Thread Skein (Golden Threads Trilogy Book 3)

by Leeland Artra

  That small success brought him renewed energy, and after a lot of hard work, he pulled himself out of the hole he was in. In spite of being out of the dirt, it hurt to breathe. He forced himself to take slow, shallow breaths, which helped, but each breath made him gag. It took more willpower not to cough. He recalled the explosion, being thrown like a toy, and losing contact with Duke.

  Still blinded by the dirt in his left eye, he realized his right eye had never opened, and was held shut by debris. He shifted his position to get his hands up to his face and wipe the dirt from his eyes. Leaning forward, he slowly probed his eyelids, letting them tear from the pain, which helped remove some of the grit. As his tears flowed, he kept trying to open his left eye, which blinked rapidly, refusing to remain open. He managed to remove the dry, caked-on substance from his right eye as his left slowly cleaned itself till he could glance around.

  A shiver of pride at making his eyes work ran through his body — a minor but crucial victory he was pleased to accept. Although his sight wasn’t great, he sat up and looked around. The world was white. A heavy fog blocked everything farther than maybe twenty feet around him. Sniffing the pungent, smoky air, he ran his hand through his hair, combing some of the debris out.

  There was no hint of fresh forest and green lands there. Each breath threatened to choke him, and he realized the air was filled with smoke and ash. The ground was random jumble, and strange lumps in the thick layers of ash hinted at the debris beneath the white landscape. He lifted up some of the pale ash and felt it between his fingers as he took in the small circle of reality he existed in. The ash was as fine as the best ground powder; it made his fingers nearly frictionless.

  That isn’t fog. My Lords and Ladies, what power would turn the world into this?

  Tearing a section of his shirt he tied it around his head covering his mouth and nose to filter some of the air. With the cloth filter breathing was easier so long as he didn’t take fast breaths. Trying to ignore the devastation, he examined himself. The blood he’d smelled had been his own. Rips and cuts were everywhere in his clothing and armor, yet the skin underneath the blood-soaked spots was the light pink of half-healed wounds.

  My wondrous Lady Electra, I must do something truly outstanding for you in thanks.

  He dragged himself up to his feet. Muscles and joints recently abused complained, but he knew he would be well enough in a short time.

  His sword was gone, and one boot was missing, but he still had his pouch. He opened it and pulled out the compass. It was a tool that he’d gotten many years prior, when he was a lieutenant in the guard. It was bent, smashed, and beyond repair. Sighing, he started to throw it away, but instead he put it back into his pouch and patted the pouch gently.

  The sun was up, but it was hidden by the falling ash. As he turned, he realized that there was no hint to tell him where he was in relation to any landmark he might find.

  The main camp was east of the base. We attacked from that side. When we fled, I’m pretty sure it was in a straight line easterly. I could walk in circles and die of thirst if I don’t get a direction. The camp was five miles from the base. I pray this devastation doesn’t extend that far. If I can figure out which way is east, I shouldn’t be far from any survivors, and I should be able to get some gear.

  He chose a direction and started walking, testing each step before committing any weight to the foot, especially his bare foot. If not for his footprints in the white field behind him, he might have thought he wasn’t moving. After an unmeasurable amount of time, he came upon a broken tree. As he approached it, he saw there were more broken branches and stumps. Giant trees had been pushed over, tearing huge root-balls out of the ground.

  Stepping up to one such giant, he put his hands on it. It was covered in ash, but it was as real as he was. He pondered the power that could smash such a giant tree down.

  We cannot allow this to be used again. I will not allow the Nhia-Samri to continue unchecked.

  Leaning on the tree, he looked over it at the other broken or uprooted ones. They all lay in a series beyond the first. It took a few moments to realize two important facts. First, the fog had cleared enough to let him see a few hundred yards. Second, and more importantly, the trees were all laid out parallel.

  The force of the explosion pushed them down. The destroyed base would be towards their roots, and... He turned to face the other way. ...our camp should be generally in this direction.

  With renewed energy, he started picking his way through the debris. A sound, the first he’d heard in a while, came from nearby. He stopped and listened for more. It came again: a low, soft neigh. He made his way towards it. On the far side of a tree, two men and a horse were pinned under a limb. He moved over and brushed the ash from the horse’s face. It looked at him with its large eyes. Jerking its head, as if saying, ‘I’m okay, check them.’

  One of the men wore a grotesque red mask of ash. He’d suffered a head wound that had poured his blood out to mix with the falling residue. Dohma couldn’t find a pulse, but that didn’t mean much. He wasn’t going to give up. The other was breathing. Dohma patted him down, looking for injuries, but couldn’t identify anything life-threatening. He didn’t recognize the man, but his gear showed he was one of the Daggers from the army.

  Dohma started patting the man’s face. “Wake up. Time to get to work. C’mon back now.” His breathing changed, so Dohma knew he was making progress. His face contorted. Dohma remembered the Dagger motto. “Never give up.”

  After a few more seconds, the man’s eyes opened, and his brows tightened as he tried to focus. Dohma sat back on his haunches as the warrior moved a bit more, lifting his head and looking around.

  “What happened?”

  Dohma shrugged. “Not exactly sure, but it was a trap to take us out.”

  The man shifted, and his horse neighed. He put one hand on the animal and checked the neck of the bloody man with the other. “Faint, but he’ll live. Shame, now I’m going to listen to his griping for a while.”

  “I couldn’t find a pulse, but I’m glad to hear that.”

  The man almost smiled. “You might change your mind when you hear his khabing. My leg is pinned under Olly here, and I think the tree has my waist.”

  Dohma shook his head. “We can talk about this after we get back to camp. Now that I know you’re not crushed, let’s see if I can get you out from under there.”

