by Pati Nagle
She lay down beside the fire, pillowing her head on her pack, holding the bundled flute in her hands. As she watched the flames dance above the coals, her mind drifted in Turisan’s warm embrace as her flesh rested from the day’s efforts.
Turisan stood with his back to the mountains, gazing up at the massive earthwork that had been his father’s first accomplishment as governor of Southfæld. Though it had long been neglected, High Holding was still impressive.
Built of unmortared stone and earth, forbidding despite being overgrown with weeds and grass, High Holding spanned the width of a flat bluff at the foot of the mountains, straddling the trail that rose to Midrange Pass. Heavy iron gates in the center of the work—gates that had always stood open in Turisan’s memory—had now, with some effort, been shut across the trail. Midrange Pass was closed to travelers.
To the west of High Holding a narrow, flat plain was bordered on the south by a steep drop to the valley floor and on the north by the Silverwash, falling in a cascade that was almost as high as the Three Shades. The ends of the work were crumbling but still barred passage. The gate was the only way through.
Turisan looked over his shoulder at Midrange Peak, its snowy slopes gilded by the westering sun, the trail through the pass a gray shadow against gold-white. His gaze dropped to the conces set in long arcs west of the earthwork, their line echoing its curve. Long shadows reached from them toward High Holding. They were for the warriors of Eastfæld who had fought in the Midrange War, those Ehranan had commanded. They had driven the kobalen back through the pass before going south to relieve the besieged guardians at Skyruach.
Dirovon appeared at the top of the work. Turisan climbed up the steep slope of the earthwork to join him. Loose stone shifted beneath his feet. It was an awkward climb even without archers raining arrows down from the top of the work.
Dirovon nodded in greeting as Turisan reached him. “Not so very bad, eh? We will have to shore up the ends. It would be simple to repair if it were not quite so … large.”
“The masons have found the quarry and say there is plenty more stone to be taken from it. The recruits can help.”
“Ah, yes. Good training for them.” Dirovon chuckled. “Perhaps you will do me the favor of issuing the order yourself before you ride back to Glenhallow.”
Turisan narrowed his eyes. “You anticipate a poor reaction when city-bred recruits are asked to haul stone?”
Dirovon shrugged, grinning. Turisan looked back at the peaks, his mood not suited to banter.
“I will give the order. It was my decision.”
They were silent for a moment, then Dirovon gave a quiet cough. “Do you ride south at once?”
“In the morning.”
“Aye. Get a good rest and start early.” Dirovon nodded and shifted from foot to foot. “Are we finished here? There is a fire at the camp, and that Filari has a way with spiced wine.”
Turisan glanced toward the camp and beyond it eastward. Across the river, situated in the woods at the foot of a lesser, hook-shaped bluff, was a small outpost maintained by Southfæld’s Guard, overlooking the ford where the trade road crossed the Silverwash.
“Save a cup for me. I must go to the outpost and find Thorian to send my report on High Holding’s condition to Glenhallow.”
Turisan glanced up at the mountains once more, and his heart clenched. He squinted, unsure of what he had seen against the setting sun, hoping he was mistaken.
“Dirovon.”
The subcaptain turned to follow his gaze upward. High on the shoulder of Midrange Peak, the gray trail had turned black. It was too distant to discern individuals, but there was movement. No Southfæld guardians appeared so dark, not with their light-colored cloaks, fair hair, and pale flesh.
Dirovon’s mouth dropped open. “Sweet spirits. Kobalen.”
Rephanin started up from his meditation, his heart filling with sudden dread. He opened his eyes, disoriented, searching his chamber for the threat.
Rephanin! Thorian’s khi was sharp with alarm.
What is it?
They are coming! The kobalen are coming down!
Rephanin leapt from his bed and pulled on shoes, then went out to his sitting room. He caught up his cloak and flung it around his shoulders as he hurried down the corridor toward the colonnade to Hallowhall.
Where are you?
On the bluff above the outpost. I can see them—
Get to safety!
Sunlight blinded him as he opened the side door to the colonnade. He recoiled, then pulled his hood forward and went out, breaking into a run across the graceful stone walkway. He must find Jharan at once.
Into the shade of the palace colonnades overlooking the fountain court. Rephanin sighed with relief and slowed to a walk, heart pounding.
An attendant turned in surprise as he brushed past, calling out a question he did not hear. He ignored it. At the governor’s public chambers he strode up to the chamber attendant, past the curious glances of the handful who were waiting to see Jharan.
“I must see the governor at once. News from Midrange.”
The attendant’s eyes widened, and he gave a frightened nod. “One moment, my lord.”
Instead of waiting, Rephanin followed him into the audience chamber. Jharan was not there. The attendant shot a nervous glance over his shoulder as he hastened toward a closed door at the back of the chamber. Rephanin followed.
The attendant stopped to knock at the door. “My lord governor, Lord Rephanin is here—”
Rephanin pushed past him and opened the door, revealing a small chamber in which Jharan looked up from behind a worktable strewn with tallies. Berephan sat across from him, scowling as he twisted in his chair to look at Rephanin.
Rephanin met Jharan’s gaze. “The kobalen are descending through Midrange Pass.”
