by Kara Timmins
The gray hue that the sky cast over the day turned to black as Eloy fell on his back. The animal in him screamed against the failure of losing the only game that mattered. Every nightmare of being chased and hunted was realized; he had failed at his duty to stay. Another part of him felt relieved. He wouldn’t have to feel tired, hungry, wet, or cold ever again. There would be no need to fulfill an ambiguous promise given to him as a child. He felt sadness too. He didn’t have enough time to think of the faces of those he loved, but he had a sense of absence, a feeling of longing. He was on his back, his fingers lost in the sludge, as he prepared for the blow that would end his life.
A gong sounded over his head. For a moment, he wondered if that was the sound that ushered death forward. As his mind started to come back, he realized someone had stopped the Vaylar’s death blow with their metal shield.
He looked up and saw the man who had saved him. White curls wove through a thick, dark brown beard like small rivers descending from a mountaintop. The man’s face may have been lined, but the strength under his aging features was fierce.
The man’s heavy ax swung over Eloy. The Vaylar’s feet were faster than the ax swing, but the bearded man moved his weapon with assured skill. The ax connected with the Vaylar’s back with a thud. The Vaylar hacked something wet against the fabric across his mouth before falling to the ground.
Eloy stood up and gave a grunting sound that he hoped conveyed the gratitude he felt. If it didn’t, he didn’t have time to make it clearer. The man fought at his back until the fighting closed in around them and pulled them apart.
The confinement Eloy and the others had made with the front line was losing its form and effectiveness. Bodies of both sides cluttered the ground.
“Reform the lines!” Eloy yelled.
The rain clattered around the surging, slashing bodies and made the earth unreliable under his feet. He let his vision process the people who moved in his periphery and felt a rush of relief when he saw Neasa. Seeing her was enough to know that at least she wasn’t one of the bodies on the ground.
55
Neasa saw Eloy too, but anxiety backlit her relief. She turned her back to him. She couldn’t think about him or Goodwin or Malatic. She had to focus on keeping herself alive. Any sign of risk to one of the three men would throw her off and give one of the Vaylars the opportunity they were trained to see and exploit. She kept her mind as far away from them as she could. The only people who existed right now were the ones who set their sights on her. She had killed three Vaylars on her own and two more with the assistance of some of the others who fought at her side, but the attacks kept coming. The Vaylars’ clothing made it seem like she was fighting the same person over and over again, as if she were trapped in a nightmare.
The uneven, muddy ground didn’t slow her. Her body knew how to feel its way around fallen trees and brush without looking. She used the thin trees when she could, something the Vaylars didn’t do, pivoting around this trunk or that, letting their cracked bark take the hits for her.
She had her sights on a new Vaylar who had bloodstains streaking down the front of his tan frock. He was one slash away from cutting down a young man with a patchy brown beard and a bloody mouth. Another Vaylar cut off her path. This fighter was taller than the others by at least a foot length. Even though the lower half of his face was covered, she could see the shift in the fabric and knew he was smiling at her. She gave him a smile back and set her feet apart.
The wood staff of his spear handle was dark from the blood of others. His hands were a brighter shade of gore. The Vaylar wrung his hands on the staff of his spear in preparation. He lunged forward with metal tip pointed toward her head but missed contact by enough that she barely had to move to the side. She realized, almost too late, that his goal was cut her neck from behind as he pulled the spear back toward him. The blade snagged at the part of her braid that wasn’t tucked into the back of her shirt as she brought her chin to her chest. She had avoided the attack to the back of her neck, but she had taken her eyes off him to do it.
She dropped into a low crouch, the front half of her foot held her weight and her knees stuck out at her sides like a frog. She rounded her back and tucked herself to become a smaller target. The mud made it easier to slide toward the Vaylar just as his weapon hit the ground where she had been. His weapon was down, his momentum spent, and in the uncertainly of battle, she had gained the upper hand.
She knew she had to act, or she would lose the advantage just as quickly as she had gained it. All of her power was coiled in her legs and knees, and as soon as she heard the thud of the blade in the mud, she let the tension go and leaped at the Vaylar’s body. She felt small against him as she buried her dagger and short sword under and up through his rib cage. His open mouth sucked at the fabric across his face, making a reddening indent. His eyes seemed so blue next to the color of his own blood. With a quick pull, she yanked her weapons free and let him drop.
The commotion that had seemed so loud at the first clack of battle was starting to dwindle, and the time to catch her breath in between attacks expanded. She couldn’t help herself; she let her attention scan her surroundings for her three.
Eloy was easy to find, as he called out to reform the lines for the second time. He had a streak of blood on the side of his head and a few cuts and slashes on his arms and legs, but he had not fallen. She looked for Malatic and Goodwin as she called out to the fighters closest to her to re-secure the corral they had created at the start of the fight. Malatic had broken away from his group and was fighting back-to-back with Goodwin.
A bloom of affectionate warmth spread in her chest. She looked away from them to focus on regrouping the formation and ending the fight.
56
Malatic saw Neasa look over at him.
