by Paul S. Kemp
“Hurry now,” he called to his men, the pilgrims. “We’re exposed in the foothills. We have to reach the plains as rapidly as possible.”
With the hale assisting the elderly or weak, the group moved quickly through the boulder-strewn hills. Vasen knew his mother had been found in the foothills, among a stand of pine, not far from the pass. Pines still dotted the hills, and each time he walked there, he felt connected to her. He wondered if the trees under which she’d been found still stood.
Soon the rocks and gravel surrendered to scrub and whipgrass. Vasen led the group to a stand of broadleaf trees he knew and they stood under it, fatigue in the eyes of the pilgrims.
“Rest a moment,” he said. “Eat. We move quickly from here. The less time we spend on the open plains, the less likely we are to be spotted. We’re three days from the Dales. Three days from the sun.” He forced a smile. “That’s not long, is it?”
“No,” some said.
“Not long,” said others.
The pilgrims pulled bread, cured mutton, and goat cheese from their packs. Orsin sat apart, cross-legged on his pack, eyes closed, hands on his knees. He seemed to be meditating or praying. Vasen, Nald, Eldris, and Byrne moved among the pilgrims as they ate, keeping spirits high.
“He’s a strange one, yes?” Byrne said softly to Vasen, nodding at Orsin.
“He is. Of course, many say that of me.”
To that, Byrne said nothing. Both of them knew it to be true.
“He’s an honorable man, I think,” Vasen said.
“He’s not of the faith, though,” Byrne said, and gave a harrumph.
“He’s of a faith,” Vasen said, and left Byrne to visit with the pilgrims, offering encouraging words and blessings to ease pain and warm spirits. Amaunator had gifted all of the Dawnswords with the ability to channel their faith into various miracles.
“How do you fare?” Vasen asked a heavyset woman of maybe forty winters. He thought her name was Elora. Her son sat beside her, a boy of perhaps ten. Vasen searched his memory for the boy’s name—Noll.
“As well as I might in this rain.”
“Do you need anything I can provide? You or Noll?”
“We’re fine.”
“Fine, goodsir,” said the boy, around a mouthful of cheese.
“You hale from the Dales?” Vasen asked, to make small talk.
A shadow passed over Elora’s face. “Archendale. Before the Sembian attack. Then Daggerdale.”
Vasen could see loss in her face. Judging from the fact that she and Noll traveled alone, he could guess what.
“If there’s anything I can do for you, sister,” Vasen said, and touched her lightly. “You need only ask.”
She recoiled slightly at his touch and he saw that his hand leaked shadows. He pretended not to notice her response, stood, and moved to walk away.
“Are you a . . . Shadovar?” Noll blurted at his back.
The question silenced the other pilgrims.
Vasen felt their eyes on him. A child had asked the question, but they were all thinking it. He turned, shadows leaking from his flesh.
Elora colored. “Noll!”
Her son spoke around a mouthful of cheese. “I didn’t mean to be rude, momma.”
Vasen produced a smile to reassure Noll. He’d heard the query often enough, and not always from children. With his dusky skin, long dark hair, and shining yellow eyes, he looked not unlike a Shadovar.
“I’m not,” he said, and left it at that. “Be at ease.”
“Then what are you?” asked Noll.
“Boy!” said the middle-aged man. “You go too far.”
“Forgive the boy,” another man said. “His mouth outruns his sense.”
“There’s nothing to forgive,” Vasen said, loudly enough for everyone to hear. “I’m a man, a servant of Amaunator and a follower of the light, the same as you.” He smiled at Noll and winked. “I’ve found that to be quite enough to keep me busy.”
Noll grinned in return, bits of food sticking to his teeth.
“Now gather your things, all of you,” Vasen said. “Time to move.”
Groans answered his proclamation, but the pilgrims did as he bade. As they gathered their things, Eldris walked to Vasen’s side and put a hand on his shoulder.
“They meant nothing by it, First Blade.”
“I know,” Vasen said.
Soon they set off. Sticking to the route he’d traveled many times in the past, they made rapid progress. Always Vasen kept his eyes to the sky, watching for any sign of the Shadovar. His lineage allowed him to see in the darkness as if it were noon, so everyone relied on him to spot danger before they could.