Jharan stood up, his face going pale.
“Where is my son?”
Turisan’s heart thundered with fear as he and Dirovon ran for the camp. It would take half a day for the kobalen to descend to the plain, by which time it would be dark. Kobalen disliked fighting at night. He hoped they would wait until morning to attack, though that thought provided little comfort.
Reaching his tent, where the pennant of command stood planted in the sod, Turisan caught it up and swung it in a wide circle, the signal for assembly. A horn blew in response. His thoughts raced ahead, picturing what would happen when the kobalen reached the foot of the pass. Would they indeed wait until morning to attack?
“Get the command into the work and move the supplies there. Water! Send a patrol to haul water from the river—”
“Turisan, go to the outpost!”
Dirovon’s manner had changed. There was nothing of humor in his face, only fierce determination. Behind him the garrison was already starting to gather.
Turisan swallowed. “Yes, I must send word to Glenhallow. I will return—”
“No, stay at the outpost. Better yet, ride for Glenhallow.”
Dirovon glanced toward the mountains, his face gone grim. He looked back at Turisan and spoke in a lowered voice.
“Your work is done here. Take the other mindspeaker with you.”
Turisan drew a breath, the cold air drying his mouth. Dirovon was right. He must not risk himself only because he wished to prove his courage.
He gave his spear to Dirovon. “You have command.”
Dirovon strode away at once, shouting to the guardians. Filari came striding from the camp, bow in hand and a quiver slung over her shoulder, and paused to look toward Turisan with questioning eyes. He gestured toward Dirovon, then turned away, clenching his jaw as he hurried to the trail down from the bluff.
He ran, cold air burning his lungs and the cold water making him hiss as he splashed across the ford toward the outpost. He felt the warmth of Eliani’s signal on his brow. Though he wanted her touch more than anything, he returned the signal to wait. He must first find Thorian.
The guardians at the outpost
were already in motion, dousing fires and breaking camp. Turisan hurried to Josanan, the outpost’s commander.
“Where is Thorian?”
“Behind the bluff, at the storage caves. I told him to wait there; it is safer.”
“Has he contacted Glenhallow?”
Josanan nodded. “They have asked for you.”
Turisan glanced toward High Holding, then beyond it to the dark line of kobalen at the top of the pass. The sun was setting now.
“Send a rider to Highstone at once to tell Governor Felisan we need arrows, as many as he can spare. If he can send guardians also, that would be well, but he should not leave Highstone undefended. The kobalen could turn north …”
If High Holding falls. He could not speak the words.
He coughed. “Have a rider make ready to go east. I have a message to send. Take the rest to High Holding and carry your supplies with you.”
“Yes, my lord.”
Josanan’s face was grave. Turisan reached out to grip his shoulder, then moved on toward the bluff.
He found Thorian pacing in the woods. The guardian looked up at his approach and hastened toward him.
“Rephanin is at the palace. Governor Jharan is anxious to speak with you.”
Turisan wished for a moment that Thorian’s gift was like Rephanin’s, that it would let him speak directly to his father. Instead, he had to entrust his words to Thorian. He described the situation, then asked which road the Eastfæld riders would take to Midrange.
Thorian’s gaze grew distant. After a moment he answered.
“Ehranan says they will follow the Asurindel, then cut across the plains a day’s journey from here. Not enough water on the trade roads for a large force.”
“Tell him I am sending a rider out to hasten them.”
Thorian paused, then nodded. “He says he is leaving Glenhallow at once with the Southfæld Guard. They will march without rest and be here by the third day hence.”
Turisan felt a chill wash through him. It was beginning. It was war.
“I ask that some few be sent forward on horse-back. A hundred, two—as many horses as can be spared. Riding hard, they can be here in a day or a day and a half.”
And that might yet be too late. Three hundred were in High Holding, another two … five hundred at best, to hold the valley against countless kobalen.
Perhaps Felisan would send a few more. Still, it was not a question of whether High Holding would fall. It was a question of when.
He should be there with the garrison, not hiding here behind the outpost. His father would never have left his guardians to defend Skyruach alone.
But his father had been only a captain at Skyruach. Here, now, Turisan was the keeper of a gift of great worth to his people. He looked at Thorian and saw an echo of his struggle on the guardian’s face.
“J-Jharan asks your word that you will not go back to High Holding.”
Turisan pressed his lips together. His father knew him too well.
“I give my word. If High Holding falls, you and I will ride south.”
He turned to go, but Thorian’s hand caught his arm. “Rephanin is to ride with the Guard. Have you anything more to say to anyone in Glenhallow?”
With a start, Turisan realized this was his last chance to communicate with his father. How quickly he had taken Thorian’s gift for granted! He thought for a moment, then spoke softly.
“My best regards to Lady Jhinani and my best obedience to Lord Jharan. Eliani expects to be at Bitterfield soon.”
Thorian passed the message, keeping his gaze lowered as he added, “Your father sends you his love.”
Turisan felt his throat tightening. Very rarely did Jharan make such expressions.
“Give him mine in return.”
A small smile curved Thorian’s lips as he nodded. He seemed extremely young in that moment, and Turisan felt a sudden protectiveness. He frowned, reconsidering his plan.
