Heart of the Exiled

by Pati Nagle

  Nearer by he saw Dahlaran, mounted, climbing the trail to the work. His flesh tingled with fear for that young soul and for all the others who stood defiant against the kobalen.

  He should go. Dirovon was right; he could be no more use here. He should ride, but he could not move. He stood rooted to the watch post as the dawn grew.

  High Holding seemed so small, a slender barrier at the foot of the pass. A horn rang out again, its clear note rising with the sun. The sound pierced Turisan’s heart, for it was a warning.

  He watched as the throng of kobalen twitched like a waking beast, then with a roar surged forward in the growing light. A black wave swept forward, breaking against High Holding, surging and swelling at its foot.

  Heart pounding, Turisan scrambled down from the bluff. The mare greeted him with an unhappy whinny. As he freed the reins from the branch, he glanced toward the river and saw a kobalen floating down it, the broken shaft of an arrow protruding from its chest.

  He mounted and saw another kobalen drift by, then two more. Looking upstream, he saw the river filled with bobbing black shapes. His gaze rose to the waterfall beside High Holding. The kobalen must be throwing their dead over it.

  It made him angry to see the Silverwash so fouled. He wanted to send warning to Glenhallow not to take water from the river, but that would have to wait until he saw Rephanin.

  The trade road ran along the west bank of the Silverwash, too close to the fighting for safety. He looked again toward High Holding and saw the flicker of a green and silver pennant atop the work, bright against the sea of blackness.

  Swallowing, he turned his mount eastward, making for open plains. As he faced the rising sun, he saw a low-lying cloud of dust, as if a storm were blowing up.

  He reined the mare to a halt. No clouds heralded a storm; the sky was clear and windless. He stared at the dust, then let out a sudden whoop of joy.

  Riders from the east! More than a hundred, perhaps many more. He did not pause to guess their numbers but started toward them at a gallop.

  The mare needed no prodding. Whether it sensed Turisan’s urgency or merely wished to flee the grisly sight and smell of the river, it ran with all its heart.

  Soon he discerned riders with ribbons of gold and white flowing from bands on their upper arms. They wore no other clan markings and carried no pennants that he could see. Their black hair was bound back from pale faces. Among the foremost Turisan spied the green cloak and fair hair of the Southfæld guardian he had sent to find them.

  There were at least three hundred, perhaps four or five. Turisan’s heart surged with painful hope. He reined in as he reached them, turning his mount to join them, searching the faces of those near the Greenglen rider. A male whose long black hair was braided with beads of gold and white raised an arm to hail him.

  “I am Avhlorin. What news from Midrange?”

  “High Holding is under attack. Make haste! If it falls, we must hold the ford and the south road to prevent the enemy’s advance.”

  “Where is the ford?”

  “I will lead you there.”

  “Onward, then!”

  Avhlorin waved his arm, and the riders surged forward. Turisan fell in beside the Greenglen rider. Her mount was lathered and laboring, her face set in an expression of grim endurance.

  “Rest your horse. No sense in killing it.”

  She cast him an anguished glance. She had friends at High Holding, no doubt. She eased up and fell back, her mount dropping to a walk.

  They rode westward, slowing only as they neared the outpost. Turisan caught his breath as he saw a pillar of smoke rising south of the bluff where High Holding stood. Fire at the foot of the cliff!

  He saw fire atop the bluff also, at either end of High Holding. A barrier to the kobalen, to block them from coming around the crumbling ends of the work? But now they had pushed it off the cliff, and the forest was burning.

  He saw a line of wagons descending the bluff. Wounded, retreating from the battle.

  The trade road out of Alpinon loomed ahead. Turisan led the Eastfælders onto it, following it through the woods to the ford. At the riverbank they halted, and Avhlorin sat gazing in dismay toward High Holding.

  “Spirits walking!”

  Turisan looked at him. “How many are you?”

  A swallow moved Avhlorin’s throat. “Five hundred. There are seven hundred more on foot, a day’s journey behind us. When your messenger came, we rode ahead.”