The rain picked up after a few hours, the water of the downpour as brown as a turd and carrying the faint whiff of decay. He considered calling a halt but the pilgrims seemed to be holding up, even the old. Vasen saw that Noll had his face to the sky, his mouth open to drink.
Before Vasen could speak, Orsin tapped the boy on the shoulder. “Don’t drink that or your pee will come out green.”
The boy grinned.
“He’s right,” Vasen said, seriousness in his tone. He admonished himself for not telling the pilgrims not to drink the rain.
The boy colored, lowered his head, and grinned sheepishly.
Orsin offered Noll his own waterskin and the boy drank deeply.
Vasen nodded gratitude at Orsin, and said to the pilgrims, “Drink only from your waterskins. Rain like this can make you sick.”
They murmured acquiescence. Elora cuffed Noll in the back of his head. Orsin fell in beside Vasen.
“I should’ve told them before,” Vasen said, shaking his head at his oversight. “Sometimes I assume they know what I know.”
“No way to anticipate the boy would drink rain that smells like death.”
“He must have drank all his water at the first break,” Vasen said.
“Maybe,” Orsin said. “Or he’s just a boy drinking the rain because he’s bored and that’s as boys do.”
“He didn’t drink much,” Vasen said, hoping Noll wouldn’t get ill.
“He didn’t,” Orsin agreed. “And he’s young.”
The wet pasted the pilgrims’ cloak hoods and hair to their scalps, their robes and cloaks to their bodies. They trudged through muck that pulled at their feet, stumbling often. But despite the rain and the bleak sky, they smiled often at each other. Each carried a symbol of their faith blessed by the Oracle—a wooden sunburst and rose—and most held it in hand as they trekked, heads down, prayers on their lips. Despite the rain and the black churn of the Sembian sky, the pilgrims held Amauntator’s brightness in their spirit. Vasen found joy in their happiness, although he kept an eye on Noll. The boy seemed fine, if a little pale.
Byrne sat beside Vasen under a broadleaf tree while the pilgrims took another rest. As usual, Orsin sat apart from the rest of the pilgrims, with them, but not of them. The deva stared off into the rain with his peculiar eyes, maybe seeing things Vasen did not. Old lives, maybe.
Byrne drank from his waterskin, offered it to Vasen.
“Word of the abbey and the Oracle is spreading,” Byrne said, as Vasen drank. “The pilgrims speak of loose tongues in the Dales and beyond.”
“That’s always been a risk,” Vasen said. “But no one knows even the general location of the abbey except those of the faith. And none of them could find their way back without us to guide them.”
Byrne shook his head. “Still, too many know of us. The Oracle’s on every tongue. He’s sought by many. The war in the Dales is only making it worse.”
Vasen pushed his wet hair out of his eyes. “Aye. The times are dark, Byrne. People crave light.”
“Aye, that. But if loose tongues bring the Shadovar down on us while we have pilgrims,” Byrne said. “Then what light shall we cast?”
Vasen stood, offered Byrne a hand, and pulled him to his feet. “That’ll depend on how well we fight.”
“There are only fo
ur of us here, First Blade.”
“Five,” called Orsin.
Byrne raised his eyebrows in surprise. “The man’s ears are keen.” He raised the waterskin in a show of respect. “Five it is, then. I’m called Byrne.”
The deva stood, approached, and took Byrne’s hand. “Orsin. And even with five we will need to fight very well, indeed, should we encounter Shadovar.”
“Truth,” Byrne said.
Vasen shouldered on his pack. “Let’s hope we don’t have to fight at all. Time to—”
A deep growl from somewhere out in the darkness of the plain pulled their eyes around. Vasen drew his blade. The pilgrims stared at one another, wide-eyed. They huddled close. A few of them drew eating knives, little use in a combat. Eldris and Nald stationed themselves before the pilgrims. Vasen, Byrne, and Orsin drifted a few steps toward the sound, ears primed, weapons drawn, all of them knowing the horrors the plains of Sembia could vomit forth.
The sound did not recur. Vasen called his men to him.
“Appear calm and unafraid,” he said to them. “Eyes and ears sharp. And watch the boy, Noll. He drank more of the rain than I’d like. Let’s move.”
The group left the shelter of the pines and re-entered the stinking rain. All of the Dawnswords carried bared blades, and Vasen didn’t breathe easy until they had put a league under their feet.
