1

  Dawn seeped through a low, dense fog, gilding the banners unfurled at either end of the battlefield. Less than two hundred meters away, two armies waited in formation, motionless as iron statues. Their armor reflected the faint light of sunrise, and the wind carried the acrid smell of sweat, oiled metal, and latent aether in the air—held back like a storm on the verge of bursting. Captains paced along the ranks with steel in their eyes, while the runic knights behind the levies gripped shining swords and enchanted gauntlets, reading from their grimoires the runes of spells that would soon stain the morning with ash and viscera.

  "At least we've got a good view of the fight. Watching the Sapphire Prince duel the Bloody Prince from the front line is something elves pay gemstones for. We don't have to pay a thing," Father said in his bearlike bellow.

  The battlefield was a vast stretch of withered grass, still cool with morning dew. Beyond it, along the line where the enemy elven forces stood, the ground seemed to shimmer with the residual magic of their defensive wards. To the west lay the bay through which Father and he had come to the battle, aboard their fishing boat. The count's men were outfitting the levies with crude weapons and armor, but those were limited. The first to arrive got the best leather helmets with reinforced visors, well-woven mail shirts that still kept their silvery sheen, thick padded linen gambesons, and hardened wooden shields with iron bosses. Lugotérix and Father had decided to cut through the bay to make sure they arrived before the troops on foot. They anchored the boat—along with many other sailors and peasants who'd had the same idea—and thanks to that they received iron helmets and mail shirts.

  The mage Rezzekiel snorted.

  "If we survive, redhead," he said. "Otherwise we'll have paid for it all anyway."

  Single combats to decide the winner of a dispute were common in wars between elves. What was also common was collateral damage. When a duel spiraled out of control, stray spells swept through the ranks, incinerated entire lines of spearmen, or turned the ground into a pit of flame and lightning. Misfired magical projectiles lodged in the earth, detonating and hurling debris in unpredictable directions. And when a duelist fell, their dying magic could unleash storms of aetheric energy, bursts of razor crystal, or even tear open rifts in reality itself, devouring everything in their path.

  The good part was that wherever elves went to war, there was fortune for scavengers. Rings of braided Ovurtenum, cloaks woven from moon-silk, daggers with sapphire pommels, grimoires written on silver leaves, and amulets enchanted with protective spells. Even their armor—light, yet tough as the bark of a sacred tree—was worth a fortune on the black markets. And if you were lucky, you could find relics even more valuable: diadems of power, channeling rods, or vials of High Elf blood, coveted by alchemists and necromancers alike.

  "But will there be war after the duel?" Lugotérix asked, looking at Father and the mage Rezzekiel. His red hair stuck out beneath his helmet. "If there's no war, there'll be nothing to loot!"

  Father smacked him on the back of the head.

  "Shut it, brat. I didn't give you permission to speak."

  "Supposedly not," the mage Rezzekiel replied. "The purpose of a single combat is to avoid unnecessary bloodshed and let the generals settle the matter. But sometimes it isn't entirely clear who won—or whether the duel was fair. Sometimes, even when it's clear who won, the elves order an attack anyway."

  Lugotérix smiled in relief. Father noticed and frowned.

  "What the hell are you grinning at?"

  He smacked him on the back of the head again. He was still angry with him. Luckily, Lugotérix was wearing his helmet.

  "Maybe if I bring a valuable treasure to our lord, Don Quejano of the Gravel, he'll forgive me for beating up the merchant Antoniel's son."

  "Not a thousand treasures will fix how stupid you are, boy. What sane human would ever think of picking a fight with an elf?"

  Lugotérix stared at his boots, unsure whether to feel ashamed or amused. After all, the elf had asked for it.

  It had all started more than a month earlier, when Antoniel of Velcerré came to the village of Sparkjoy with his family, for reasons Lugotérix didn't know. His son Fiorenzo frequented The Austere Vine, the village tavern where the gnomes drank late into the night during summer. On one especially hot night, the young elf drank too much and decided he wanted the humans in the tavern to kiss his ring, call him "Your Excellency," and dance for him. At first they refused, but soon he drew his sword and threatened to cut them down.

