“Charese, it’s good to see you,” he said, relieved to see a friendly face, and one not seized by panic.
She was, he noticed, relatively calm, that no doubt being the reason so many others had clung to her. Lit by the orange glow coming from the mountainside, her reddish hair seemed to come alive in a demonic aura. “Front-Captain, we need to leave,” she told him unnecessarily.
“The thought had occurred to me, Charese,” Gallord-Smit replied sardonically, “but have you a plan to accomplish this?”
Her eyes narrow, she nodded. “I’ve been gathering men,” she said. “The Somrian ships are probably not well guarded. If we find a boat on the beach and get aboard a ship—one that hasn’t been filled with fleeing soldiers—we can capture it.”
It was a mad plan. In their current circumstance, however, it seemed quite reasonable. “All right,” Gallord-Smit agreed. After a quick glance upward, he turned his back on the inferno and focused on her. “Take your men, and seize a ship. Take it to Hellamer’s hideout; I’ll meet you there.”
“Front-Captain? Won’t you be joining us?”
“It will take me some time to make my way down to the sea, with my injuries and my . . . necessary burden,” he pointed out, gesturing at the motionless body behind him.
Charese frowned. The men behind her were stirring restlessly, and one man, an older, broad-shouldered fellow who had a farmhand look about him, appeared on the verge of telling her to hurry. She ignored them, however, looking over Arad. “He’s done for, my lord,” she stated flatly, pointedly overlooking the fact that Arad was also the enemy and not deserving of Gallord-Smit’s aid. “He’s as like get you killed.”
“If there is the slightest chance of his survival, we must take him,” Gallord-Smit told her firmly. “This is Sherzi’s son,” he explained.
An ominous roar sounded from far above; all heads swivelled toward the mountain’s summit, but nothing could be seen to explain the new sound.
“Follow your orders, Charese,” Gallord-Smit commanded.
“Front-Captain—” she began, her expression rebellious.
“Follow your orders!” he roared, presenting his best drill-bannerman’s voice.
To her credit, Charese didn’t flinch, though her jaw clenched. The men behind her hopped back, for a moment more afraid of him than the mountain spitting fire behind him.
“I hope we’ll see you there, my lord,” Charese said finally, bowing awkwardly. “I will leave two men with you to help carry him, then.”
Gallord-Smit shook his head. “I won’t endanger more men over my own decision, Charese. I can manage.”
“You’re injured, Front-Captain,” she complained, pointing at his leg. “And we are your soldiers—you are our commander.” He began to protest, but she interrupted him. “I won’t take your orders to the contrary, Front-Captain. You and you,” she said, selecting two of the larger men. One took a deep breath and the other gritted his teeth, but both nodded.
“Quick and careful, Charese,” Gallord-Smit reminded her, though he knew it unnecessary. She had proved herself a capable leader.
She smiled sadly, bowed briefly in salute and then, after gazing into his eyes for a long moment, turned and dashed into the jungle, her large group in tow.
Gallord-Smit looked back at the mountain again. Rivers of liquid fire were clearly visible running down its slopes, the streams headed their way getting close. Overhead, black clouds churned, streaks of lightning dancing amongst their ominous folds; there were so many flashes he found it impossible to discern each rumble from those that followed. “All right,” he said, loudly to be heard over the thunder, to the two island defenders-turned-porters. He wondered how they felt about staying behind to carry off a wounded enemy. “This wounded man is the son of Commander-General Sherzi. Hostaging him may end this war. It is more important he make the ship than me, you understand?”
One man frowned; the other, the shorter and more robust of the two, nodded. “Yes, Front-Captain. But we will all make it,” he added. His accent was eastern Lord’s Lands, around Wellem’s Bluff or even the Lower Valley.
“Well said, soldier. Can you manage the prisoner? It will be faster if you can put him over your shoulder, and—”
“Move ya ‘way from him!” a voice shouted. Gallord-Smit spun, as did the two men, who both drew steel. The Front-Captain went to draw his as well, but realized he had lost his sword fighting Arad and hadn’t picked it up; he looked around for it frantically.