During the trek, Noll began to cough. At first Vasen told himself it was merely the ague, but hope faded as the coughing grew worse. Soon the boy hacked like an old man with wetlung. Vasen had never seen disease root so fast.
Noll stumbled as he walked. His mother, Elora, tried to help him.
“Assist them,” Vasen ordered Eldris, and Eldris did, letting Noll lean on him as they walked.
“The rain has infected the boy,” Orsin said.
Vasen nodded. “I’m worried. Illness from the rain is usually days in the making.”
“Can he be helped?”
“Byrne,” Vasen called, and nodded at Noll.
Byrne hurried to the boy’s side and the group halted for a moment while the Dawnrider placed his holy symbol—a bronze sun—on Noll’s forehead and invoked the power of the Dawnfather. Byrne’s hands glowed with light, the holy symbol glowed, too, and Noll smiled and breathed easier. Byrne mussed his hair.
The reprieve lasted only a short while. Soon Noll was coughing again, worse than before.
“What’s wrong with him?” Elora called. While Eldris sought to calm her, Byrne came to Vasen’s side.
“The healing prayer did not rid him of the disease.”
“No,” Vasen said. Healing prayers could close wounds, even fix broken bones, but against disease they were useless. “If we can get out of this storm, I can see him healed.”
Thunder growled in answer, the spite of the Shadovar’s sky.
“I’ll find shelter, then,” Orsin said, and darted off into the darkness.
“Wait!” Vasen called, but the deva was already gone, one with the darkness and rain.
“What now?” Byrne asked.
Vasen eyed Noll. “We keep moving until we find shelter. Orsin will find us. He doesn’t seem to get lost.”
Another round of lightning veined the sky, celestial pyrotechnics that elicited a gasp from the pilgrims. A prolonged roll of thunder shook the earth. Soon the rain fell in blistering sheets, blocking even Vasen’s vision. Vasen could not believe that the Oracle had deemed their departure time an auspicious moment. They’d walked into the worst storm Vasen could remember.
They pressed on because they had no choice, the Dawnswords shouting encouragement, scanning the terrain for shelter but seeing none. Noll lagged, stumbled, his coughing loud between the intervals of thunder. The boy would fail if they did not do something soon, and they were moving too slowly.
Vasen strode to the back of the column, where Eldris tried to keep Noll upright. Elora, her dark, curly hair pressed by the rain to her pale face, fretted over the boy. The rain failed to hide her tearful eyes.
“Can you not help him?” she said to Vasen, and took him by the hands. “Please, Dawnsword.”
Vasen held her hands and spoke softly. “I hope so, but I need shelter to perform a more powerful ritual. I need a fire among other things, and no flame will hold in this downpour.” He kneeled and looked the boy in the face. The wind whipped both of their cloaks hither and yon. Noll’s eyes were bleary, his face wan.
“I’d like to carry you, Noll, but I can’t do it all alone. Can you hold onto me?”
The boy’s gaze focused on Vasen and he nodded.
Vasen shed his pack, shield, and sword as another round of lightning lit the plains.
“Come on!” shouted one of the pilgrims. “We’ll be struck by a bolt standing here.”
Eldris carried Vasen’s gear and Vasen lifted Noll onto his back. The boy wrapped his arms around Vasen’s neck, hooked his legs around Vasen’s waist. Even through his armor Vasen could feel the heat of the boy’s fever. He got a feel for the weight.
“Just hang on, Noll,” Vasen said.
“You won’t be able to carry him far,” said Eldris.
“Far enough,” said Vasen, and started off. To the pilgrims, he shouted, “Move! Faster now!”
The sky darkened further as night threatened and the storm strengthened, and still they’d found no suitable shelter and no Orsin. Lightning split the sky and bisected a twisted, long dead elm that stood a spear cast from the group. Wood splintered with a sharp crack and the two halves of the dead tree crashed to earth. The ruin spat flames for only a moment before the rain extinguished them.
“Where’s a damned stand of living trees?” Vasen shouted, as another coughing fit wracked Noll. The boy’s mother hovered near Vasen, fretting.
Vasen focused on putting one leg in front of the other. Shadows poured from his flesh. Noll was either past noticing them or didn’t care. So, too, his grief-stricken mother. Fatigue threatened to give way to exhaustion in Vasen and still the rain did not relent.
