by Pati Nagle
“Here, quick.”
A blow struck his arm, and he jumped, then realized that Filari had pressed a folded cloth against the wound. He bit back indignant protest.
“Can you hold it? Press hard.”
Turisan fumbled his hand over the cloth and pressed. An answering ache rose in his arm. He closed his eyes and leaned his head against the tree, trying to steady his breathing. Eliani was still sending healing, had sent it throughout. He became aware of the tension in his limbs and made an effort to release it. The worst was over, and the pain was already lessening.
He could feel Filari’s movements as she bound the wound. He gave himself to Eliani’s healing, sinking into the peaceful warmth, letting his hand be moved and replaced over the bandage.
Feeling he should express his gratitude, he opened his eyes. Filari was wiping her knife with a scrap of cloth. He managed a weak murmur.
“Thank you.”
Two answered that he was welcome.
Eliani returned to herself to find she was leaning forward in her saddle, left hand pressed to her right shoulder, her horse standing in the center of a circle of riders who were all staring at her. She blinked and looked at Vanorin, who sat his mount before her, eyes filled with concern.
“My lady? Are you well?”
She inhaled and sat up, letting her hand fall. Her muscles were stiff.
“Yes. Where are we?”
She looked around at the forest, vaguely remembering riding through those pines. The party had been following a stream down out of the heights. She spied it after a moment, a few rods away, its murmur a tickle at the edge of her hearing.
Vanorin looked dismayed. “We are in the Steppe Wilds. Do you not remember?”
“Yes, yes. Forgive me. Turisan was hurt, and I was distracted by it. All is well now.”
She said this with a silent hope that it was true. Turisan’s wound was not dangerous, but she would be glad when he was somewhere safe, well away from the chaos at Midrange.
Luruthin moved his horse up beside hers. “Do you feel able to ride on?”
“Of course.” She nodded, but instead of urging her horse forward, she sat staring at the lock of black mane between its ears.
“Eliani?”
Luruthin’s voice was gentle. Somehow that broke her determined calm. She felt a tear slide down her cheek as she met his gaze.
“The war at Midrange has begun.”
Hoofbeats, running, intruded upon Turisan’s fitful repose. He stirred and was rewarded with a dull stab of pain in his shoulder. Opening his eyes, he saw Filari standing nearby, waving to the approaching rider, a guardian who led a second horse by the reins.
Turisan frowned. He should know who this guardian was. One of his command, and Filari had said his name earlier.
The guardian slowed to a walk and came toward them, tossing a bundled cloak to Filari as he reached them. She caught it and put it on.
Turisan sat up, his movements slow and careful. He was stiff from leaning against the tree. Filari turned and looked at him.
“Ah, good!” She came closer and knelt beside him. “How do you feel?”
“None too well, but better than before.”
She smiled, then held up the kobalen dart, turning it to show him all the sides. “See? No chips.”
“I am in your debt.”
Filari shook her head. “I was in yours.”
It was true that she seemed more steady now than she had been in Glenhallow, more vital. Turisan privately doubted he had done her a favor by bringing her here, for the fighting had scarcely begun. At least now the odds were no longer overwhelming.
Filari offered the dart. “Do you want it?”
Turisan took it in his left hand and looked more closely at it, musing. Some guardians kept such things as reminders of their trials or as tokens of good fortune. He twirled it by the shaft, admiring the craft that had gone into the black glass head, its perfect symmetry, the smoky glow of light through its thinnest edges. He then reversed it and smashed the point into a rock that lay beside him. The head shattered, scattering splintered glass.
“Now it will never harm another.”
He tossed the shaft away and got to his feet, leaning against the tree for balance. He felt light-headed but thought he could ride. He looked around for his water skin, found it at his feet, and bent to pick it up, then noticed a cloak draped on the ground.
A gold cloak, and beneath it the Eastfælder who had accompanied him. The cloak was drawn up over his face. Turisan looked up sharply at Filari, who shook her head.