  "Ish thish how you treat your Exshelenshy? Shamelessh lot... hic!"

  Lugotérix, who had also been drinking, couldn't hold back and decided to intervene.

  "You're nobody's Excellency," he said. "You're just a merchant's son. Just another commoner, like the rest of us."

  Fiorenzo looked at him as if he smelled of manure.

  "I'm not even remotely like the resht of you, trash! I'm an elf! Hic! Superior to you in every way. Shtonger, shtarter, more..." He grinned. "...handsome—and most important of all, I can do magic." He raised his sword, and the runes along the blade began to glow emerald. "Aether flows through my veins, and if you dare provoke my wrath, I'll crush you like ants. What can you do against elven power? Hic!" He brought the blade close to Lugotérix. "What chance could a spineless race like yours ever have? Milhie moga..."

  But before he could finish, Lugotérix grabbed the sword by the hilt, wrenched it from his hands, flung it to the back of the room, and lunged at him. They both crashed to the floor, smashing into tables and knocking over chairs in their vicious struggle. Wood groaned under their weight, the floor reeked of spilled beer, and people jumped back with shouts and laughter as the two grappled. Fiorenzo tried to slip out from under Lugotérix's hold, but Lugotérix seized him by the throat and slammed him into the floor with a furious growl. He might have been only thirteen, but Lugotérix had spent his whole life at sea, fishing and rowing with his father. He had nearly an adult's strength and was tall for his age. Fiorenzo drove an elbow into his ribs, but it only made him laugh. He barely felt it. In response, Lugotérix headbutted him, breaking his perfect elven nose.

  He held him there for a long time, squeezing his throat and pinning him to the floor. They locked eyes, and Lugotérix got what he wanted from Fiorenzo's: fear and desperation. He spat in his face and slapped him, as if he were a wimp. He wanted to be sure Fiorenzo would never forget just how completely he'd been at his mercy. Eventually he got bored and let him go. He stood up, and when he saw Fiorenzo trying to rise as well, he kicked him in the belly and knocked him back down. He left the tavern, and the next day he had a bitter hangover, equal parts guilt and amusement.

  Weeks later, Lugotérix went to the town of Velcerré to buy new hemp nets, iron hooks, a whetstone for his knives, wicker baskets, a jar of oil to waterproof the boat, and a bundle of dried herbs to ward off bad smells in the hold. As he walked down an alley, he saw Fiorenzo turn a corner.

  "Well, look who it is," he said.

  When Lugotérix turned, he saw two other elves entering the alley from behind. When he looked back at Fiorenzo, he saw another elf beside him—four in total against one.

  "Scared?" Fiorenzo grinned. "This isn't Sparkjoy. You're not at home. This is Velcerré, and you're going to learn a little something about what's called the real world."

  They started toward him in long strides. Lugotérix let go of the handcart with his purchases.

  "Look at him—doesn't seem so brave now. What's wrong, having second thoughts?" Fiorenzo said. "This isn't Sparkjoy, is it?"

  One of the elves came up from behind and raised an arm to grab him by the shoulder, but before he could make contact, Lugotérix seized him by the hair with one hand and drove his fingers into the eye socket with the other. The elf tried to pull away, but Lugotérix's grip was strong. They both gasped and struggled.

  "Beat him!" Fiorenzo shouted to his friends. "Come on! Finish him!"

  The other three managed to pry Lugotérix off the elf—only to stare in horror at what had happened: their friend's left eye hung by a thread of nerves and flesh, swinging grotesquely with each spasm of his body. Thick, dark blood ran down his cheek in sticky rivulets, staining his tunic with crimson blotches. His lips parted in a strangled moan—part pain, part disbelief—while his other pupil, still intact, fixed on Lugotérix with feverish terror.

  "Fuck..." one of the elves said. "He... he ripped his eye out! Call a med—!"

