by Kara Timmins
The crowd nodded. Eloy thought about Evas talking to her people under the salt flats. He felt the same sense of unity he had so long ago when he had watched her. Taking on the raiders had felt just as insurmountable as defeating the Vaylars, but they had succeeded. They had used the intangible strength of their unity to reclaim the land and all of its open night sky. Eloy made a mental reach for the same outcome against the Vaylars.
Neasa touched Eloy’s arm when the crowd dispersed.
“You did good,” she said. “I think this might work.”
“It might,” Eloy said, “but it’s insane. I can’t believe the Vaylar didn’t die when I gave him the berry. I’m almost curious to know what he saw.”
“Almost,” she said.
“Yeah, almost.” Eloy gave a tired laugh before the bleak reality reclaimed him. “I got lucky that he didn’t die. Hopefully, I’ll get lucky again, and he’ll go back to his people and tell the right person what he saw. I feel like I’m trying to sew together a fatal wound with all of these little plans, but I don’t know what else to do.”
“One step at a time, right?” she said. “That’s how we always do it. We can’t know how things will turn out, so we have to do what we think is best, and I think what we’re doing gives us the best chance. Right now, the next step is what you said. We have to get our fallen out of the mud.”
Eloy nodded and swallowed against the burning bile that rose up the back of his throat at the thought of going back to the battleground, back to Goodwin.
Those who were able collected what fabric they could—blankets or extra clothing—and wrapped the bodies of the fallen. Walking back to the site was jarring after having cleansed the image with distance. Eloy did as Neasa said; he took one step, one movement, and one task at a time. He helped the others with their fallen, but he couldn’t bring himself to help Neasa and Malatic with Goodwin.
This sparse, gray forest wasn’t his favorite, but it had had its own kind of peace. Seeing the rows of now-wrapped bodies, torn swatches of bloody clothing, and puddles of red made it hard to imagine that it would ever be serene again.
A group came to the clearing with bundles of branches in their arms, and Eloy took a moment to rest and watch them. Their hands moved with a speed that could only be achieved through years of practice as they ripped large leaves into strips. Within moments, they had the pieces of fibrous leaves knotted into a strand, which they wove between the branches. By the time they were done, they had made a board large enough to rest five of the fallen fighters shoulder to shoulder. Techniques from people’s past melded together to get those they had fought with off the ground and ready to be brought back to the people waiting for them to come home.
When they finished, Eloy looked around the churned and pitted battleground. He thought there would be some relief at seeing their people picked up and cared for, but he still saw too much chaos. The bodies of the Vaylars crowded the space, and even though they were his enemies, even though they had killed the people he had just helped pick up, seeing them weighed on him as an unexpected burden.
“I need to ask you a favor,” Eloy said as he walked over to one of the groups that had made the structure to transport the bodies. He pointed to the branch construction. “Can you make more of those?”
“Sure. How many do you need?” a woman with a scar across her brow asked.
“A lot,” Eloy said as he looked out at the battleground.
The woman’s face hardened as she realized what Eloy had asked of her.
“I know I’m asking a lot,” Eloy said, “but we can’t leave them here like this.”
The lines around her mouth softened as she looked out at the dead Vaylars.
“Fine,” she said. “We’ll get them ready for you. It’ll take a while. We’ll be pushing it. We don’t have much time left to move toward the edge of the forest and be ready there by nightfall.”
“It’ll be close,” Eloy said, “but I think it’s worth it.”
“If you say so,” she said.
Eloy recruited as many of the fighters as he could to collect and wrap the fallen Vaylars. Not all were interested in the task, and Eloy didn’t blame them or try to push them to do it. He struggled to manage his feelings of disgust and anger as he did it, but once he finished, he looked out and felt as if a small part of him was purged of the infection of what had happened that day.
Neasa stood at Eloy’s side. “We have to move toward the edge of the forest so we can be ready when night comes.”
“Where’s Goodwin?” he asked without looking at her.
“He’s with the others,” she said. “I took care of him.”
“We’ll get him out of here soon,” Eloy said.
“If anyone can make sure we do, it’s you.”
58
A group of around twenty gathered behind Eloy with their belongings on their backs. Eloy thought about how strong they all seemed. They had fought and lost people just like he had, but they appeared stoic and ready. He scanned the line and let himself appreciate their fortitude. Their presence reminded him of why he was pushing himself.
Eloy and the others, which included Neasa and Malatic, made slow progress as they moved the fallen Vaylars to the edge of the marsh. The thick reeds and soggy ground made dragging the pallets stacked with the fallen difficult. They went as far as they could until the sun started to set. Eloy stopped them at the place where the branches were still thick enough to hold their weight, but the trees were few and far between. A man who looked to be about Eloy’s age scaled one of the tree’s branches.
“There doesn’t seem to be any end to their line,” the fighter said as he made his way back down.
Eloy gulped down water and wiped his brow. “How close are they?” he asked in a hushed voice as he tried to catch his breath after his long drink.
“Close enough that they could be on us at any time,” the man said.