  “There are some three hundred in High Holding. If you can hold this valley for a day or even until nightfall—”

  “Yes.” Avhlorin nodded, then scowled slightly as he looked at the ford choked with kobalen bodies. “Is this the best crossing?”

  “It is. There is another farther down. See where the river curves eastward?”

  Avhlorin nodded. “Yes. How deep is it?”

  “Deeper than this but passable. This is the better.”

  Avhlorin met his gaze, steady blue eyes in the fine, chiseled face. Turisan was reminded strongly of Ehranan, somewhat less so of Rephanin.

  “Thank you, Avhlorin. I had thought Midrange lost, but you can save it.”

  He offered his arm, and Avhlorin clasped it. The Ælvanen’s khi was clear and steady, and Turisan sensed that he was much older than he had first thought. A look of faint surprise crossed Avhlorin’s face as they let go.

  “You come with us, yes?”

  “N-no. I must ride south, to Glenhallow. Captain Dirovon commands at High Holding. He will welcome you.”

  “I do not know your name.”

  “It is Turisan.”

  Avhlorin’s eyes lit with understanding. “Ah.” He made a small bow. “I am honored, my lord, but forgive me—you should not ride alone.”

  Turisan forbore to argue, submitting to the escort of the two riders Avhlorin assigned to him. He led them back through the woods and southward, skirting the band of forest that followed the river.

  The forest thinned and the pines faded away, leaving only greenleaf trees, bare-branched and less reliable as cover. The Silverwash narrowed, growing swifter and deeper. Across it the woods diminished, leaving a clear view of the road. A short way up a small ravine, Turisan saw a small mass of kobalen, fifty or more.

  “Kobalen!”

  He halted, watching in alarm as the kobalen attacked a small line of wagons that were drawn up against a tumble of rock in the foothills. They were the wagons he had seen earlier, bearing wounded from High Holding.

  Turisan jumped down from the saddle, going to the river’s edge to get a clearer view, ignoring the protests of the two Eastfælders. How had kobalen come so far south? Had High Holding already fallen? He peered northward, but a pall of smoke hung over the valley, obscuring his view of the earthwork.

  He stopped behind a mature greenleaf, its trunk wide enough to conceal him. Peering around it, he saw that the wagons were defended by Southfæld guardians, some twenty that he could see, sheltering behind rocks.

  The hillside was covered with fallen kobalen and more than a few guardians as well. As he watched, kobalen continued to fall, picked off by archers behind the wagons. The remaining kobalen screamed in rage and hurled darts toward the defenders almost at random. Turisan hoped that few were finding their marks.

  He turned to the two Eastfælders. “Those are wounded from High Holding. One of you ride to Avhlorin, tell him to send help!”

  The riders exchanged a glance, and one turned her mount north. The other dismounted and joined Turisan.

  He turned back to watch the fighting and saw a few kobalen confer and then break off, running down the slope toward him. With a start of fright he drew back behind the tree, then realized he had not been seen. They were making for the road, turning northward. Running to bring reinforcements.

  Without further thought he fetched his bow from his saddle and set an arrow to it. The Eastfæld rider protested.

  “My lord! You will be seen!”

  A kobalen fell, pierce
d through the heart, and a second lay beside it before its scream faded. Muttering angrily, the Eastfælder took up his own bow. Between them he and Turisan felled kobalen after kobalen until only two remained. Those two turned toward their attackers with a cry of rage and raised their throwing sticks.

  Turisan saw one kobalen fall to the Eastfælder’s arrow, then heard a grunt. The Eastfælder slumped to the ground, gurgling, a dart lodged in his throat.

  Angered, Turisan loosed his arrow. A blow struck his right arm near the shoulder as he stepped behind the tree again.

  He had a moment to realize what had happened, then the pain came. He dropped his bow and collapsed against the tree. Sparks of fire jolted down his arm. He slid down the tree trunk to sit heavily on the ground, breathing fast.

  Turisan!

  He dared to look at his shoulder. The short feathered shaft of a kobalen dart protruded from his leathers, the head sunk deep into his arm. Blood began to seep from around the shaft. A throbbing started in his shoulder, spreading outward.