  But the others had already run the moment they saw their companion's face, including Fiorenzo. Lugotérix chased him and quickly caught up in a plaza in Velcerré. He grabbed him by the shoulders and threw him to the ground. He kicked him in the chest, knocking the air out of him, then straddled him with his knees. He punched him in the face.

  "Please, mercy, mercy!" Fiorenzo screamed. "Don't kill me, please."

  Tears ran from his eyes as they stared up at Lugotérix in terror.

  "This isn't Sparkjoy," Lugotérix roared, "but you're taking beatings like it is."

  He punched him again, and again, and again, until he felt something crack beneath his knuckles. He still remembered the fury that had surged through his veins like boiling oil, an odd tingling crawling under his skin. A reddish glow seeped from the sturdy leather scabbard at Fiorenzo's belt, where he kept his runic sword. Lugotérix wanted to kill him—tear his cheeks off with his teeth, split his skull and scoop out his brains.

  "Not even my own damn mother tries to ambush me!" he shouted as Fiorenzo groaned, sobbed, and writhed on the ground, his face covered in blood.

  Hands grabbed him by the arms, and he saw the guards. They locked him in the dungeon for a day, until Father heard and came to help him. The village council imposed a fine they couldn't pay, so they let the mayor of Sparkjoy dispense justice as he saw fit.

  "Your son is a brute, Taetix," the mayor told Father. "He tore out one boy's eye and broke another's jaw. Under any other circumstances, our lord Don Quejano would have ordered the same done to him as fair retribution."

  "Those elves' families have money to pay a healer to cure their wounds. We don't," Father said.

  Lugotérix stared at his boots, pretending to feel ashamed.

  "He should've thought of that before committing the crime," the mayor replied. Then he sighed. "However, more important matters weigh on our lands and our people. Dark times are coming, and dark lords are at our gates. The League of Wizards has imposed a trade blockade on the city of Bruxa, seat of Count Zarregui, to whom our Don Quejano is a vassal. A few days ago, the Bloody Prince, great lord of the High Elves, managed to convince the count to launch an attack and break the blockade. They've already begun recruiting levies in the County of Bruxa, and in a few days they'll be here to take our best men—including you, Taetix. I want you to take your son with you as well, young as he is, and you may consider the matter settled."

  Father nodded and turned to leave, but before he could take a step, the mayor raised his voice again.

  "That said, keep in mind that even if you return from the battle, your son will still be a savage. You are not, Taetix, nor are most who live here, but there are humans with a corrupt nature. Bad stock. And I fear your son is one of them. I advise that when you return from the war, you send him to a monastery. There's something rotten in his soul that only the light of Xemasis can cure."

  A grimace of disgust crossed Father's face.

  "Thank you very much for the advice, Master Bean, but I don't need help raising my children."

  "I think you do."

  "Four elves tried to beat him, and before that Don Antoniel's son was threatening people at The Austere Vine, telling them to kiss his ring and dance for him..."

  "And call him 'Your Excellency,'" Lugotérix reminded him.

  "Silence, boy." Father shot him a glare. Then he turned back to the mayor. "And call him 'Your Excellency.'" He said those words in an effeminate voice while flicking his wrist like a pompous elf. Lugotérix couldn't help laughing. "What would you have done in his place? Look the other way? Turn the other cheek? Let them beat you?"

  "Yes," the mayor said. "You're human, and they're elves. Period."

  Father snorted and turned away.

  "Come on, Lugotérix. Maybe your soul's rotten, but the mayor has his balls rotten."

  "Don Quejano will never forget this affront!" the gnome shouted as they left the room.

  They stepped out of the giant bean that was the mayor's house. Lugotérix kept laughing on the way home.

  "You should've seen the look on his fa—"

  But Father kicked him in the ass and sent him face-first into the ground.

  "Ow!" Lugotérix complained.

  "He's right—you're an animal. What were you thinking, tearing an elf's eye out?"

  "There were four of them and one of me!" Lugotérix squealed as he stood. "You yourself told me about the teachings of the Daeltis druids. When you're at a disadvantage, the best thing is to use fear to—"

  "Shut up, son. Don't keep talking. I don't want to hear another word—not one. Otherwise I won't answer for what I do."