A Somrian soldier had emerged from the smoky jungle; he was well armoured, but covered in ash and unidentifiable—as they all were, Gallord-Smit realized. The newcomer was limping slightly, but advanced deliberately on the two Lordslanders, who moved to intercept.
Gallord-Smit couldn’t locate his sword in the ash, which had fallen deeply enough that ground was covered in it. He watched the Somrian as he searched for it; the man kept his weight low, and was slowly circling as he approached the two. His long, curved sword was pointed directly at the eyes of the man he circled. He looked to know his business. “Be careful, he’s more dangerous than—”
The Somrian advanced toward the nearest man, then appeared to change his mind and withdraw. The man advanced quickly to stay on him; his fellow circled to flank the enemy. The Somrian had been feinting, however; he closed suddenly and slashed high. Their swords met with a clatter, then the Somrian shouted. When the man took a step back, startled, the Somrian turned on the second man, who had charged him from behind, and ran him through. He fell without a sound.
The first soldier, the stockier fellow whom Gallord-Smit had asked to carry Arad, balked. The Somrian charged, hurling blow after blow at him; it was too much for the poor fellow, who became more and more desperate fending off the vicious attacks. Gallord-Smit could only watch as he fumbled for his weapon under the grey blanket—the man was utterly outclassed. When his opponent was sufficiently off balance, the Somrian fainted low, then turned away from his opponent, appearing to flee. Gallord-Smit’s man paused, confused, while the Somrian finished the move and opened his throat with a backslash, nearly taking his head off.
The Somrian stepped over the body while it was still twitching, moving straight at Gallord-Smit, his gaze level. “You next, rebel,” he said, his tone deadly cold.
Gallord-Smit’s hand found a blade; he withdrew Arad’s sika from the dust. “Not likely,” he said, taking a defensive stance with the blade before him.
The Somrian paused in mid-step, his head cocking to one side. “Gallord-Smit?” he asked.
Gallord-Smit couldn’t help but allow trace of smile to slip through. “Josel,” he said, nodding.
“Ya fought well,” Josel said, lowering his sword tip slightly, but staying on guard. He stood three paces away.
“And you,” Gallord-Smit agreed. “Without the bad fortune of the mountain—and whatever befell the second army—it wouldn’t have been long.”
Josel nodded. “Still, ya live up ta your reputation. If only it could na been na fair fight,” he lamented.
“We may yet have the chance to know,” Gallord-Smit suggested. “I mean this young man no ill. But I must take him with me.”
“Impossible. Ya know this.”
Gallord-Smit nodded slowly. “So, then.” He raised his guard, hiding his injured leg to the rear, and tried to stand so as not to betray his other injuries.
Josel advanced, raised his sword, and brought it straight down, hard, clearly intending to test Gallord-Smit early. The Front-Captain drew Arad’s sika up squarely, counting on the curved surface to deflect the blow away, but preparing for a jolt of pain from his injured leg.
The two sika did not meet. Gallord-Smit narrowed his eyes; Josel was standing with his sword held high, his eyes bugged out.
The Front-Captain didn’t know what thought might have stopped the Somrian, but he stepped across to take advantage of his opponent’s distraction, intending to draw his own sword under and into the enemy’s chest. He nearly stumbled wh
en he discovered that his own blade was stuck. He pulled at it, but somehow, it just hung there immobile, as if it had lodged itself to the hilt in invisible stone.
Josel took a step backwards. He left his sword as he did, and it hung bizarrely in the air, like a magic trick in a summer fair. He stared at it, his eyes round.
Gallord-Smit released his own; it remained suspended as well. He became suddenly aware of another person rushing at him from the side.
Or, rather, toward his fallen charge. Though she was also covered in ash, when she cried out Arad’s name he immediately recognized her voice; it was the Lower Valley girl. He shook his head in disbelief. Where had she come from?
She dropped to her knees before Arad, holding her hands over his chest as if afraid to touch him. “Arad . . . oh, no, no, no,” she moaned.
Gallord-Smit became aware of two men emerging from the jungle, both unarmored and equally coated in uniform grey dust. The first stood tall and strode with grace; the other was hunched over as if crippled, but moved quickly and powerfully despite his stature.
