by Remi Michaud
She struggled, her thoughts finally coming together enough to let her understand that something was happening, that someone was trying to help her. Like a drowning woman, she clawed her way toward the surface, frantically seeking the comfort and safety of cool air and sunlight.
Then she did. Her eyes shot open and she gasped a deep wheezing breath. For a moment, fear gripped her when she saw her surroundings. She did not see the sky; she did not hear the roar of battle; she did not smell blood and offal.
“Easy, sister. Easy.”
The voice that spoke was familiar but her thoughts were still disjointed, her sense of dislocation intensified as she smelled not the bitter smoke of burning pitch and searing flesh, but the tart, innocent smelling smoke of torches.
“Where-?” she croaked.
At the same moment the voice answered, she realized where she must be. Within a half blink of that knowledge came the name of her benefactor.
“You're in the infirmary. And damned lucky, too,” Kurin said. “You almost ended up in the mortuary. It was touch and go for a few minutes there.”
Kurin's withered frame swam into her field of view. The shadow cast by his hood did not abate the intensity of his piercing glare.
“What happened?” she croaked.
Carefully, she sat up. He helped her, his lean frame surprisingly powerful and yet gentle. Pressing a cup of water to her lips, he chuckled.
“Same thing as you—careful now, only a sip. Not too quickly—as you did to them. They sent a mind sapping spell at you when you sent one to them. Lucky for you, one of the forcefield holders saw you fall and rushed to your aid.”
He straightened. She could feel the anger emanating from him in icy waves. “Now, young lady, what in Maora's name were you doing up there? You were assigned to me, to work down here in the infirmary.”
Two bright pink spots appeared in her pallid cheeks. She had slipped out early that morning before the battle had truly commenced, intent on being there with Jurel. She had only wanted to see Jurel move, to see him breath. To see him be him.
She was not stupid. She knew why Jurel tried so hard to push her away. His reasoning touched her. He loved her so much he worried that, by dint of who he was, he would bring horror into her life. If she was to be honest, she would have to say she had thought it herself.
But watching him do battle, she had seen that the horror, though there, was not senseless. He fought with a devotion to right and wrong, with a strength of loyalty, that she found heart-warming even as his methods chilled her.
“I'm sorry, Kurin,” she muttered.
In truth, she was not. But, even with the changes in him since his captivity, the excision of the gentle kindness that had so characterized him, she still looked up to him and, as if he was a surrogate father, she dreaded his disappointment with an irrational intensity.
He cleared his throat loudly. “Yes, well. Truth be told I would have liked to be up there too. Even if it's not for the same reasons you went. ” She cringed slightly as his voice hardened. “I have a score to settle.”
He glared at the wall over her head as though he could see through it and to the battle beyond. Men and women moaned quietly in the beds around them; healers whispered either words of comfort or spells to mend flesh and bone. At the edge of hearing, the dull roar of soldiers fighting and dying permeated the air like a fine mist.
“It doesn't matter now,” he spoke, so abruptly that Metana squeaked. Amused, he returned his gaze to her. “You can't do anything more this day. Not in your condition.” There seemed to be a smile in his voice and...did he glance at her belly? She blushed again. “If you feel up to it, why don't you go on back to your chamber and rest? You're in no immediate danger, and we need the bed.”
Nodding, she sat up. The lights dimmed, her head swam and she sank back with a groan. Her head pounded like war drums, her mouth was suddenly bone dry.
“Hmm. Well you can have a few moments to gather yourself. I'll send Karissa to help you.”
She smiled weakly in gratitude but Kurin did not see it; he had already rushed away to see to several new arrivals.
* * *
In the end, she made it to her door, tottering down the endless, empty, and ill-lit corridors like an old woman. With Karissa's help, of course. Tall, bluff, wider around the waist than at the shoulders, Karissa had borne Metana's weight with neither a grumble nor any apparent difficulty, but with plenty of solicitous inquiries about Metana's state.