Turisan picked up his water skin and straightened, which made his head swim a little. He opened the skin and took two deep swallows, then looked down at the fallen guardian.
The rider had dismounted and now joined them, pausing as he encountered the gold cloak. “Hai—who is this?”
Turisan shook his head. “I do not know his name.”
“That is his horse.” Filari gestured to the bay that was quietly cropping dry grass. “Do you need help?”
The guardian shook his head, glanced at Turisan, then bent to lift the Ælvanen’s body. The cloak draped gracefully as he carried it away.
“Here.” Filari picked up a remnant of Turisan’s torn tunic, fashioned into a sling. She slipped it over his head, helping him settle his injured arm in it.
“Thank you.”
“Do you feel well enough to ride?”
“I think so.”
He looked about for his mare, saw it grazing nearby, and went to it. He mounted, wincing as he landed in the saddle and jolted his arm. Gathering the reins in his good hand, he looked across the river.
A pall of cloud hung over the mountains, dark blue-gray, swelling even as he watched. A thin overcast had spread eastward from it, turning the sky overhead a dull white. The sun was hidden and would not appear again this day.
The wagons had come down from the ravine where the skirmish had been and were now moving south along the road. Guardians on horseback accompanied them.
He gazed northward, though Midrange Valley was hazed with smoke and he could not see High Holding. The sky was darkening, and the rumble of thunder joined the distant sound of the battle. An acrid smell of smoke and death reached him on a cold wind.
“My lord?”
Filari was mounted, waiting with the other guardian. Nolanin, Turisan remembered at last. He was leading the Eastfælder’s horse, which bore its master’s body. Turisan joined them, and they started south toward the lower ford.
The woods grew more dense, coming into mixed greenleaf and evergreen. Across the Silverwash, the foothills of a ridge descended toward them, defining the south side of Midrange Valley. The ford was just north of it, where the river turned and spread before passing through the mountains’ feet.
Nolanin paused and held up his hand. Turisan halted the mare and stifled a sigh of relief. His shoulder had begun to throb again.
Nolanin gestured toward the water. “I will follow.”
Filari glanced at Turisan, then clicked her tongue to her horse and made it go into the river. The water came up to its belly near the shore; in the center, it might have to swim.
Turisan patted his mare on the neck, trusting that it would manage. He then urged it into the water, drawing a sharp breath as it scrambled down the bank.
Cold splashed into his face and instantly soaked his legs. The mare struggled beneath him. He laid his hand on its neck, finding its khi through the confusion caused by the water, sending it reassurance.
Forward, only a little way. Almost halfway across.
Two splashes behind him told of Nolanin following. He did not look back.
The mare lurched, losing the riverbed. Turisan quelled its panic, enwrapping its khi with his own, sending it calm.
Forward. Swim.
He was breathing hard, too closely engaged with his frightened mount. He kept his gaze fixed on the western bank. A moment later the mare’s hooves scrabbled against rock.
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Lurching forward, eager to be out of the water, the horse nearly spilled him into the river, but he clung with both knees and grabbed a handful of mane, the reins still looped around his palm. Ahead, Filari’s mount scrambled up the bank and onto the road.
Almost there. He crouched low over the mare’s withers, clinging to it. The bank was steep, and the horse faltered going up it, hooves slipping in mud, jolting him painfully. Turisan gasped as stars swam before him, then the mare was up and onto the flat, shaking the water from its coat and jostling him again. Turisan patted the animal, thanking it for bringing him safely across the water.
Behind him, a horse suddenly squealed. He turned and saw Nolanin struggling with the reins of the Eastfælder’s horse, which was floundering in deep water, panicked. It thrashed, and Turisan gasped as Nolanin lost his seat and his mount swam on without him.
Nolanin’s face showed terror; his arm was tangled in the bay’s reins. The horse, burdened with its dead rider, struggled to keep its head above water. In an instant, both the horse and Nolanin were swept down the river.