  The Daeltis were the clan his family came from, before they sought refuge in Sparkjoy. Good sailors and warriors, who went to war with their faces painted and axes in hand. And now they were going to honor them by fighting in a battle to free Bruxa from the hosts of dark elves: the League of Wizards.

  Lugotérix watched the enemy troops on the far side of the field. Somewhere among them would be the one they called the Sapphire Prince, preparing for his duel with the Bloody Prince. Lugotérix, Father, and the small mage Rezzekiel stood among the rest of the levies, aligned in irregular rows, hands clenched around splintered spears, sickles repurposed into weapons, and wooden shields that were little more than nailed planks. Some murmured prayers as their boots pressed the dew into the earth. Behind them, runic knights and elven and dwarven soldiers stood firm and impassive, while peasants turned warriors exchanged uncertain looks. The thrum of war drums rolled through the air.

  A shadow swept across the sky, and when they looked up, they saw the Bloody Prince descend in a whirl of wings and dust. His pegasus—a beast of ebony with a mane like liquid fire—beat its wings with a thunderous roar before landing on the trampled grass with a predator's elegance. His crimson cloak streamed like a flame in the wind, and he drew his runic sword, its edge gleaming with a baleful radiance. The slits of his helmet—two coals of contained fury—scanned the ranks of levies and soldiers.

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  "I see fear in your hearts, my warriors!" he shouted. "Fear at being torn from your homes by the cowardly dark elves. But I also see anger, rage, and courage to fight for your families..." He began to ride along the line. "For your comrades, for your lords, for—"

  But the Bruxan line was long, and after a while they could no longer hear the rest of his rousing speech.

  "What an idiot this Bloody Prince is," Rezzekiel said, looking disappointed.

  Father elbowed him in the shoulder.

  "What? Not just because of this pathetic little speech—also because he started this crazy war against the League. Everyone knows it's just an excuse to get his revenge on the Sapphire Prince. He still hasn't gotten over losing to him at the Tournament of Ilisea, and in Bruxa two years ago, and in Conztanza—"

  "You've got a big mouth for a village mage. Shut up—he's coming back."

  Lugotérix heard the pegasus's hooves pounding the ground.

  "...and my heart shrinks with your pain and suffering, but on this day we will fight! We will fight! And when the trumpets of Bruxa sound, the citizens will know their heroes return with—"

  He rode too far again and his voice was swallowed by distance.

  "When it was the Battle of Irinea, the general used a sound spell so everyone could hear him. I don't know why he doesn't do the same," Father remarked.

  "Because he's a fool, I told you. Only an idiot would face the League in open field."

  "You say that because you belong to the League," Father said with a grin.

  "I'm loyal to Don Quejano, redhead. I'm saying it because it's the Sapphire Prince's army—he's never lost a battle or a single combat. I'll bet you anything he wins again, and Bruxa will be the one paying the price. We never should've gone to war with them."

  The Bloody Prince rode back close enough that Lugotérix could hear him.

  "Death!" he shouted. "Death! For Bruxa! For victory!"

  A roar of voices and cries rippled through the Bruxan army. But then a shriek like a bird of prey tore the sky, and every voice died as if by magic. Lugotérix saw it. On the far side of the field, a figure rose from among the League's troops. A white pegasus sliced through the air, beating its wings with a thunderous roar before landing with elegant precision on the trampled grass. Its rider dismounted in a single motion, his blue cloak flowing like liquid crystal, and drew a runic sword that shone sapphire-bright. He was very tall, even for an elf, and sapphires studded his imposing armor—an amalgam of jagged plates sharp as thorns. His helmet bore a crown of spikes and a featureless mask that hid his face, showing only the glow of his eyes: two spectral embers burning in the visor's gloom. He raised a gauntleted hand, taloned in steel, and gestured for the Bloody Prince to approach.

  For a few moments, the Bloody Prince seemed to hesitate, staring at his rival in the distance as if hypnotized. When he finally seemed to snap out of it, he turned back toward Lugotérix and the rest of the army, as though to make sure none of them had noticed him falter.