“Perhaps you should ride south now, while the kobalen are still far away. Jharan will want you back at Glenhallow if Rephanin is coming here.”
Thorian looked up at him. “The governor did say I was to return there.”
“Well, the sooner you go, the sooner he will have news. Let us find you a horse.”
“You are not coming with me?”
“I will follow.”
Thorian fetched his belongings and accompanied Turisan to the clearing where the outpost’s horses were kept. They found Josanan talking urgently with a guardian who stood beside a saddled horse, its reins in her hand.
This was the rider Turisan had requested. He told her where to search for the Eastfæld warriors and what to say when she found them. She mounted and galloped away, and Turisan turned to Josanan.
“Thorian is to ride back to Glenhallow. Can you spare three to ride with him?”
“Yes, my lord.”
He called to some of his guardians. Turisan turned to Thorian, offering his arm. Thorian clasped it.
“Ride swiftly.”
Thorian flashed an anxious smile.
“Keep safe.”
“I will join you soon.”
Turisan walked back toward the Silverwash, where he would have a clear view of the pass. A cold wind assailed him, and he pulled his cloak close as he glanced up at the bluff to the north. The guardians who had stood watch there were gone. He was alone.
He gazed up at the dark mass of kobalen in the pass, his heart sinking with dread. He closed his eyes.
Eliani?
Turisan! I have been waiting. What happened?
Kobalen are coming through the pass.
He told her all he had set in motion, all he had planned. She shared his dismay, and that was comforting.
Are—are you planning to stay and fight?
I have promised not to. I will leave if it becomes dangerous to stay at the outpost.
He sensed her relief, though she did not voice it. He remained by the river, watching the black mass creep down the mountain. Night had fallen, making it harder to discern the kobalen’s advance. They moved slowly, the more so in darkness, for they had not the clarity of vision that blessed the ælven.
Turisan stood watching after Thorian had ridden away, after Josanan’s party had crossed the ford and gone up the trail to High Holding. Josanan had left a golden mare for him, along with a water skin and a small pouch of food.
His packs were at High Holding. He had nothing in them that it would grieve him to lose, though he did regret not having his bow. He was glad he had not brought Eliani’s veil.
He watched through the night, unable to tear himself away from the sight of the enemy slowly advancing. Toward dawn, he heard the sound of a horse crossing the ford and dragged his gaze away from the kobalen.
A guardian approached, his horse shaking water from its coat as it reached the riverbank. The guardian dismounted, pulling a set of packs from the saddle.
“Lord Turisan? Captain Dirovon sends me with your gear and this message.”
He set the packs on the ground at Turisan’s feet, then took a folded page from his leather tunic. Turisan accepted the note and swiftly read it.
The plain before us is now all black, though they have not yet dared to come past the conces. The pass is choked as far as we can see. I feel as if I am standing upon a waterbreak, watching the approach of a flood.
Go to Glenhallow. There is no more you can do here.
Dirovon had seen him, then. How careless of him to stand in a visible place. Turisan let the note curl back into itself.
“Thank you.”
The guardian nodded and handed Turisan his bow and quiver. Turisan glanced at the arrows, wondering if he should send them back to the warriors, who might have greater need of them.
“Do you return to High Holding?”
“Yes, my lord. Do you wish to send a message there?”
He gazed at the guardian. Younger than himself, Turisan was fairly certain. So many very young folk had joined the Gu
ard in response to Jharan’s call.
The guardian had braided a falcon’s feather into his hair. Turisan suddenly remembered him, remembered a morning not long ago when he had stood on the practice ground before Glenhallow with a hundred others who knew nothing of a guardian’s duties or of what they would face at High Holding.
“Dahlaran.”
The guardian brightened, a smile flicking across his face. “Yes, my lord.”
“Spirits guard you all. That is my message.”
“Thank you, my lord.”
“If I could, I would stand with you.”
Dahlaran’s face went grave, but he nodded. “We know that. You walk a higher path.”
Turisan shook his head. “Not higher. Only different. No path can be higher than that you walk today.”
A horn blew in the distance. Turisan’s head turned toward the west, though as yet there was nothing to see save the black stain that had poured down the mountain. He glanced at Dahlaran, whose cheeks paled as he also looked westward. The young guardian met his gaze, and Turisan offered his arm.
As they touched, he felt the jitter of fear in the other’s khi. He gripped Dahlaran’s arm tightly until it steadied.
“Help is coming. Ehranan marches from Glenhallow, and Eastfæld is riding hither. You need only stand your ground a little while.”
Dahlaran smiled. “We will stand.”
Turisan watched him lead his horse back to the river and across it. When the guardian was gone, he hefted his packs and strapped them to his saddle. His heart was heavy, and though he knew he must leave, he looped the mare’s reins over a tree branch and hurried up the footpath that climbed the bluff to where the watchers had stood. He wanted a last look at High Holding.
By the time he reached the top, the first flush of dawn had cast a blue light over the mountains. Their hulk was still dark, but Turisan could see the distant glint of metal at High Holding and beyond it the black mass that had spread over the foot of the pass.