He looked from Josel to the two newcomers, then back at Sayri hunched over Arad. Each of them was doing the same, perhaps also attempting to ascertain exactly what would happen next.
“Is he . . ?” Josel asked finally.
“No,” Gallord-Smit replied. “He’s alive. But the wound is . . . he won’t last long.” Sayri’s red-rimmed eyes rose to his for a slow heartbeat after he said the words, then she went back to cradling Arad. A sadness fell over him as he watched; he had inflicted the injury that would kill Arad, but it wasn’t for that. He felt as if he were the bearer of bad news, the messenger of doom.
There was also the matter of the swords. What could possibly be responsible for that?
The Somrian no longer seemed interested in fighting, but Gallord-Smit wearily kept an eye on him. Josel wasn’t watching him, however; his eyes were on Sayri. He started toward her, and Gallord-Smit moved threateningly to indicate he would intercept. Josel thought better of it, and instead addressed the taller of the other two men. “Why are ya here, monk? Why did ya not remain with na ship?”
The man answering spoke elegantly, almost in a sing-song voice. “Captain-General, this girl, Sayri, is the one I have been seeking. My use to you complete, your men left me on the beach, where she came to me. The Great Link brought her to me,” he added, the words holding the intensity of a mantra.
“Sayri?” Josel repeated. “You . . . na girl ya were seeking was—Sayri?” He seemed dumbfounded. He looked over at her, a bewildered expression painted upon his features. Sayri was holding Arad’s face in her hands, whispering to him, trying to wake him. Tears streamed down her cheeks, leaving black smears. The sight clutched at Gallord-Smit’s heart.
“Yes,” the monk said simply.
“She . . . Sayri,” Josel said, starting toward her again. Gallord-Smit intervened once more, but Josel did not stop, walking right up to him. “I won’t harm her, Gallord-Smit,” he said, looking up at the Front-Captain, who was slightly taller. “She needs ta know.”
“Know what?” Gallord-Smit asked.
“What Master Arad said of her,” Josel explained.
Behind Gallord-Smit, Sayri’s voice came out roughened by tears. “What did Arad say of me?” Gallord-Smit felt her hand nudge him aside firmly; he grudgingly gave way, but stayed close. When Josel stepped closer, he was confused to see that Sayri was still kneeling by Arad’s side, several paces away. Who had nudged him? They were all covered in ash, making it difficult to differentiate between each, but no one was near him.
“He is here because of you,” Josel said. “To protect you. His father—”
“We need to leave, NOW!” another woman’s voice said. The speaker was a tall woman, draped in dark grey robes. She had been standing behind Josel, about five paces away in clear view. Gallord-Smit was astonished that he could have missed her presence, but the emotion was fleeting.
She was pointing at the mountain—the volcano. A low, continuous rumble was emitting from it and, with a thick burbling and popping, liquid fire was being vomited from a crevice that had formed. The resulting flow, uniformly a dazzling orange, was flowing down the slope in their direction, and quickly. Trees vanished into it in sudden bursts of flame, turning black as they were engulfed. Of those it consumed, there was no trace; they appeared to just disintegrate. There was no time for further discussion.
As one, Gallord-Smit and Josel went for Arad and gathered him up, as if they had been fighting alongside each other all along.
51 CONTINUANCE
He was dying because of her.
Her heart threatened to explode with guilt and anguish when she heard the words and she slumped, her mouth open, gasping, her head becoming light.
I did this to him?
A voice, yelling. She was brushed aside, and Arad was taken up. Someone was screaming at her, but she just stared numbly as Gallord-Smit and the Somrian carried Arad off. Then a pair of strong hands seized her, and she was dragged half-walking through the jungle.
The ash fell like snowflakes of death all around them. It had covered everything in grey. Her heart, too, felt grey—dull, lifeless, but simultaneously red-hot and brimming over with pain. “Arad!” she cried, reaching out to him where he was being carried, her vision blurred by tears. The world was a uniform grey blur, a horror.