  "For victory!"

  He shouted again, but no one cheered. He spurred his mount forward. He reached the dueling ground, where the heralds and the Sapphire Prince waited. He dismounted and began to speak with them. Lugotérix could barely contain his excitement, and when he looked around, he saw no one spoke—no one made a sound. Everyone's eyes were wide, waiting for what would happen next.

  After a time, the heralds mounted their horses, sounded their trumpets, and withdrew from the two contenders as if a demon were chasing them. The two princes took their stances. The tension was so thick it could be cut with a knife.

  "The duel begins," Rezzekiel said.

  2

  The Bloody Prince traced an arc through the air with his sword, its edge flickering like red flame under the morning sun. Across from him, the Sapphire Prince stood motionless; the two incandescent embers behind his visor didn't even blink when his rival lunged. The clash was a boom and hiss of white-hot metal against white-hot metal, followed by a flurry of quick, precise strikes as the Bloody Prince tried to crack his rival's guard—only for each cut to be turned aside. Lugotérix had never seen anyone move so fast. It was impossible to follow their blades. One moment they were locked together, the next executing a flourish to disarm, the next shifting into a different line that was nothing but a feint.

  The Sapphire Prince advanced with steady steps, adopting a hanging guard, blade angled downward, ready to deflect any descending blow. The Bloody Prince attacked with a stop-thrust, aiming fast for the heart, but Sapphire pivoted, the crimson edge missing him by a whisper. Before his rival could reset, Sapphire answered with a feint—threatening a cut to the head to draw the Bloody Prince's parry—then at the last instant changed the line of his strike, turning the blade to carve toward the enemy's exposed flank.

  Lugotérix felt Rezzekiel bouncing with excitement and sighing. The impact rang like thunder when Sapphire's bluish sword struck the magical ward that wrapped the Bloody Prince like a second skin. Even so, it left a glowing crack in his breastplate. The Bloody Prince growled with fury and answered with a beat, slashing hard to knock Sapphire's blade aside, then following with a moulinet, whipping his weapon into a savage descending cut. Sapphire intercepted with a high parry, deflecting the burning blade in a crackle of sparks, and immediately launched a riposte—a quick thrust that pierced the Bloody Prince's defense and drove the point into his shoulder. Sapphire-blue aether crackled on contact, sending waves of light that made the ward visibly shudder, weakening.

  "Lobera is the best swordsman, no doubt about it," Father said.

  The Bloody Prince seemed to agree, because next he conjured a burst of crimson energy from his gauntlet, damaging the Sapphire Prince's breastward and blasting him backward. He didn't lose his balance, but Taetix saw his steel boots carve two deep furrows in the earth. How much does he weigh? he thought. He must weigh like iron to sink into the ground like that. The Bloody Prince launched another explosive spell, but the blue prince gave him no respite. He deflected it with a counterspell from his gauntlet and sent it into Bruxa's troops, not far from where Lugotérix stood. He saw earth, rock, wood, iron—limbs and viscera—burst skyward in a cloud of fire.

  "Gods! That was Pyro in minor Fa?, an explosive spell," Rezzekiel whimpered. "This was fun, but I've seen enough. Time to get back to the other mages—good luck, and may it go well for you."

  He disappeared between the levy ranks, toward where the other elves stood. Lugotérix shrank back in fear, but couldn't take his eyes off the fight. The Sapphire Prince surged forward in a rapid lunge, leaping at least fifteen meters—so Lugotérix calculated in amazement. With a final sequence, he executed a double beat: a first cut that forced his opponent to raise his sword in defense, followed by a second, crushing blow that struck the crack in his armor. The blue runeblade shattered part of the ward into a thousand crystalline motes that scattered through the air. The Bloody Prince reeled, clearly wounded, and tried to thrust, but Sapphire slipped aside, his cloak flaring, and hammered him in the temple with the sword's pommel. The Bloody Prince stumbled forward. His rival sprang and drove a thrust into his back. What remained of the ward blocked the blade, but the impact and the collision of aetheric forces hurled the warrior a dozen meters, throwing up mounds of dirt as he hit the ground and slammed into a large chestnut tree, splitting it in half.