After murmuring her thanks, she closed her door and shuffled to her chair. Sinking gratefully into the not quite overstuffed padding, she groaned with pleasure. The light outside was not strong; smoke hung too thick even over this south side of the Abbey. It filtered into her small outer chamber and stung her nose and eyes.
She thought it might be a little after lunch and she briefly considered getting something to eat. Her headache, and limbs that felt like jelly, convinced her to wait a short while. Closing her eyes to block out the glare from her small window, she leaned her head back. She was asleep before she had breathed twice.
She did not hear the scuffling of soft boots outside her door.
* * *
Three riders broke away from the main column and galloped toward Thalor and Reowynn. The two flanking riders were unknown to Thalor, just garrison soldiers from the look of their arms and armor. The third, the one at the point, was familiar. Thalor had never met Grayson's seneschal but he had seen him in the duke's company on occasion. Tall, dark-eyed, whip-thin, with a beard oiled to a lethal point, he carried himself with an air of self-importance that Thalor thought was well above his station. It had been hard not to notice the man. He had a presence that was only eclipsed by the duke and the king. Try as he might, however, Thalor could not bring the man's name to mind. After all, he was only a servant. What need did he have for a name?
“My lord Prelate,” called Grayson's seneschal cheerily as the trio reined to a halt a dozen paces away. “Good to see you. I am Jon, Seneschal to my lord, Duke Grayson. The duke sends his regards. He asked me to relay his regret that he could not be here in person. He is, as I'm certain you are aware, otherwise indisposed.”
Indisposed? And so they think it acceptable to send a mere lackey to treat with him, a prelate in the Church of Gaorla? The man who was destined to become Grand Prelate? Thalor snorted in contempt. Fools. They would learn.
“For now, we have things to discuss, Your Eminence. Perhaps you would join us in our camp? I have commanded our best cooks to prepare us a late lunch.” The man shrugged wryly. “It will certainly not be as delectable as the fare a man of your stature would normally enjoy, but we do have some fine wines to wash it down with.”
“Why have you come?” Thalor called back across the blasted distance.
“Why, to treat with you of course, as I have indicated,” Jon said. “I was sent by the duke, with the men of our garrison that you see here, in order to assess the situation and provide aid as necessary.”
Reowynn did no more than shrug when Thalor glanced sideways.
“How many do you think there are, Major?” he asked softly.
“Ten thousand, or a few more, my lord.”
“How many Soldiers do we have left?”
“Perhaps thirty five thousand.”
Thalor gaped in astonishment. Thirty five thousand? They had begun the siege yesterday with a little more than fifty thousand. How had they lost so many so quickly? More, how could the Salosian dogs hold against so many with...
“How many defenders?” he croaked.
“A thousand to fifteen hundred.”
...only a thousand soldiers? Had the Soldiers of God become so secure in their dreaded reputation that they had grown soft? Were they now no more than a horde of armed thugs? They were only tools to be used as necessary but certainly tools should be of better quality than that. Axes and daggers needed to be sharpened on occasion, after all. The day he gained the mantle of Grand Prelate, he would see to the retra
ining of his martial order.
But that was a consideration for another day. He eyed the Grayson garrison speculatively, seeing, above all, how ten thousand reinforcements would be the death blow that would end this siege within hours.
Plastering a smile on his face, he nodded graciously at the oily sycophant who waited expectantly.
“Of course, Seneschal. My man and I will be most grateful for your hospitality.”
“Excellent!”
The seneschal clapped his hands and several mounted men surged forward. Flanking Thalor and Reowynn, they took up positions as Thalor's honor guard.
Ten thousand more men, he mused smugly. That bastard Kurin will never know what hit him.
* * *
Even as her eyes snapped open, Metana knew something was not right. Moving only her eyes, she searched the portion of her chamber that was within her field of vision. Her room was blanketed in gloom and though she had never been afraid of the dark, she suddenly felt as though the shadows could hide any manner of unpleasantness. The light had faded; the sun was already dipping to the west. Mid-afternoon perhaps.