“Run, Sayri!” Wissa was yelling in her ear, but she couldn’t understand the words. She stumbled, but only enough to keep Arad before her. To keep him in reach.
He was dying. When he died, she needed to be near him so she could die, too. She wanted that.
There was a ground-shaking roar somewhere behind them. Moments later, ahead, she heard an answering boom, and there was a flash of light. Everyone was hurled to the ground as the earth jolted beneath them.
Her ears rang. All around her, the others were stunned. The Somrian was struggling to his feet and helping the Front-Captain, who was having difficulty rising. Their mouths moved, but there was only the ringing. Wissa had released her; Sayri crawled to Arad, and held his head to hers, sobbing into his ear though she couldn’t hear herself and he was motionless.
A flash lit them all up. In that instant, they all turned from grey to bright orange. Then it became dark again.
Gallord-Smit had found his feet, but couldn’t seem to walk properly—lifting Arad was beyond him. The Proselyte pushed in and, with Josel’s help, the three were carrying Arad again. Sayri watched him go numbly, then lowered her forehead to the ash and wept silently.
She was rolled over roughly, and saw Wissa standing over her; she had a dark patch on the side of her face that looked like blood. She yelled something at Sayri, a mumble that might have been words; Sayri just stared at her. Wissa frowned, then dragged her back to her feet and thrust her forward after Arad. Sayri shuffled on. Ahead of her, she saw the beast-man following the others and waving its arms. Through the trees ahead, she glimpsed the beach, and waves lit by the morning sun.
He’s dying, she told herself. He’s dying, and he came here because of me. She didn’t know why he would have come, but it didn’t matter. He was dying pointlessly, for her.
Wissa had her by the arm; apparently she was moving too slowly for the other girl’s taste. She allowed herself to be dragged faster, careening off branches and tree trunks. Her foot caught in a root and she almost went down, but Wissa held her upright, freed her foot and pulled her ahead. Her ankle had twisted badly, and she was all bruises, but she felt nothing. Sound was returning in a rush; she heard crunching footsteps, breaking branches, and a dull roar.
Why did he come here for me? He is going to die here on this island, for nothing. For a stupid girl who needed rescuing.
Wissa was fleeing desperately now, pulling Sayri with her. They charged wildly through the jungle. Sayri’s foot caught a second root and she pitched forward violently, this time too hard for Wissa to hold her. They both went down, and Sayri struck her head on a tree branch as she
fell, hard enough that her vision went white and she saw stars.
For a stupid girl who let herself be—
Wissa had gotten back up, turning to pull her to her feet again, but then she froze, looking over Sayri’s shoulder. Someone yelled. Something at Sayri’s back was crunching and crackling.
Ahead, the beast-man had stopped and was looking back as well; Gallord-Smit, the Proselyte, and Somrian had fallen. They had burst from the edge of the jungle on to the beach and the sea was before them.
All of their faces, some seized by horror, and some by sadness, were bathed in bright orange like a sunset.
A stupid girl who deserved to be raped, she said to herself, the words a curse.
Arad was there ahead of her as well, half in their arms, cradled like a child. Her heart rose again, and went out to him. He had loved her so. He had given up everything for her. What had she done for him?
Suddenly something occurred to her. Could she have saved him with the Link? Could she save him yet?
Then she felt a terrible heat on the back of her neck. When she turned, she saw what they had already confronted.
The flow of molten rock was eating everything in its path. Trees were exploding into fire on contact, vanishing instantly. Liquid fire was coming for them, and their backs were to the sea. It filled the jungle before them, swallowing it, and came on.
Wissa fell to her knees beside her, and placed a hand on her shoulder. Sayri looked into her eyes, and saw sorrow.
She turned back to the fire, which came for her in a torrent nearly as high as she stood, and put out her hands to welcome it.
Not a victim.
The Link flashed out from her.
・
Gallord-Smit welcomed death in the fire. Mellie, Daeyella, finally I join you. As I should have so long ago. A moment of sadness tore at his heart as he knew that he would not see Rena again, but he brushed it aside. She would manage without him, and he belonged with his family after all.
Sayri's Whisper: The Great Link Book 1 Page 65