  "It's over," Father said. "The Bloody Prince has lost his ward."

  Lugotérix saw that indeed, thousands of crystalline motes floated around the fallen prince, and the translucent second skin had vanished completely. The Bloody Prince tried to stand, covered in splinters and earth, only to sway, dizzy, and collapse face-first again. The heralds rode closer, and the Sapphire Prince sheathed his sword.

  "Tell the heralds you yield, and I'll spare your life!" Lugotérix heard the Sapphire Prince shout as he approached his rival, who still struggled to rise.

  "Never!" the other screamed.

  He let out a sharp whistle. The black pegasus, which had been grazing nearby during the duel, lifted its head and flew to its master. The Sapphire Prince ran to intercept, but it was too late. The Bloody Prince hauled himself onto the mount and took off. Sapphire made a great leap to slash the creature's belly, but missed by inches. With the advantage of height, the Bloody Prince aimed his gauntlet and invoked Pyro in minor Fa? again. Sapphire rolled and managed to evade. The spell left a smoking crater in the ground. The white pegasus rushed to its master's aid. The Bloody Prince cast again, but Sapphire raised his gauntlet and deflected the blast toward the chestnut tree, which exploded in a bloom of fire, flinging splinters in every direction. They struck the Sapphire Prince's ward and his pegasus's, but one of the heralds wasn't so lucky. He fell from his horse, blood blooming across his body as he screamed in pain.

  Reunited with his pegasus, the Sapphire Prince mounted and took flight after his rival, who was already high in the sky, heading toward the bay in the distance. The heralds sounded their trumpets and said something Lugotérix couldn't make out. Murmurs and boos spread through Bruxa's army.

  "They've declared the Sapphire Prince the winner," Lugotérix heard some men say.

  "Looks like there won't be a battle, son."

  "What a load of shit," Lugotérix said. "How are we supposed to appease Don Quejano now?"

  "I suppose I'll have to send you to a monastery," Father said without looking him in the face.

  Lugotérix couldn't tell whether he was joking or serious, but either way it wasn't funny. He looked toward the bay, the sea a line on the horizon. Above, among the clouds, he saw a storm of lightning and fireballs—the two princes still fighting, without a doubt. One of them will die today—if not both, he thought. And everything they carry—the sword, the armor, the gauntlets, every jewel, maybe even their clothes—is worth a fortune. Confusion reigned among the troops, captains shouting orders. But Lugotérix knew exactly what he had to do.

  While Father argued with other soldiers about what the orders were, Lugotérix slipped between the levy ranks. Everyone assumed he was just a squire's boy, not a soldier, so no one raised an alarm about desertion. He ran across the field with all the strength in his legs toward the bay. The ground underfoot soon stopped being trampled grass and became loose sand, giving way with every step, forcing him to work harder to keep his speed. The air was thick with the smell of salt and rotting seaweed, and the distant sound of waves grew louder with every stride. He descended the bay's slope, sliding between wet, jagged rocks, slipping more than once, but never stopping. When he reached the dock, he saw their fishing boat still moored, bobbing gently with the tide among dozens of other boats. There was no time to untie knots carefully. He yanked the lines with all his strength, letting them fall into the water, and jumped aboard with a dull thud, barely keeping his balance. Moving fast, he freed the ropes that held the mainsail and hauled the halyard, feeling the wet, heavy canvas creak as it rose. The wind caught it at once, swelling it with a sudden jerk that rocked the boat. He set the sheet, securing it to the timber with trembling hands, then hurried to free the mizzen, letting it take the wind to steady the course. The boat listed slightly as the breeze began to pull it out to sea. He took off his helmet, letting his red hair loose, grabbed the oars, and began to drive against the current, away from shore. In the distance, the clouds still flashed with light and lightning. If they fall into the water, I'm the only one who can get their armor. I'll be a rich man. Maybe richer than Don Quejano!