With a cry of alarm, Turisan put his reins in his right hand and unlashed a coil of rope from his saddle with his left, pressing with his knees to urge the mare forward. The horse startled into a lope.
Each stride jolted Turisan’s arm, but he clenched his teeth and leaned forward as the mare dashed along the riverbank. Nolanin, burdened by his saturated cloak, disappeared beneath the water briefly, then came up sputtering. They were nearing the bend around the foot of a ridge, where the river narrowed and deepened, running swifter.
Turisan drew abreast of Nolanin, then ahead. He would never be closer; he reined in the mare, twined an end of the rope around his wrist, and flung it to Nolanin.
Spirits help us!
A jerk nearly pulled him from the saddle as Nolanin caught hold of the rope. Turisan leaned back, and the mare responded, scrabbling backward at his urging. The rope tightened around his arm, but the handfasting ribbons seemed to protect him somewhat as the pressure increased.
The mare’s hooves slipped. Turisan feared he would be pulled from the saddle. He spied a tree close ahead and let the horse go forward.
The rope slackened, and he jumped from the saddle. He just had time to circle the tree once before the rope tightened again. He gasped for breath, his arm caught against the tree trunk by the rope. The tree now took most of the force of Nolanin’s weight.
Hoofbeats behind him, and shouting. He did not shift his gaze from Nolanin. The rope stretched between them, the guardian suspended in the middle of the river. The Eastfælder’s horse was far downstream; Nolanin must have managed to get free of its reins.
He was not swimming, though. It might be all he could do to hold on.
“Here!”
Filari’s voice. She was suddenly beside Turisan, leaping past the tree and grabbing hold of the rope, digging her heels into the bank as she pulled. Other guardians joined her, and Turisan watched with relief as they hauled Nolanin to shore.
The rope slackened from around his arm. He leaned against the tree, gulping deep breaths, fighting a return of dizziness.
Nolanin was dragged up the riverbank and lay coughing, guardians bending over him. Turisan gave silent thanks to whatever spirits had aided them. His legs began to shake, and he clung to the tree to avoid falling.
Turisan, what now?
Ah, we had a mishap fording the river. All is well now.
Filari came to him, pressing her lips together, looking as if she would like to scold him but did not dare. He smiled weakly.
“Thank you for your help. I could not have held much longer.”
“You saved his life.”
“No more than you did.”
“But you—” She glanced northward toward the battle and frowned. “Well, you are wet and cold. Let us get you away from here.”
The wagons had moved on and were nearly past the foot of the ridge. While the other guardians helped Nolanin back to his horse, which waited unrepentant in the road, Filari caught Turisan’s mare and brought it to him. She regarded him doubtfully.
“Can you mount?”
He pushed away from the tree and took the reins in his left hand, pausing to murmur a word of praise to the mare before hauling himself once more into the saddle. His head swam with weariness. A moment later a gentle flood of white khi flowed into him, less intense than before but every bit as comforting. He gave a sigh of relief as he followed Filari down the road.
Thank you, my love.
Tell me what happened, unless you are about to plunge into another battle.
He told her as he rode southward. Filari rode abreast of him, casting glances at him from time to time. They passed the ridge, leaving the battle behind. The valley beyond seemed oddly peaceful; the mountains blocked more than the noise and smoke. They seemed to block the tormented khi of the battlefield as well.
A rumble of thunder echoed through the peaks. Though it was not yet evening, the sky had darkened and the air grew more chill by the moment. A drizzling sleet began to fall.
Ahead, the wagons had pulled off the road, going up a rise to halt beside a cluster of boulders. Scant shelter from the storm, but better than none. Turisan saw flames leap up from newly kindled fires, orange-gold in the darkening storm. He and Filari turned their mounts toward the makeshift camp.
A driver came to take their horses, shyly offering to tend Turisan’s mare. Turisan took his gear from the saddle and yielded the reins, then trudged after Filari toward the fires.
