick stepped back and hunkered down, preparing to be rammed, preparing to die.
Then the shouting began. Preston barked orders, inspiring those who’d been gawking to snap into action. A large crowd of humans collided with the feral elves, battering them with swords and axes, shoving them over the ruins of the castle wall. Patrick saw two of the odd wrapped women among the fray, their wrappings soaked with blood, slashing at the new enemy in their midst as if they could erase all the knowledge that their god was gone by simply destroying these primitive beasts. It was a vicious spectacle, and his watching of it almost ended him.
So focused was he on the brutality of his fellow humans that he almost didn’t see the large elf come at him from the side. At the last moment he bent backward, and two black swords sliced across the space he’d once occupied. The perverse elf roared at him and threw a fist, catching him full in the face. His nose snapped to the side, blood pouring from his nostrils. Patrick staggered, having to jab Winterbone against the cobbles to keep from falling.
The beastly thing was on him again a second later, hacking and slashing with wild abandon. It fought with no skill, only pure rage, beating Patrick back. Another three of its mates, apparently having escaped death at the hands of the riotous mob, joined the large elf’s side. All four of them bore down on Patrick. With his eyes watering from his broken nose and his limbs gone weary, it was all Patrick could do to hold Winterbone up. Blades scraped his armor and pierced his flesh.
One of the feral elves to his left then howled as the tip of a colossal sword exited his chest. The thing’s eyes bulged from his sockets and he looked down at the protruding blade as if in disbelief. In a single, brutal motion, the sword then flashed up, tearing the dark elf up through the bottom of his neck. The dead elf was knocked to the side. In its place stood the man who’d been kneeling, his horned helm back atop his head, his ample sword held firmly in both hands. The man’s good eye sparkled through his visor, and he nodded curtly before hurtling himself toward two of the elves, his sword strikes measured and deadly.
The larger of the feral elves, the one in the black armor, remained fixated on Patrick. Sparks were flying in all directions as his two swords met Winterbone again and again. The elf was much larger than him, and despite his feat of strength earlier, he knew he couldn’t keep up this fight for long. The elf finally threw him off balance, thrusting with one sword, a move that Patrick lifted Winterbone to counter. The other sword then slipped beneath his raised hands. The blade clanged off the bottom of Patrick’s breastplate and plunged easily into his belly. Patrick lurched forward as pain overwhelmed him. The feral elf slammed his forehead into Patrick’s. His head snapped back and he collapsed. The blade slid out of him as he fell. Patrick felt blood gush from the wound, drenching his crotch and thighs.