by A. D. Green
Screams grew louder as more arrows found their mark. A few urakakule made it to their feet but none took more than a step before an arrow found them. In the space of six breaths and six arrows it was over. Cries of pain and agonised moans filled the night air.
R’ell signalled again, then moved around the outer fringes of the camp, keeping under cover of the treeline. Two of the moons were visible in the eastern sky as he looked across the river to the camp on the far side.
There was activity. The noise of the river had hidden much of the death they’d dealt but not all. The screams of the dying was loud enough to alert the watchers.
Glancing back R’ell saw ilfanum moving silently through the camp. Occasionally, their blades dipped and they would move on. In the space of fifty heartbeats there were no urakakule alive in Da’Mari. Satisfied he turned back considering again the eastern encampment. It was roused and he could see they were organising.
R’ell waited. Ilfanum came up behind making just enough noise to let him know they were there. He sniffed the air. He could smell the man, his sweat had dried but it was strong enough to take a scent from, the bear as well. He faced them when he judged them near enough. M’rika stood closer than expected.
“What is your plan for the eastern camp?” M’rika asked her voice soft but direct.
“We wait.” R’ell replied. The manling, standing at the Kraal’s shoulder, had his eyes on the decimated camp.
M’rika nodded acknowledgement. Her bow was strung and she moved off into the darkness taking a position upstream where she could observe the encampment on the eastern bank in solitude.
Darion looked at the death and carnage of the urak camp then turned to address R’ell. “You were thorough, any losses?”
R’ell bared his teeth. “Six arrows, but I expect to recover them. I know where they lie.”
Darion stared at the ilf, a dark silhouette against a darker background, but made no reply. He looked about.
“M’rika is that way.” R’ell pointed. But the manling didn’t move. He looked serious. Men are strange, he thought, maybe he did not understand my jest. “Something troubles you ilf friend?”
Darion paused a moment before answering. “I’ve seen battle in my youth R’ell. Killing’s never a good thing. This was a slaughter.” He shrugged.
R’ell laughed. Did he joke? Looking at his face R’ell wasn’t sure. “They had to die and we killed them in the quickest most efficient way. This is for the best, yes?”
“Aye, you were quick and efficient, alright,” Darion said. He moved off into the darkness, towards the river and M’rika.
“More to your left,” R’ell snapped at the manling’s retreating back, unsettled by his talk. He switched his attention back to the enemy encampment. His blood was no longer singing. Sitting on his haunches he waited, watching.
It didn’t take the urakakule long. A small party heavily armed approached the Ford. Cautiously entering the water they started wading across cajoled by a large urak at their fore. Rising, R’ell stuck an arrow into the ground and drew another on his bow. They were mid river now, sixty paces from him and waist deep, slow and easy targets.
Releasing, R’ell’s arrow flew with a whisper burying itself into the leader’s chest. He fell, sinking beneath the water. Instantly the urakakule burst into motion, charging and screaming war cries. They were met with a hail of arrows. Not one made it to the shallows of the west bank. The river claimed the dead, sweeping them into its embrace.
Chaos broke out in the camp. The remaining urak were in turmoil, R’ell could see the panic. He waited. A green fisher flashed by, hunting. R’ell watched its casual grace as it glided silently up river until it disappeared from view. Looking back to the activity in camp R’ell saw the urak preparing. It would not be long now.
There was a flutter of wings as Bezal flapped, braking hard to land lightly on R’ell’s shoulder. The raven cawed and their minds touched. R’ell closed his eyes as they communed. Moments later, satisfied, he strode into the silence of west camp and down to the shallow water of the Ford.
Under the light of the tri-moons and backlit by the still burning campfires R’ell drew a screamer; an arrow intricately carved with holes and notches in, and fitted it to his bow. He took a stance as cries went up on the far bank. R’ell shut them out, focusing on the target Bezal had pinpointed. Pulling his bow up he sighted. It was a long shot at night with a breeze coming off the river. Adjusting slightly R’ell took a breath holding it but a moment before releasing. He turned away, a hint of a smile, knowing his arrow flew true.