  What happened?!

  I—I was careless.

  Are you still under attack?

  No. I took a dart. Do not worry; it is only in the arm.

  I know that!

  Through his pain, Turisan smiled. Eliani’s annoyance was strangely comforting.

  Whiteness filled his mind suddenly, warm and soothing. It was khi, but unlike any khi he had felt before.

  Eliani?

  Be still. Let it flow.

  He let out a long breath. The warmth flooded him, tingling down into the wound, making it hot. Pain ebbed beneath the brightness. His breathing steadied, slowed. His mind cleared somewhat, and he blinked, trying to think what he should do.

  The Eastfælder lay still, though he breathed yet. Turisan doubted he could help him, but he pushed himself away from the tree.

  Dizziness swept over him. He fell forward, catching himself on his uninjured arm.

  Turisan!

  He crawled to the Eastfælder’s side and sat fighting the resultant nausea. Leaning against a scrub oak, he put a hand on the guardian’s shoulder.

  Eliani, can you help him?

  Oh, love—

  Will you try?

  She was silent. He waited, and after a moment the whiteness came again. This time it poured through his good arm and into the Eastfælder’s shoulder where he touched it. He closed his eyes, not trying to understand, hoping only that it would help.

  The whiteness and warmth faded. He opened his eyes, wishing he could see across the river from where he sat.

  Tell me what happened. Kobalen?

  Yes. They were attacking our wounded, I had to help. He turned his head to peer at the dart. I cannot pull it. I would break the head.

  No, leave it! Can you ride to Highstone?

  The mare was nearby. Turisan thought he could get into the saddle but doubted he could stay in it for long. He swallowed.

  Too far.

  Are you sure? Heléri could help you—

  Let me think.

  His best hope was to get the attention of the guardians across the river if they were not still fighting kobalen. He wondered if he had killed the last kobalen or if it had escaped and gone for support. He cautiously rose to his knees and edged back toward the tree where he had sheltered. Dizziness threatened again, and he leaned his good arm against the trunk, gazing toward the river.

  Dark shapes lay in the road, tumbled, unmoving. One lay where his attacker had stood. With a sigh of relief, he slumped against the tree.

  You were to stay out of danger!

  I was. I will explain later.

  Turisan—

  Hush, love. I must call for help now.

  She subsided, though a string of dark thoughts seemed to run through the back of his mind in which words such as “idiot” and “foolhardy” were common. Ignoring these endearments from his beloved, he peered across the river.

  As he watched, guardians came out from behind the wagons and rocks, collecting arrows from among the dead kobalen. Turisan saw a face he knew.

  “Harathin!” He mustered all his strength to shout again. “Harathin!”

  Harathin paused, frowning as he cast his gaze about. Turisan waved with his good arm, then fell back against the tree. Harathin ran to the riverbank, staring across at him.

  “Lord Turisan?”

  Turisan struggled to his feet, wincing as his movements jostled the dart in his arm. He stood leaning against the tree, head swimming.

  “You are wounded! Stay there; we will come!”

  Turisan wondered idly where Harathin thought he might go. The pain was returning, interfering with his ability to think. He wanted to sit down again but felt he should remain standing.

  Harathin came to the riverbank with a horse and two guardians, one of whom began stripping off cloak and leathers. The other took the cloak from the first, then mounted the horse and rode southward.

  “Turisan? Nolanin will cross at the south ford and come to fetch you.”

  “There is another rider here, wounded. We have horses.”

  “Good. Now save your strength.”

  Taking this for permission to relax, Turisan sank to the ground again. The first guardian had stripped to tunic and legs, and he now saw that she was female. She ran north along the riverbank. When she was a good distance upstream she stopped, then jumped into the rushing water. Turisan gasped, for the river was cold and ran dangerously fast here.

  The guardian swam with strong strokes and caught herself on a tree root just above where Turisan sat. She scrambled out of the water and hastened toward him, dripping, her wet clothes clinging, braided hair lying heavy against her back. Turisan shivered in sympathy.