“Did the captured Vaylar walk out to them?”
“Yeah, a while ago. He should be to them by now.”
“Hopefully he gets to the right people,” Eloy said.
“We won’t know until we know, I guess,” the man said.
“Yeah, we won’t know until we know,” Eloy repeated.
“What are we going to do with these, then?” Malatic asked as he motioned toward the dead Vaylars.
“Leave them here so their people can find them,” Eloy said.
“Why? Why any of this?” Malatic asked after a moment of contemplation.
“I know it doesn’t make sense,” Eloy said. “I know they’re our enemy, but I keep thinking about what it would be like if they had Goodwin. I don’t know how they deal with their dead, but I know if they are like us even a little bit, they’ll want their people back. Even if this is where my life ends, I want to be someone who would get them out of the mud and back with their people. I refuse to be like Anso or Nicanor.”
Malatic put a hand on Eloy’s shoulder. “I get it.”
They lined the stacks of bodies side by side. Eloy stood back. He didn’t know how much the effort would cost them, but he felt sure he had done the right thing.
“We have to go,” Neasa whispered.
The others had already fallen back into the reeds and long grass in the direction of the trees. The eighteen men and women who had helped disappeared in the darkness toward camp.
“Okay,” Eloy said. “Just one more thing.”
He reached into his bag and rummaged around until he found the shell lantern Neasa had given him so long ago. He went through the movements just like she had showed him; he warmed the animal fat, added the pinch of moss, and struck the flint. Even in the dark of night, the little flame was weak in comparison to its power in the dark forest of Valia, but he knew it would be enough to catch the Vaylars’ attention.
“Do you mind?” Eloy asked as he pl
aced the lantern on a stone a few steps in front of the mound of the dead.
Neasa shook her head and linked her arm with Eloy’s, Malatic close behind them. They walked back knowing that whatever waited for them was already set. Their plan might not work, but they had a small flame of hope that they would make it to the morning.
59
Eloy and Neasa emerged into the campsite. Wavering campfires illuminated the faces of those staring dazed into the flames, casting distorting shadows over battle-changed faces. Those who weren’t staring or convalescing were huddled close to the warmth while they worked or planned.
A young man ran up to Eloy. “There’s something we want to show you.”
Eloy broke away from Neasa and followed the young man to a group of five crouched over a mound of about a hundred shorn reeds.
The young man was shorter than Eloy by at least a hand length, but he was stocky and strong. He picked up a long reed. “My brother and I used to make these when we were kids.”
The young man licked his lips and put his mouth against a hole that had been cut into the top, filled his lungs with air, and blew. The sound that came out was like a howl on the wind. Eloy imagined how he would interpret the noise if he were wading toward the unknown.
“It’s perfect,” Eloy said. “Is it easy to do?”
“Easy enough,” the young man said. “Most people can learn how to do it after a few tries.”
“Make as many as you can,” Eloy said. “We don’t have much longer, but this is going to help. Good job.”
“Eloy,” Malatic said as he walked up. “They’ve started moving.”
“Is everyone set up?” Eloy asked.
“As far as I can tell,” Malatic said. “There are about seven who have one of those shields spread around the area. We haven’t tested anything out, obviously, but they’re ready to go.”
“Make sure every fire is out. The darker it is, the better.”
Eloy walked toward a towering tree with a thick and knotty trunk. Its branches had enough girth to hold the weight of a grown man, even high in the canopy.
A man with shaggy gray hair and a freshly stitched wound across his cheek—the wiry knots sticking out like crumpled spider legs—approached Eloy. “Should we be battle ready?” the man asked.
“If we can’t get them to turn around, it won’t matter,” Eloy said. “But I know I am going to take as many of them down as I can. If you want to join me, I’ll have your back.”
Those who had heard Eloy about the fires transmitted his message quickly, and they were in darkness by the time Eloy hoisted himself into the tree.
“Do you need a hand?” Malatic asked.
“My friend,” Eloy said, “there are many things in this world I could use your help with, but climbing a tree isn’t one of them. Are you coming up?”
“I’m right behind you,” Malatic said.
The world looked brighter from the top of the tree. The Vaylars’ torches stretched in front of them like a sunrise. Eloy breathed in the smell of the smoke slowly, sipping and savoring the aroma with his heightened senses. If he let himself forget what the light was, he could appreciate its beauty, the flames of the many combined to make a magnificent glowing mass. The Vaylars were close enough that if they were a wave, their peak would be sharp and tipped with white. It wouldn’t be long before it crashed down on them.
“Now,” Eloy said to the man with the cut on his cheek, who was sitting on a branch below him. He listened as the command moved from mouth to mouth to get to those ready to begin their song.
The first sound started low, a haunting hum that carried through the openness of the marshland. A second started soon after the first but slightly deeper. Eloy’s skin prickled and lifted each hair on his arms when the rest joined the first two. The thick noise wrapped around his head as if it came from every direction.