It whistled, shrieking and spinning as it passed many urak before striking its target in the centre of his chest, knocking the urak to the ground. The screamer had the desired effect. The remaining urak broke for cover ducking low to the ground before edging into the forest. Within moments the eastern camp was deserted.
R’ell raised his hand making a sign before clenching and bringing his fist down sharply. Time to hunt!
Bartuk was awake, unsure why but knowing something had awoken him, some instinct. Instantly alert he made no overt move. Instead, he lay on his bedroll and focused his senses. Urak had good night vision but the campfire ruined any chance of seeing much beyond its light so he listened.
His immediate concern was the other urak. Scarface had no trust in him. Besides urak were tribal and whilst he might be clan, he was not tribe. So he lay still trying to identify the threat. He loosened the tie on his knife keeping his hand on it, ready.
Bartuk took a long slow breath. Smelt the strong musk of urak, the burning wood of the camp fires and the wonderful smell of the bear carcass they’d roasted over the fire pit earlier. He’d received many grunts of approval from his fellow raiders for that last.
He heard the heavy breathing of urak at rest, mixed with the occasional grunt or snore. Behind that the rumble of white water as it rushed over the shallows of the ford.
Scarface had sent the main party across shortly after they arrived. Bartuk was meant to be there but he’d argued against the crossing. He’d been warned before his scout party left, seven turns ago, not to cross into ilfanum lands and said as much to Scarface. The promise of bear meat was the only thing in the end that convinced Scarface to leave him this side of the river. It was also the reason Scarface had not crossed himself.
Then, beneath the sounds of the river, he heard a noise; a scream? He sat up listening more intently. Yes that was screaming. He saw the watchers on the far side of camp move to the edge of the river. They looked agitated. Bartuk gathered his things, rolled up his bedroll and stuffed it into his pack. Standing he moved carefully through the camp and into the forest. A watcher at post saw his approach.
“Going for a shit,” Bartuk said, by way of explanation and moved past him.
“Shit hole is south,” the watcher said.
“I’m as like to fall in. It’s dark as fuck at that shit hole,” Bartuk growled back. “Besides it stinks too bad,” he said, over his shoulder. When he was sure the watcher couldn’t see him any more Bartuk broke into a long loping jog due east.
Chapter 25
: Little Hope and None
“Marron,” Morten said, interrupting Amos in mid flow.
Marron turned staring up at a grim faced Morten. At his side a little girl, her hand gripped firmly in his, her face ashen white. Marron’s heart flipped. On some instinctive level she knew something bad had happened and it involved Nihm, else why would they be here?
“What is it Mort?” Marron asked, praying she was wrong.
“It’s Nihm. Annabelle here says she’s hurt bad. You must come, quickly.”
Marron stood, her chair scrapping back with a loud rasp.
Amos and Mercy leapt to their feet barging a path to the front door of the inn. Marron trailed in their wake. More than one patron exclaimed angrily as they pushed by.
They found Nihm almost immediately, part way down Shambler’s Way. A small crowd had gathered and Amos shouted th
em back forcing his way to her side.
The rest of his men split, Jobe and Lucson disappeared with Mercy, whilst the rest pushed the small knot of people back.
Marron’s heart was racing and a deep dread threatened to crush her at the sight of Nihm lying lifeless on the ground. Shoving Amos aside, Marron knelt and examined Nihm quickly. Nothing was broken, there was a slight lump to the side of her head where she’d fallen, and a small bladed knife in her left shoulder. Only the bump would account for Nihm’s lack of response but that felt wrong somehow.
All the while Marron talked, keeping her voice calm and measured. Inside she shook with fear.
“It’s okay Nihm, I’m here, everything will be alright,” she soothed. “We’re going to move you. Get you back to the inn.”
Marron looked across at Amos and he bent, gently lifting Nihm as if she were a child. Stama and Jerkze parted the crowd, clearing a path as Amos carried her back to the inn, Marron leading the way.