The distant hum of the battle continued unabated, which Metana took as promising: the Salosian forces still stood.
She listened, convinced that something was amiss. Slowly, still afflicted with a weakness that appalled her, she rose from her chair. She searched the corners of the room as best she could but her eyesight was not equal to the inky murk. After a time however, after nothing happened, she snorted, disgusted with herself.
She thought perhaps she should go back to the infirmary. Weakened though she was by the attack that almost took her life, she may still be able to make herself useful. Then her stomach reminded her loudly that she had not eaten since very early this morning and she toyed briefly with the idea of going in search of food.
Deciding, she picked up her shawl.
And spun, her heart pounding in her chest, as a whisper-quiet scrape reached her ears.
Searching ever more frantically, she could not penetrate the deepening shadows.
“Who's there?” she demanded, cringing inwardly when she heard the tremor in her voice.
No response. No sound. Nothing.
Again, after a time, she felt foolish. She stepped toward the door—more hastily than she might normally have. The moment her hand touched the hasp, there came a soft knock. Squealing as she had when she was twenty years younger, she leaped back.
“Aren't you going to invite your guest in?”
The soft, heavily accented voice came from behind her.
Spinning, she raised her fists in a defensive position, once again searching. This time a shadow detached itself from a corner—a corner she would have sworn only moments ago had been vacant!—and stepped into the waning light from the window.
Greasy hair in crude braids hung in lank ropes to the middle of his back. An unkempt beard with twigs and old bits of food concealed the lower half of his face, but his eyes...
His eyes were the color of winter, and as cold.
His garb was that of a peasant: torn, filthy tunic made from burlap, saggy breeches with patches sewn in the knees, shapeless boots that at one time may have been some form of badly tanned leather. The sword strapped to his belt however was not that of a peasant. Though she had never personally seen one, she had heard the stories. Jurel had described them well to her. This was a Dakariin.
“Well?” the man demanded. His guttural accent was harsh and somehow reminded her of rage and violence. “Will you not answer your door?”
Brought back from her initial shock, she decided to take the advice of the quiet voice in the back of her head. She screamed.
The door burst open before the echo of her scream faded. Heavy steps pounded into the room behind her. At the very same instant, Metana and her attacker spoke.
“Seize him,” she commanded.
“That's better,” he said quietly, with a smile.
But the footsteps did not rush past her. Instead hard hands gripped her, holding her arms to her sides. She smelled unwashed bodies and rotting leather. She tried to look over her shoulder but she was shaken as if she were a rag doll in a dog's mouth.
The man in front of her stepped closer. Though she could not see his mouth, she could see the demented smile in his eyes.
“Yes. This is better. My name is Gixen. There is someone who would like to meet you.”
Desperately, she reached for her power. In her fright, it dribbled from her grasp like water. She tried again. But she did not get the chance to do anything.
“No, no,” Gixen admonished. “We will have none of that.”
Then, she watched in horror as he cocked a fist back and drove it into her face. Her head bounced back against the chest of the man holding her. Lights flashed behind her eyes. Pain flared.
Darkness fell.
* * *
Jurel's sword took the head off a Soldier. He spun to meet his next challenge. He thrust, the point of his blade shearing through white-clad armor. Kicking the twitching body from his blade, he scanned the battlement. For the moment, he only saw troops of his own diminished force.
Beside him, Gaven panted, leaning against a crenelation.
“We're clear for the moment,” Jurel said.
Gaven managed to nod as Jurel glanced quickly at the killing field beyond the wall. The army of Soldiers of God was greatly diminished; instead of a sea of white, it was merely a large lake. He was heartened until he glanced at the ragtag remnants of his own army.
He considered calling for Mikal's force but discarded it almost immediately. The prelacy forces were still too numerous; Mikal would be overrun in minutes. It had to be soon, though. Otherwise, Mikal's small force would be too late to change anything. Too early, or too late: it was a fine line to walk.