Another sound cut through the buzz of the shields, sharp and shrill, like a beam of light through clear water. For a moment, Eloy thought the noise was a scream. He looked around the ground below him, looking for Neasa. As he recognized the top of her golden head, he remembered the young man who had showed him the notched reed. A few more screeched out into the night like roused and hungry creatures.
“They’ve stopped moving,” Malatic said from a branch lower and to Eloy’s right.
Eloy looked out and tried to measure the Vaylars’ distance.
“I think you’re right,” Eloy said. “It’s working.”
His surprise disgusted him.
“Should I tell them to stop with the noise?” Malatic asked.
“No. Let them keep going.”
The line of the Vaylars’ torches imprinted on his eyes as he stared at it. They had been slow in their movement, so he kept staring to be sure they had stopped, hoping his desire wasn’t playing tricks on him. The warbling sound played on, and after a while, Eloy was sure that the Vaylars had stopped their encroachment.
Malatic playfully grabbed Eloy’s calf and shook it. “I can’t believe it. They stopped.”
Eloy kept staring. “But they aren’t turning around.”
The anxiety of their powerless position constricted around Eloy’s chest. The nothingness—the not knowing, the breath before the jump, the silence of a skipped heartbeat—made watching for movement agony. The future of the land and all the people who lived on it stood on a short lip of a cliff. Their existence continued because of the smallest piece of a weak plan. If the Vaylars were to move forward, Eloy wanted to know. If his death was coming for him, he would rather it got on with it.
If he experienced any relief when the Vaylars moved forward again, the feeling was quickly swallowed by sorrow. A guttural moan rose up from Malatic in the darkness.
“You can tell them to stop now,” Eloy said. “Tell them we’re done with tricks. It’s time for swords.”
The fading murmur of the message moved away from him, and the sounds of the shields stopped in a wave as if something were retreating, receding like Eloy’s hope.
The hush of the moment seemed unnatural. Eloy looked out over the marshland and savored the moment of silence, a small parting gift. He just wanted a few moments to appreciate the tiny droplets of rain and their sharp contact with his skin. His mind told him to move down the tree and join the others, to have his sword ready when the Vaylars crossed the final line into the forest, but he wanted a few more moments to taste the earthy air. Every sweet inhalation felt stolen, but with each one, he couldn’t accept that it would be one of his last.
Malatic shifted against the branches as he started down the tree, shaking Eloy from his procrastination. He would stand by Malatic and Neasa in the end—a fact that made the idea a little easier. He thought about Critiko, who had once said he was supposed to keep evils away from Neasa. Eloy had wanted that too, and he had failed. He had failed everyone below him.
He was just about to move when a shift in the torch line caught his attention. The line that had been so uniform and straight bowed inward at its center. A jolt of hope plucked at Eloy’s nerves as he realized that the line had stopped again. He was more patient during his wait for them to move one way or another the second time.
“Malatic,” Eloy said. “Come back.”
“What’re they doing?” Malatic asked after he had lifted himself to the branch below Eloy.
“I don’t know. But they aren’t moving toward us, so I’ll take it.”
Malatic inhaled sharply. “I can’t believe it. They’re moving back.”
Eloy hadn’t seen the shift. He was too busy appreciating that the Vaylars had stopped their advancement that he didn’t see what Malatic saw. They were retreating. The movement was slow—slower than their advancement, but the line had folded in the center, and the light of their torches moved through the center like sand through a crack.
“Tell the others on the gr
ound,” Eloy said. “But it’s not done yet. They’ve already changed their course once; they could do it again.”
They descended the tree and gave the news to the group of sick-looking fighters. Some broke out in nervous laughter. Others crouched to the ground and gave hushed and private words of thanks. But they couldn’t celebrate. Not yet. Eloy believed what he had said to Malatic. The Vaylars could just as easily turn back, and he wanted them to be met with swords, not a group of people who didn’t know how to manage their false sense of victory.
A few of the fighters climbed back up into the trees to monitor the Vaylars’ movement, but they stopped reporting once it became clear that the situation wasn’t about to change—the distance between them and the Vaylars was growing.
As they waited, the night snuck away, shooed back by the warming blush of dawn.
Neasa walked up to Eloy and sat next to him against the big tree. The skin under her eyes was puffy, and spikes of tree needles stuck out of her frayed braid. “This is the best part of the day.”
“This day more than others.”
“Without question. Do you think they’ll come back?”
The shake of Eloy’s head was slow.
Neasa bumped her upper arm into his. “You did it.”
“Funny,” Eloy said, smiling as he looked at her. “It doesn’t look like I’m alone.”
“You’re the one who came up with the plan,” she said.
“Parts of it, maybe. I wouldn’t be standing here if you hadn’t come with me.”
She looked out at the marshland. “What do we do now?”
He hadn’t let himself think about what to do after the task that the Seer had put him on had been completed. His hand went to the stone that hung from his neck.
“She said the way would make itself clear,” Eloy said. “It’s not clear now, but I trust that I’ll find it. Right now, all I can think about is Goodwin.”