  She glanced down at the Eastfælder, then stepped past him to Turisan’s mare and took his pack and water skin from the saddle. Uncapping the skin, she handed it to him.

  “Drink.”

  The familiar voice made Turisan glance up. He had not recognized her but now saw that it was Filari. Her wet hair was plastered to her head, and her face had fresh cuts in two places—one a nasty gash down the nose—along with the older cut and the bruises Kelevon had given her, now fading.

  Turisan took a swallow from the water skin. “Thank you, Filari. You need not have swum the river.”

  She cast a skeptical glance at him, then dropped to her knees and began to dig in his pack. “Have you a spare tunic in here? Ah, yes.”

  She pulled it out, but instead of donning it as he had expected, she took out her belt knife and began cutting and tearing the tunic into strips. Turisan leaned back against the tree, watching her destroy his clothing.

  The cold of the water seeped into his stomach, making it rumble. He should have eaten something last night, he realized. He had been foolish not to. He felt unwell and leaned his head against the tree trunk, closing his eyes.

  Turisan?

  Yes, love. I am all right. Help is here.

  How were you struck?

  He described the skirmish between kobalen and Southfæld’s guardians and told of the kobalen he had stopped from running to Midrange. Eliani scolded him for risking himself, as he expected. He listened fondly, waiting until she ran out of abuse.

  Eastfæld has come. Five hundred riders.

  Ah!

  “Turisan? My lord?”

  Turisan opened his eyes. Filari was peering at him, looking anxious. She had a pile of torn cloth across her knees.

  “I must remove your leathers from this arm.”

  He nodded and reached up with his left hand to help unfasten them. Filari swatted his hand away and unlaced the bracer from his lower arm. She was gentle, but he winced in pain with each movement.

  Filari glanced up at him, then began to work cautiously at the lacings tying the upper armpiece to the shoulder of his leather jerkin. He clenched his teeth and noticed she was doing the same. Her fingers were trembling, the tips blue.

  “You are freezing. Take my cloak.”

  Filar
i shook her head. “You need it more than I. Nolanin is bringing mine.”

  She succeeded in untying the lacings, then sat frowning at the dart. “I do not think I can break the shaft without risking breaking the head.”

  “No.”

  Kobalen dart heads were made of ebonglass, wickedly sharp and fragile. Fragments left in wounds were both painful and dangerous.

  She bit her lip. “I can try to strip the fletching or just lift the leather far enough on the shaft so that I can see to remove the head.”

  “Easier to remove without the leather. Strip the fletching.”

  “All right. Hold still.”

  She took gentle hold of the shaft, and he hissed, then closed his eyes, determined to make no more sound. Filari did her best to steady the dart, but every tiny movement set up waves of pain. He imagined the barbed head slicing his muscle into shreds.

  Whiteness filled his mind again. Eliani, sending her healing. He silently thanked her and, when the jostling stopped, opened his eyes.

  Filari had pulled the goose feathers from the dart and was frowning at the bare shaft. He knew she was trying to decide how to remove the leather armpiece.

  Grimacing, he slid the fingers of his left hand beneath the leather and gripped the shaft, then nodded. Filari took hold of the armpiece with both hands and pulled it upward while Turisan steadied the shaft. It seemed to take a long time, though it could not have been more than a moment. When the leather left the shaft and the pressure released, he let out a grunt.

  “Now let me look.”

  Shivering, Turisan let his hand fall. The sleeve of his tunic was stained with blood from the seeping wound. Filari cut the cloth away with deft strokes of her knife and peered at the clean slice made by the dart as it had entered, a thin line oozing bright blood, perhaps five times the width of the shaft.

  “Can you hold one side? If we pull it open a little, away from the barbs, I can draw the dart straight out.”

  Turisan nodded. He pressed his fingertips against the skin on one side of the wound, ready to pull. His hand was shaking as badly as Filari’s. She set one hand opposite his and wrapped the other around the dart.

  “Now.”

  He pulled, and pain seared into his arm. He felt as if his bone were being drawn out of him. A moment later, wet heat spilled over his fingers. He let out the breath he had not known he was holding, gasping.