  He kept rowing with that in mind. He didn't know how much time passed, but he could no longer see the other boats on the shore. The clouds gave way to clear sky, and Lugotérix could make out two shapes in the firmament, wheeling in a dizzying dance as they exchanged beams of light and fireballs. Now they were losing altitude, growing sharper. He saw the Sapphire Prince chasing the Bloody Prince with his blue sword drawn, both of them shouting things Lugotérix couldn't hear. The Bloody Prince had to veer to dodge a bolt hurled by Sapphire, which forced him toward a cliff. Cornered, he twisted his mount in what looked like a desperate attempt to counterattack.

  With a sudden maneuver, Sapphire yanked the reins and his pegasus surged upward, vaulting over the enemy before turning and diving onto him with wings folded. The blue sword traced a perfect arc in the air, slicing clean through the dark pegasus's wing. An agonized whinny filled the sky as the wounded creature plummeted, its rider cursing in fury. Lugotérix watched him slam into the cliff face. He was surprised the elf didn't smash through the rock the way he had split the chestnut earlier. Without their wards, elves aren't much different from humans, he thought. Instead, he fell like a rag doll, crashing against sharp outcroppings and vanishing among the ledges. The Sapphire Prince's pegasus spread its wings and flew over the ridge, heading toward the sunlit horizon.

  Lugotérix rowed harder. The sail was full with a good wind. He soon closed on the cliff, where furious waves hammered the rocks. There, sprawled on a spur of stone that jutted from the water like an arrowhead, lay the Bloody Prince and his pegasus—or what was left of them. Their limbs were twisted grotesquely, broken in dozens of places. Lugotérix dropped anchor, took the gaff he and Father used to snag fish and floating objects, and hooked the metal barb into the prince's neck. He hauled with all his strength until he managed to drag him off the mount and onto the deck. The elf was far taller and heavier than Lugotérix, but he managed. He hid the body beneath a tarp. He raised the anchor and, with a victorious grin, turned the boat with the oars and headed back toward the military camp.

  He peered under the tarp. The crimson armor looked intact despite the fall, still throwing off sparks, and the sword remained in its scabbard. I'll leave the body here in the boat and tell Father that— But a beating of wings cut his thoughts short. Lugotérix turned, and to his horror he saw the Sapphire Prince diving straight toward him. In an instant he was overhead, the pegasus hovering above the water beside Lugotérix's boat, wings thundering. The prince slipped his feet free of the stirrups and leapt onto the deck, rocking the boat violently.

  "What are you doing?!" a harsh voice rasped through the spiked-crowned helmet.

  Lugotérix couldn't think of an answer. He couldn't stop staring at the infernal red light glowing from the helmet's slits. The Sapphire Prince stepped forward and grabbed him by his worn mail shirt.

  "Speak," he said, lifting him.

  Lugotérix kicked helplessly.

  "I... I—the corpse, and... and... the armor. The sword."

  The dark elf released him. Then he removed his helmet and set it aside on the deck. His face was pale and grayish, slightly gaunt and sweaty. His hair was jet black, cut short in a military style, and he wore a matching beard. His eyes were blue, and they reminded Lugotérix of a fish's—staring without seeing. He had sharp cheekbones and a strong jaw, broad-chinned.

  "You're a scavenger. And a very fast one, boy. I only just killed this idiot and you're already here, claiming his possessions—and you piloted a boat alone. Impressive."

  The parish priest had taught Lugotérix what "sarcasm" meant, and he wasn't sure whether that was what the dark elf was doing now. The prince lifted the tarp and inspected the corpse. He drew a dagger from his belt, leaned in, and drove it into the Bloody Prince through the gap at the throat.

  "Just to be sure," he said.

  Lugotérix didn't know how to react. Now what? Is he going to kill me too? He hadn't even stopped to consider that possibility. He began to think Father might be right, and that not even a thousand treasures would fix how stupid he was. The Sapphire Prince looked him up and down and seemed to notice his fear and uncertainty. He unbuckled his sword, and for a tense moment Lugotérix thought he would draw it—but instead he set it aside next to the helmet. He sat on one of the benches, leaning back against the stern and stretching his arms, making himself comfortable.