Wounded guardians huddled in the shelter of the wagons and the boulders. Drivers and guardians, some wearing bandages themselves, moved among them, giving water and food to those who could take it, comfort to those who could not. Here and there a quiet moan attested to someone’s suffering. Turisan was struck with a sudden sense of his own good fortune, for his wound was nothing compared with some that he saw.
One guardian’s face was a ragged mess on one side. Another was heavily bandaged about the throat, a red stain slowly spreading through the bandages. Many had multiple wounds. Turisan walked slowly through the camp, looking at each face.
Eyes turned to him as he passed, seeking reassurance, seeking guidance. A sense of responsibility for their suffering weighed upon him. He had brought them here.
Shaking off the shadow of grief, he made himself stop to speak to those who were conscious, praising their valor and encouraging them to be hopeful as he shared the warmth of their fires. They knew nothing of the arrival of forces from Eastfæld, so he told them of the five hundred who had come and the seven hundred a day away, assuring them the ælven defenses would hold. His doubts he left unsaid.
Filari sought him out. She was clad in her leathers once again and wore a look of stubborn wariness.
“I am going back to Midrange. Nolanin will escort you to Glenhallow.”
Turisan restrained an impulse to order her to stay. There was no good reason for it, and she had earned a say in how she was to serve. Better, too, for her to remain away from Glenhallow for now.
He nodded. “Thank you for your help. Spirits go with you.”
She smiled briefly, then turned away. Turisan watched her go to her waiting horse and ride down to the road.
The sleet began to fall more steadily. The drivers hastened to make shelters for the wounded out of heavy cloths from the wagons. Turisan drew up the hood of his cloak and continued to walk among them.
Near the upper end of the camp he found Dahlaran, the young recruit who had brought him Dirovon’s message, lying with his eyes closed and his cloak drawn up to his neck. He was very pale, and a bloodstain had soaked through the cloak over his thigh.
Turisan knelt beside him and lifted the cloak, swallowing when he saw the blood-drenched legs beneath. Dahlaran’s leathers had been removed, and a bandage was bound tightly high around his left thigh, but it seemed to do little to stay the flow of blood.
With only one good hand, Turisan could not tend
the wound. He glanced around, looking for one of the drivers.
“Can someone help here?”
“No.” Dahlaran’s voice was a raspy whisper. “Leave it.”
Turisan looked down and saw that the guardian’s eyes were open, gazing calmly at him. “You are bleeding.”
“I know. That is not the only wound. I fell from High Holding. My back is broken, and there is something wrong inside … I am best left as I am.”
Turisan felt his throat tightening. He lowered the cloak and sat beside Dahlaran, taking his hand. The young guardian’s khi was thin and wavering, like a candle flame near going out.
“I am sorry.”
Dahlaran smiled weakly. “Do not be. I will return when the chance offers.”
“It will offer. Your sacrifice will not be forgotten.”
“Thank you.”
They sat in silence, Turisan clasping the cold hand in his. Dahlaran closed his eyes again, and Turisan could feel him fading away. He squeezed his own eyes shut and tears dropped from them, mingling with the sleet.
Eliani?
Yes, love?
Can you help?
A moment.
Turisan waited, breathing deeply. The scent of rain, a smell he had always loved, now filled his senses. Somehow this made him weep the more freely.
All right, love. I have privacy. What is it?
Turisan had no words. Instead he opened his heart to show her Dahlaran’s plight.
Oh. Perhaps I can ease him a little.
What should I do?
Be still.
He obeyed and felt powerful heat moving again through his arm and hand, into Dahlaran’s. The guardian inhaled sharply in surprise, then relaxed. For a long while they sat still, the glow of healing enveloping both. At last Dahlaran sighed.
“Thank you.”
He opened his eyes once more. Turisan saw no more suffering in them, only peace. Dahlaran smiled.
“I am glad to have known you, mindspeaker.”
Turisan squeezed his hand. “And I am honored to know you, Dahlaran.”
The smile widened, then Dahlaran closed his eyes. Turisan felt him slip away.