Death Wind (Elven Alliance #3) - Tara Grayce Page 0,80

Beside it, Julien and the Escarlish soldiers had laid out the small, steam-powered drilling machine that would bore holes into rock for the blasting sticks.

Edmund and the remaining two elves climbed the ropes and knelt on the ledge. After a glance at the stars, Edmund eased next to Essie. “Should be only a few more minutes until the bombardment starts.”

As if on cue, the first rumble blasted through the night air, followed by three successive booms.

Essie found herself giving Edmund a small smile. “I think your clock is a little off.”

“Avie is early.” Edmund glanced at Julien.

After checking his pocket watch and shrugging, Julien held up the steam-powered drilling machine. “He’s early. But I don’t mind moving up our schedule.”

Essie gripped the stock of her gun. Time to get Farrendel back.

MELANTHA SHOVED herself to a sitting position, her arms shaking from lack of food and water. It had been three days since anyone had come to her cell for any reason, though King Charvod had stopped to gloat a few times as he passed to and from Farrendel’s cell. She hadn’t seen Prince Rharreth.

Farrendel. He had been far too quiet in the past hours. How long had it been since she had gotten a response to one of her shouts?

A distant noise caught her attention. Melantha cocked her ear and held her breath to listen. What was that? It must have been loud, for her to have heard it down in the dungeon.

Another boom. Vibrations—so small she would not have felt them if her hands had not been pressed to the cold stone floor—shivered up her arms.

What was that? It must have been some kind of...explosion.

Another distant explosion. Another shudder.

Melantha stared at her hands on the stone, her mind hazy. Those explosions meant something. Something she was supposed to remember.

The Escarlish army had explosive weapons. She had heard that somewhere, though she had never heard them in action before. But that could be the only explanation.

And that meant the Escarlish army was out there, attacking the castle. Presumably, the Tarenhieli army was with them. Weylind was out there.

This was the moment Melantha and Farrendel had been waiting for.

Melantha crawled as close to the door as the stone chains would let her. Her throat hurt, but she forced herself to shout as loudly as she could. “Farrendel! Can you hear me? Farrendel?”

No answer.

“Farrendel!” Her voice creaked, but she managed enough volume that he should have heard her.

Was he awake and simply too weak to reply? Or was he unconscious?

He could not be dead. Surely King Charvod wanted Farrendel and Weylind to suffer too much to have allowed Farrendel to die in his cell.

Unless King Charvod had not realized he had pushed Farrendel’s body too far. He had been weak. Tortured. Then left for three days without food or water, all alone except for King Charvod’s torture.

What if Farrendel had quietly died in that cell, all alone? Abandoned?

No. He had been too determined to live to return to Essie. He must be still alive.

Yet, he must be in no shape to put his plan into action. Too weak without her magic to break his bonds and escape.

She had to get to him. Before Prince Rharreth or whatever troll King Charvod sent came down here to kill him.

But how? She did not have magic capable of breaking the chains holding her to the wall.

She yanked on the chains. They would not budge.

How could she be this helpless? She was a princess of the elves. The daughter of a long line of kings. She could not—would not—be this helpless.

With another yank on the chains, she gave a short scream. If only she had magic like Farrendel’s where she could blast through these chains, these walls, this castle.

Even if she had magic like Weylind’s or Jalissa’s, maybe she could have broken the chains.

What good was healing magic? It was nearly useless. Sure, she had kept Farrendel alive this long because of it. She had helped him regain the use of his magic temporarily.

But she could not do anything herself. She could just help others do things.

Another scream. Another pound of her fists on the stone. She wanted to do something great. Herself. Not through someone else. But by herself.

Now was not the time for self-pity. She had work to do and a brother to save.

Melantha stared at her hands, at the stone shackles clasping her wrists. If she could not break the shackles, could she slip her hands free? Elven hands were slimmer than troll