  "I'll tell you something, boy. If you strip the armor, it's yours—along with the sword. I only need the body, and I'd travel lighter if I weren't wearing the armor. Deal?"

  Lugotérix nodded with a grin and went to work at once. He grabbed the Bloody Prince by the breastplate and hauled with all his strength, managing to roll him. First he removed the helmet, revealing a face turned to pulp from smashing into the rocks. He was a blond elf. Lugotérix had expected him to be red-haired, like himself. He loosened the straps that held the pauldrons, sliding them free with a metallic creak. Then he moved on to the bracers and gauntlets, which he had to twist and hammer against the boat's edge until they gave. That caught the prince's attention.

  "Have you ever taken off or put on runic armor before?" he asked.

  Lugotérix shook his head.

  "Then you already have more knack for it than most of my squires. If you were highborn, I'd take you into my personal service."

  Lugotérix didn't know what to say, so he kept working. The breastplate was the hardest, because the buckles had jammed from the impact of the fall, but with a knife he managed to cut them and tear it free, exposing the tunic soaked with seawater and blood. It steamed. Finally he removed the greaves and boots with one last effort, until the corpse lay free of its heavy frame. He gathered everything and wrapped it in the tarp, along with the sword. Then he tried to hoist the body onto his shoulders, but it was too heavy.

  "Leave it. I'll handle that."

  The Sapphire Prince stood and, with one hand, grabbed the corpse by the belt and slung it over his shoulder. He whistled, and the pegasus—floating in the water—swam closer to the boat.

  "What's your name, boy?"

  "Lugotérix," he replied. "Lugotérix Moritex, my prince."

  "I'm actually a duke, but I suppose it's practically the same. Very well, Lugotérix. I am Gaspar Lobera, as I imagine you already know." He removed his steel gauntlet and extended his pale hand. Lugotérix hesitated, then shook it. The duke's hand was strong and calloused. "Good luck selling the armor on the black market—you should make a fortune that frees you and your family from fishing for the rest of your lives. The sword, in particular, is called Colade, and it is a legendary, ancient elven weapon. The armor is extraordinary as well, even among runic gear. Don't ask for less than thirty thousand aethers for it. You can retire to one of the Sea Elves' islands and live like kings."

  To Lugotérix's discomfort, the duke was still holding his hand. The dark lord turned it over, revealing the boy's knuckles, scabbed from his fight with Fiorenzo. To Lugotérix's surprise, the duke gave him a half-smile, and now his eyes no longer looked like a fish's. They were truly looking at him.

  "But if that doesn't satisfy you, don't hesitate to enter my service someday. You show promise and courage, coming all the way out here."

  He released him and strapped the corpse onto the pegasus with leather thongs. He retrieved his sword and helmet and mounted. The beast beat its wings, splashing water over the boat, and took flight.

  Lugotérix rubbed his hands together and shouted with joy. He unwrapped the tarp, still hardly believing he had a suit of runic armor in his possession. It crackled with the last remnants of aetheric energy. He took the sword and drew it. It was long and thick, with a ruby in its hilt and runes covering the blade. He looked toward the horizon where the Sapphire Prince flew and thought the dark elves weren't as terrible as everyone described. They weren't the great shadowy lords from Grandfather's stories and the druid of Krauxa. Suddenly he felt profoundly grateful to the elven commander, proud that he'd considered him for service. The mayor thought his soul was rotten, but who was he—and what was his opinion worth beside a great lord of the elves? Father was the strongest man he knew, and yet he was nothing beside the Sapphire Prince's power. He was a god among ants, and he had recognized him as someone promising. He had seen him for what he truly was—seen his worth. For a moment, Lugotérix thought he felt a reddish light reflected on his face, and warmth in the hand that held the hilt, but when he looked again there was nothing. Only the sword Colade, its runes carved and lifeless.

  Must be my imagination, he thought. Fiorenzo said it himself. Humans don't have aether, and we can't do magic.