Byrne drifted back to the rear of the column. “How do you fare?”
“Well enough. How fares the boy?”
Byrne checked the boy, returned his gaze to Vasen. “Not well.”
Noll’s mother wailed. “Not my boy. Not my sweet boy. I’ve already lost his father to the Sembia army. I can’t lose him, too.”
“Find someplace,” Vasen said to Byrne. “Any place. We must try the ritual.”
“There is nowhere, First Blade,” Byrne answered.
A shout from the pilgrims drew their attention. Two of them were pointing off to the left, but the rain and darkness prevented Vasen from seeing anything. Lightning ripped the sky anew.
“There! There!”
Vasen saw. One hundred paces away, Orsin stood atop a rise, waving his staff over his head. Hope for Noll rose in Vasen.
“Light us up so he knows we saw him,” Vasen said to Byrne.
Byrne nodded and uttered a prayer lost to the howl of the wind. His shield began to glow, the warm, rosy glow of Amaunator’s blessing. So lit, Byrne headed toward where they’d last seen Orsin.
“Hurry now, everyone,” called Vasen. “Quickly. Quickly.”
Sloshing through the sopping plains, the group followed Byrne toward Orsin, who came down from the rise to meet them. Thunder rolled.
“I’ve found a cave. It’ll bear us all.”
Vasen grabbed him by the cloak, leaned on him for strength. “How far?”
Orsin’s eyes looked like moons in his face. “Less far the faster we move.”
Vasen let him go, and all of them staggered through the storm. Fatigue and the weather made Vasen’s vision blurry, but Orsin appeared to know exactly where he was going. They topped a rise, descended, found below a sizeable stream turned river by the storm, and followed it a ways. It cut a groove in the landscape, the banks falling steeply to its edge.
“Not far,” Orsin said.
“Almost there!” Vasen shouted to the pilgrims. None respon
ded. They just kept plodding forward.
Orsin pointed and Vasen saw it—a cave mouth in the riverbank on the opposite side of the stream. Orsin pulled Vasen close so he could hear.
“There’s a ford ahead. Follow me.”
Orsin led them to a narrower stretch of the rapidly flowing stream. He did not hesitate, stepping directly into the water.
“Make sure none are swept away,” Vasen called to Byrne, Eldris, and Nald.
All nodded, and they, with Orsin, assisted the pilgrims across, carrying the frail and young on their backs. The water rose waist high at its deepest point. Flotsam spun past in little eddies, mostly fallen limbs and leaves. The current pulled at Vasen as he crossed. He moved slowly, methodically, taking care not to dislodge Noll. In time, all made it across, and they staggered into the cave. The relative quiet struck Vasen first. The rain had been a drumbeat on his hood.
Byrne placed his shield in the center of the cavern, prayed over it, and its rosy light painted their shadows on the walls—dark, distorted images of the real them.
The cave was ten paces wide and tunneled into the riverbank perhaps another twenty. Brown lichen clung to the cracked walls, oddly reminiscent of Orsin’s tattoos. Smoke from old fires had stained the ceiling dark. At first the cave smelled faintly of mildew and rot, but the smell of the exhausted, sodden humans and their gear soon replaced one stink with another. Most of the pilgrims sagged to the floor around Byrne’s shield, stripping off packs and wet clothes. Some wept. Others smiled and praised Amaunator for the shelter. Vasen had time for neither pity nor praises.
“I need wood for a fire,” he said as he laid Noll down on the cave floor. “And bring me anything dry to cover him with.”
The boy’s face was as pale as a full moon. His eyes rolled back in his head. Heat poured off of him. Elora sat beside Noll, cradled her son’s head in her lap, stroked his head. Coughs shook the boy’s small frame. Black foam flecked his lips.
Several of the pilgrims brought dry blankets from the packs, and Vasen covered the boy with them. Byrne soon returned with several small tree limbs. Using his dagger, he rapidly stripped the sodden exterior from the logs to reveal dry wood. Nald set his shield on the floor, concave side up, and Byrne stacked the wood in it. Orsin tore a section of his tunic, shielded from the rain by his cloak, and shredded it for tinder. Flint dragged over a dagger sparked the tinder, and soon a small blaze burned in the bowl of Eldris’s shield.