He noticed because he had been following her movements since the battle had begun. At the start of the fight, he’d looked for her to make sure she was safe. But it quickly became a spectacle for his amazement. She fought so differently than anyone he had ever seen. She had the form of some wild and unpredictable animal. He couldn’t blame the surprise that each of her opponents got in their eyes. He had felt the same when her attention had been on him from time to time.
He hadn’t meant to drift away from his line, but not long after things had started, he looked up and saw Goodwin at his side. Malatic had thought Goodwin was the one who moved, but a quick look around showed a new group of fighters than the ones he had been around at the start of battle. Malatic was conditioned to be ready for surprises while fighting, but for the first time, he had surprised himself. The rush of being able to use his skills in combat again pushed everything aside.
He felt like a horse who had his leather restraints removed. The handle of his sword with its softened, shiny grip was like an arm, an imperative part of his body, that he usually had to keep strapped to his back. He didn’t fault Eloy for the restraint he had asked of them on their journey so far—Malatic even respected Eloy for it—but it felt freeing to have his sword out and singing again.
The Vaylars were skilled enough to keep his body moving, his heard pumping, and skin tingling, a reaction he only felt when his body sensed the fear of death. If the primal drive was meant to deter him from dangerous action, it only spurred him on with a renewed vigor. He could see that Goodwin didn’t have the same reaction to the threat. Malatic saw Goodwin breathing too fast.
After taking down a few Vaylars, Malatic was confident he could handle fighting for himself and a little bit for Goodwin too, just enough to compensate for what Goodwin lacked. Malatic saw Goodwin lose his footing in the mud a few times, but all the others had the same disadvantage. He was used to moving on unsure ground from growing up in a place that was frequently soggy with melting ice. If Malatic ever felt Goodwin move like he was losing control, he would shift his attention to getting him back again.
When the amount of people
fighting became less condensed, Malatic let his years of training take over his movements. He thought the fight would move like that until the end, him flying around on light feet and helping Goodwin until they were the only ones standing. Only a few Vaylars were still on their feet. The fight was almost over.
Then he heard Eloy scream. His ears focused on the sound, similar to how he would if someone said his name across a crowded square. His head snapped around, his mind already preparing to process the damage Eloy had sustained. But when Malatic found him in the crowd, Eloy didn’t look hurt.
His face was red against the strain of his emotion, his attention pointed at the place behind Malatic.
57
The number of Vaylars was dwindling.
Eloy let himself have a tickle of relief that the conflict was most likely going to end in his favor. He was scanning the area to assess the number of casualties when he saw Goodwin. Eloy knew Goodwin’s fight was wrong as soon as he saw it.
Goodwin was tired.
The swing of Goodwin’s weapon was too slow and protecting too little. If Eloy had seen it a moment earlier, he would have been able to sprint over to Goodwin, but Eloy saw him in the moment before it happened—too late. Goodwin’s sword dropped just slightly from its place in front of his chest, and the movement was enough to leave his torso exposed. The Vaylar feigned a strike toward Goodwin’s shoulder.
Goodwin moved into the trap. He lifted his sword. The Vaylar brought the spear in an upward arch and cut through Goodwin’s body, from his hip bone to his throat.
Eloy didn’t feel himself yell out. He hadn’t intended to do it, but he heard the sound. His vocal cords strained against the force of it, but the pain was nothing compared to the tearing sensation he felt somewhere deep in the intangible part of himself.
Malatic turned at the sound and then looked over his shoulder to where Goodwin had crumbled to the ground. Eloy got to the place in three running strides and cut the Vaylar who had taken Goodwin down with the vigor of a man who was new to the fight.
Eloy fell to his knees next to Goodwin. Malatic crouched at Eloy’s side, Neasa behind him. If there had been a living Vaylar still within a five-stride run from him, Eloy would have attacked them with a savage and vengeful rage.
He looked down at his friend. “We have to work fast if we’re going to fix him.”
There had to be something that could repair the damage. Goodwin was on his back, looking straight up to the sky, taking little breaths. Eloy saw the pinks, reds, and yellows in the cut move and beat with every shallow breath. The divots in the mud around Goodwin filled with blood, reaching the brim and streaming into the next. Eloy held his hands out, ready to make them work to start making Goodwin better, then contracted against the absence of a purpose.
“What do we do?” Eloy yelled. “Tell me what to do.”
Malatic didn’t take his gaze off Goodwin’s face.
Goodwin took a sip of air. His chest fell.
And it didn’t rise again.
His eyes, still open, didn’t flinch when the raindrops hit them.
“No, no, no,” Neasa said as she fell to her knees and took Goodwin’s hand. She leaned over, put a hand on his forehead, and looked into his eyes.
“He’s gone,” Malatic said.
“No,” Neasa whispered.
Eloy looked around. The few Vaylars who were still alive were trying to retreat the way they had come, fading back into the gray of the forest toward the marshland. The battle was over. Eloy wanted to fall next to Goodwin and try to make sense of what had happened. He scanned the area and saw others kneeling next to those they had lost in the fight and some who were looking at the muddy heaps to find their people. He wanted to be selfish in his sorrow. It felt precious and unique—something that none of the others could understand—but he knew that wasn’t true. He had to take care of the ones who had fought and survived.