Marron had never known such despair. Why, why, why did I let her go out there? She berated herself, gazing down at her baby lying unresponsive on the bed.
Nihm had a fever and was delirious. Her left shoulder was angry and red and blood leaked from her wound continuously.
Marron had been trained by the order. Early on she had shown a natural affinity for the healing arts despite her weakness in elementary magics. Consequently, it had been the main focus of her training. Living on the edge of the old forest those healing skills proved important and she was often called upon by holdsteaders when they were in need of a physiker.
Marron thought of Darion, out there somewhere, oblivious to Nihm’s plight. Twisting her heart ring, feeling its warmth reassured her at least that he was alive and well. Wherever he was he would find his way back to them, she had complete faith in that. Oh how she wished he were here now, she needed his quiet strength.
Mercy entered the room and, seeing it full of men, immediately set about clearing them out, including Amos and Morten. She pushed them out the door in no uncertain terms.
“Stama, don’t let anyone in except on my say so,” she ordered.
Marron was oblivious to it all. She busied herself cutting away Nihm’s top, her new top she’d not yet had a day, and cleaned the wound. The knife had not penetrated deeply having hit bone on its way in but she could only stem the bleeding, not stop it. The wound wouldn’t close.
Marron suspected the blade was poisoned. The flesh smelled off and tell-tale dark lines snaked from the puncture mark.
Mercy picked the knife up where it lay on the bedside table examining it. A faint nimbus of light emanated from her hand bathing the blade in a pale blue light.
Marron glanced at her in hope. Mercy was a mage, her magic much stronger than her own. But Mercy shook her head, no, at the unspoken question.
“The blade’s poisoned. Deeproot I think. Not rare but unusual enough for these parts. Deeproot prefers a warmer climate,” Mercy stated.
Marron’s heart sank at the words. She knew, but hadn’t wanted to admit it to herself. Looking at Mercy she saw pity in her eyes.
“I’m sorry Marron. This is beyond me. No physiker can cure this.”
Tears sprang unbidden to Marron’s eyes. Her hand covered her mouth holding back the scream of anguish that threatened to burst out.
Mercy sat and embraced Marron, holding her as she sobbed quietly into her shoulder. She heard the door open.
“Wait outside,” She snapped. Whoever it was said nothing and moments later the door closed softly. Mercy held Marron while she cried. She understood loss and some of the pain Marron felt.
“I can ease her into the next life if you wish it, Marron. It would end her suffering. Deeproot…” Mercy never finished.
“Don’t you dare touch her,” Marron spat, pushing the mage away.
Mercy stood. Stepping back she held her hands out. “I meant no upset Marron. Only this poison… it is insidious. The worst is yet to come.”
“I know what deeproot is. What it does,” Marron cried. Inside she screamed, her heart torn asunder. That small part of her mind, cold and logical, nurtured and shaped by the Order, nagged at her. It was insistent, how can you help Nihm if you cannot control yourself? Grieve later damn you, when it’s time.
Focusing on that part of herself, Marron took a deep breath and wiped her sleeve over her eyes to dry them. She held a hand out to Mercy, taking one of hers.
“I know you mean well. But she’s my daughter, I have to help her while she breathes still,” Marron pleaded. “Give me time with her, alone. Please.”
Mercy nodded understanding squeezing Marron’s hand in return. Her eyes darted to Nihm lying fevered and pale, sweat soaked and bloody, helpless. Mercy had never felt so powerless and was filled with a deep sadness.
“Of course Marron, I’ll guard the door myself. If you’ve need of me,” Mercy said, leaving her meaning unspoken. It didn’t need saying. She walked to the door glancing back once but Marron had already turned to attend to Nihm. She left quietly pulling the door closed behind.
Marron was glad Mercy had gone but was grateful to her at the same time. Her offer had galvanised her and helped focus her mind. She heard raised voices in the corridor outside then quiet. Mopping Nihm’s brow with a damp cloth Marron spoke to her about everything and nothing.