His thoughts turned to Metana. He was certain he had seen her earlier, wreathed in the inferno of her power like a goddess of retribution. But now his search showed no sign of her. He was grateful for that; he did not want her in harm's way. He could not bear the thought of finding her among the broken and the slain. Gods, how he wished things had been otherwise. How he wished he could be with her, hold her in his arms, feel her heartbeat against his chest, breath in the perfume of her. Angrily, he stamped out that foolishness before it could truly take hold. It could not be. She deserved better than him.
Turning back to Gaven, he began to speak, to tell him to take a few moments to gather himself. He still needed Gaven's sword. But even as he opened his mouth, he staggered, gasped a painful breath. He searched wildly for the source of this sudden attack but nothing presented itself to him. An image of Metana sprang to his mind; she appeared frightened, in danger. Foolishness, he thought. She was certainly safe down in the infirmary with Kurin where she had been assigned.
The strange attack passed, leaving him with a lump of foreboding loneliness in his soul. Trying to shake this, he again began to tell Gaven to take a break.
But Gaven interrupted him.
“What's going on out there?”
Jurel turned to where his friend was looking. At the rear of the prelacy forces, Soldiers of God were maneuvering, frantically changing position. Within moments, the rear lines faced back toward the forest and the road.
Cocking his head, Jurel frowned. “I don't know,” he murmured.
But it soon became apparent.
Chapter 55
“Here's to you, Lord Prelate,” Jon announced, raising his goblet in toast. Jon's eyes twinkled with mirth.
Thalor raised his own glass in response, then took a mouthful of the mellow red wine, surprised at the quality. He nodded his appreciation. The meal, as promised, was nothing to brag about, but this almost made up for it.
The tent was nothing to brag about either. It was large enough for the table and chairs and for the three retainers who stood awaiting Thalor's or the seneschal's pleasure. But it was spartan and dirty gray, ratty and drafty. Nothing like Thalor's own opulent pavilion. It
had been quite a feat for him to not sniff disdainfully when he saw it. He deserved to be guested in better than this. The seneschal was, however, no more than a servant, no matter what the man may think. Thalor supposed that even this much must be an extravagance for a servant. It would do. Thalor just wished it was not quite so hot.
Setting his goblet down, Jon gazed speculatively at his guest.
“Perhaps, with your consent, Prelate, we may dispense with the pleasantries and get down to business.”
Once again, Thalor nodded. To which he added, “Of course. Your ten thousand will be much appreciated. Reowynn, brief the seneschal on our situation so that we may discuss how best to deploy his men.”
Spreading a survey map of the area on the table, Reowynn did, describing, in a businesslike manner, the forces they had sent against the Abbey, jabbing a thick finger where their weakest points were and the points where they had the most effect. He showed the position of the Gaorlan priests—it would not do to have allied forces stumble upon them. He described the Salosian forces and the defenses they had encountered.
“And what of the fires we noticed as we rode north?” Jon asked. “Did these Salosians set them?”
“I did,” Thalor answered.
Canting his head, Jon spread his hands. “May I ask why?”
Was this fool questioning him? Questioning his decision? How dare he?
“It was necessary,” he answered curtly, wiping sweat from his brow.
Nodding his understanding, Jon said, “They lay in wait for you? Yes, of course. The good news is, the fires seem to be burning themselves out. My lord, the duke, requested, however, that I impress upon you the difficulties this act has presented. You see, the duchy of Grayson relies heavily on the lumber harvested from these forests.”
Thalor snorted. Whatever that slop was he had been served disagreed with him. It thinned his patience. “A small price to pay to see this danger eradicated.”
Conceding, Jon murmured, “As you say. Would you care for more wine? You don't look well.” He snapped his fingers and one of the retainers promptly stepped forward and refilled Thalor's goblet, then Reowynn's. “Perhaps some of the spices we use did not agree?”