Eloy pointed to one of the Vaylars, who was on his knees in front of a readied blade wielded by a woman with a snarl on her square face. “Leave that one alive.”
Eloy walked over to them. He tried to take breaths deep enough to chase the burning pain in his chest away before he got to the Vaylar, causing thick bursts of steam to billow out of his nostrils. The only thing left inside of Eloy by the time he reached the Vaylar was anger. Eloy reached out and pulled the fabric off the Vaylar’s face.
Aside from the thin line of pink that made up the man’s mouth and his blue eyes, his features were colorless. His lack of pigment was unsettling enough to calm the rage in Eloy and steady his shaking hands. The Vaylar looked up and blinked his blond eyelashes like a bored child. The Vaylar broke his stare only to give his surroundings a sweeping gaze before he looked back up with a smile.
Eloy grabbed the Vaylar by the muscle that ran from the man’s neck to his shoulder and dragged him away from the battle site and toward the campgrounds. Eloy tried not to look at Goodwin as they passed, but his attention went to Goodwin’s body despite his best effort.
Eloy could feel the Vaylar straining against his grip. No amount of indifference to his fate could keep the man from suffering the pain of having his muscle and tendons pulled like a handle. Eloy let go with a push as soon as they got to the closest campsite.
“Can you talk?” Eloy asked.
The Vaylar shrugged.
“If you can talk,” Eloy said, “I recommend you do. If you don’t, there isn’t any reason to keep you alive, and if any of these people have half the amount of desire for vengeance as I do, I can only imagine what will happen to you.”
Eloy looked over his shoulder.
More people were clumped behind him than he expected. Their cut, bloody faces had the same grimace of anger and sadness he felt. Seeing them steadied his resolve. Malatic stood closer to Eloy than the others, but Neasa wasn’t at his side.
“I can talk,” the Vaylar said.
The way he formed his words was different than Eloy had ever heard before, but he was relieved the Vaylar understood.
“Will the advancement end after this battle?” Eloy asked.
“Advancement?” The Vaylar gave a short laugh. “We’re a scouting group. A few of us saw activity over here where there shouldn’t have been, so we were sent out to see what it was—nothing more.”
Eloy sat on a fallen tree trunk without taking his eyes off the Vaylar. If Eloy had felt a moment of satisfaction at the end of the battle, the sense of success was gone now. He wasn’t foolish enough to think they had eliminated a substantial chunk of the Vaylars, but he thought it would be more than a scout party.
“How many more are there?” Eloy asked.
“Uncountable.”
“How many more in comparison to the size of the scout party?”
“Too many to understand.”
Malatic sat next to Eloy on the fallen tree. “He could be lying.”
“He’s not,” Eloy said with a sigh. “When will the rest come?”
“They’ll collect and move when we don’t come back by the evening. They’ll most likely kill you in the early hours of the morning.”
“Why are you here?” Eloy asked.
“We are here to take what was promised to us,” the Vaylar said as if the answer was obvious.
“Promised by who? By Anso? By Nicanor?” Eloy asked.
“We were promised by the Omnacom that we would find fertile land to the west that was populated by people who don’t deserve it. Rough and violent. People without real order or compassion. These people, you, have lost your right to the land. You don’t know enough to even understand real power. You’re weak. We’ve seen it in your leaders. This land is promised. It’s ours.”
Eloy looked to Malatic for answers but only saw a drawn brow of confusion.
“You’re wrong,” Eloy said.
Rough and violent. People without compassi
on. Those things didn’t describe the people of Valia and their lush town, so open to invite Eloy to their tables. The word weak didn’t describe Evas, the people of Cinecho, and their growing town. Nicanor and Anso, fighting for so long, controlling so much, were those things, and their time was over. The things the Vaylar described may have been true to someone looking in before, but not anymore.
The faces of Critiko, Francena, Corwin, and Evas flashed in Eloy’s mind. “Your information is wrong.”
“No.” The Vaylar shook his head. “The Omnacom are always right.”
Eloy didn’t know what an Omnacom was, but it seemed likely that the Vaylar’s Omnacom wasn’t very different from the Seer Eloy had met. Eloy thought about what the Seer had said about the malleability of foresight.
“I don’t know anything about your Omnacom”—Eloy took a deep breath—“but there are things about this land you don’t know.”
He tried to keep his voice level and confident, but he was scrambling to make up the best story he could. The Seer had said to think of nonviolent ways to get around things. He had to try. Memories of the confident way Corwin used to weave a tale urged Eloy on.
Eloy formed his story as the words came out of his mouth. “We’ve been using the fight between Anso and Nicanor to keep our power hidden. You’re at our door without realizing the home is occupied.”
The Vaylar twitched his head to one side without taking his squinting eyes off Eloy. “I don’t believe you.”
“You don’t have to believe me,” Eloy said. “I’m telling you the truth as freely as you told me when I asked how many more were on their way here for the same reason. Secrets and tactics have no value when the fight is over and won. Though misguided, I know you truly believe the struggle for this land has ended in your favor. It hasn’t. Your losses today were minimal. As far as I can tell, the biggest loss to the Vaylars from this misunderstanding is spent time.”