Marron watched Nihm’s face spasm and eyelids flutter as she fought her own internal, deadly battle. It was a battle her daughter would ultimately lose. The poison was close to Nihm’s heart; her body already shutting down as it pumped the deadly toxin around her body. Nihm would not live to see the sunrise, that was the truth and Marron only ever dealt in the truth, even now to herself. She held Nihm’s hand, absently checking her pulse, strong still but erratic.
Marron pushed her fear and anxiety down, trying to lock them away so she could think straight. Now was not the time to let emotion rule. She needed to think clearly. She had decisions to make.
Her desperation called on a distant memory, one from her training many years ago. She was young not much older than a child. Inquisitive she’d asked her old master how to become a Knight of the Order. In the Hall’s it was every child’s dream to be an Order knight but it was one few ever realised.
“To become a knight one must first be judged worthy and strong enough for the trial,” Master Attimus told her.
“Yes master but after that? What is the trial?” She persisted.
“It is a process. Not of strength, or wit, or intellect but one of survival.” He’d told her solemnly. “Many have faced the trial but few survive it,” he said.
Marron thought on his words as she recalled them. He never did elaborate on the ’process’ but she knew of it anyway. Her sister had died from it, in her own trial. Her brilliant beautiful sister; the memory of it pained her even now. It was why she’d never taken the trial herself. After her sister’s death she was a child no more and lost the dream.
The trial of survival was a change in state, a melding of consciousness, affected through assimilation. A process that Elora dul Eladrohim, their founder, went through with the being, a creature not of this world. So began the Order. The knights were simply an extension of that symbiosis with the being.
Marron had a part of the being with her now, or an instrument of it, she wasn’t sure. It was intuition as much as anything that drove her. All the little nicks and cuts the box healed after use leaving her hand unblemished, smooth of scar or callous, spoke of its healing potential. Maybe it would help Nihm, maybe not. She got to her feet, her limbs heavy and tired, but she moved with purpose to her travel chest. When there was a choice of little hope and none she would choose the little.
Sliding the trunk round Marron unlocked it, lifting the lid. She rummaged to the bottom and the compartment that held the intricately carved box. A box Keeper had given to her and Darion a life time ago when they had first left the Order hall.
Lifting the box Marron carefully unwound the heavy sack cloth that boun
d and covered it and carried it to the bed. Placing her hand on the hermetically sealed lid she waited. Marron didn’t know by what mechanism it worked but Keeper said it would only open for them or an Order Knight. There was a gentle hiss and click as the lid released. With a twist she lifted it off, placing it on the bed sheet alongside the box.
Marron took a deep breath; it was a big decision, a gamble that would likely end in Nihm’s death, but then her daughter was dead already if she did nothing. Her thoughts brushed the memory of her sister again. If you do this, she told herself, you will lose the link to Keeper whether Nihm lives or dies.
Marron feared talking to Keeper and resisted the urge to contact him, sure the decision she’d made would be undone. Lifting the box Marron upended it onto Nihm’s shoulder, pressing and holding it over the wound, before her doubts could tear at her any further. She breathed, slow and steady, calming her mind.
Had she just killed Nihm? It wouldn’t matter Marron knew, she blamed herself anyway. At least if Nihm died now from her actions it was whilst trying to save her. That seemed right and fitting; after all she’d sent her out there in the first place, alone. Removing the box, empty now, Marron replaced the lid. She twisted it, but it wouldn’t seal.
Staring at Nihm, Marron frowned. She had experience of the healing the box offered, albeit on her hand but she wasn’t expecting what she saw now. Nihm’s shoulder had stopped bleeding. It was clean and dry, the blood gone from where the box had imprinted her shoulder. The puncture hole from the wound was clearly visible and still red and inflamed but not like before.
The gel like substance from the box had all but disappeared. As she watched the last traces of it oozed, seeping into the wound, into Nihm. Then it was gone.
Absently she rewrapped the box and stowed it away in the trunk again. Hope kindled in her heart, it had been but moments but already she thought she detected an improvement in Nihm’s condition.