  Dohma started looking for a strong enough lever.

  The man started working something out from under the unconscious fellow. “I have something that might help.”

  With Dohma’s assistance, he eventually got a leather satchel out. Smiling, he opened it and produced a camping hatchet. He also took out a small flare and a hunting horn.

  Dohma laughed. “That will probably be far more useful than the hatchet.”

  The Dagger squinted at Dohma. “I agree. Since we survived, there will be others. You’re Lord Dohma, aren’t you?”

  Dohma started cutting a large branch into a good pole. “Yes. Sorry, I don’t know your name.”

  Waving his hand in a general salute, he said, “Nullo Sidurson, m’Lord. And this,” he said, indicating the other man, “is my brother, Essen.”

  “Sidurson — are you Sidur of Ashkash’s sons?”

  “Yes, m’Lord. You know of our father?”

  “I know your father saved many lives and was instrumental in ending the last war with the Nhia-Samri. I read about him when I was growing up. I spent many days dreaming I was a Dagger under Faltla and Sidur’s command.”

  “Thanks for saying so.”

  Dohma waved his hand dismissively and finished making a pole.

  Putting the horn to his lips, Nullo began to blow a sequence of notes: three long, three short, three long, the age-old cry for help.

  When the l
ever was ready, Dohma worked to cut away the branch that was holding them down. Although small, the hatchet was sharp. He’d already cut through about half of the limb when they heard other horns in the distance.

  Warriors gathered, many of them being carried by others who were less wounded. Riders came to the call, as well. Finally the limb was cut enough to allow them to break it. With the aid of some of the others, they used the pole to lift the branch off Nullo and his horse. The horse neighed loudly and then stood, moving around, testing its legs. Nullo stood and stretched, brushing the ash off.

  “M’Lord, if I might suggest, why don’t you take Olly here back to camp and organize things there? I’ll stay here with those who are not heavily injured and start searching for survivors.”

  Nullo’s horse blew its nose, and then nuzzled Dohma.

  “I’m not seriously injured. I can stay and help,” Dohma said.

  “I’m sure. But to be honest, m’Lord, it would do everyone some good if you looked less, um, gutter-dragged. Also, you need another boot.”

  Dohma had forgotten about the missing boot and looked down at his bare foot. He had to admit that he was far from being inspiring officer material at the moment.

  Nullo held out his hand, and Olly stepped over to him. With a loving gentleness, Nullo lifted his brother onto the back of the horse. “Please, m’Lord. Essen needs better care.”

  As he glanced around, Dohma saw that many of the Daggers were giving looks of approval to Nullo. He gave Nullo his best I know what you’re doing look. He then took the reins of the horse and climbed up, careful to not jostle Essen.

  “All right, but I’ll be back shortly. See if you can find Duke. I was with him, but we were separated at the last moment.” Dohma pointed, saying, “I came from that direction. You should be able to backtrack a one-shoed man.”

  “Yes, m’Lord.”

  He rode slowly as dozens of others followed him. More joined in, and soon they found where the devastation ended. Although the ash still fell, it felt better to ride through the normal grass and trees. The sounds of riders came to him, and he tensed, wondering if the Nhia-Samri were going to ensure that no one survived.

  Out of the forest rode teams of warriors, followed by even more people jogging along. He sighed as he noted they were from the encampment. After a few quick exchanges, people were moving the wounded back to camp, and others were being called in to help with the search.

  Dohma went to his tent, where he cleaned up. When he finished, he dressed and found a new pair of boots at the front of his pavilion.

  The camp was busy with groups of people and horses heading out towards the west. Other groups were returning, their horses laden with bodies. The few living wounded were being brought back in carts.

  That had been the largest Nhia-Samri base in Duianna lands. They’d expected at least 30,000 Nhia-Samri warriors to be there, as well as another 50,000 support staff. Duke had committed a large portion of the division to the mission. Their 30,000 Dagger officers had led nearly 100,000 soldiers into the base, attacking from all sides. Another 300,000 warriors were stationed in three rings around and patrolling the fifty-mile-wide area that consisted of the base’s lands. The offensive had taken out most of the direct attack forces and many of the patrol and blockade forces.

  Dohma spent a full mark touring the hospital tents. Hundreds of stretchers were occupied as more wounded were being brought in. Everyone was trying to clean wounds or provide solace. He found more than a few groups of warriors with their heads down, crying over lost friends or loved ones.

  The side of a hill to the north of the hospital tents had been cleared, and more bodies than he could count were laid out in neat rows. Each one was wrapped in a bed roll, and most had a dagger lying on top of the chest. Dozens of Daggers roamed the field, stopping at times to reverently touch the dagger on a body, while fighting to hold back sobs of grief.

  There was a continuous procession of honor guard teams for the dead. Daggers had their own rituals for death, as well. Dohma watched the teams. No honor was overlooked for Daggers or guards. Each deceased Dagger was added to the field by a team of nine other Daggers. The teams marched out, one Dagger in front, carrying the dead warrior’s bare dagger resting flat on open palms. The lead Dagger stepped with a measured pace, which the others followed precisely.

  Behind the lead, six carried the remains. A pair of Daggers, with their own daggers out in a guard position, brought up the rear of the procession, staying two steps behind. They laid the body carefully in one of the rows, at which point the nine would stand around it while the bare dagger was handed around, hilt first, to each person in the procession. The last person to hold the dagger would place it on the chest. The team then returned to camp in the same measured step. For guards, the Daggers gave the same honor guard, except that instead of a dagger, the lead carried a sword or other weapon from the fallen warrior.

  Sometimes the honor guard was followed by other warriors. After the honor guard left, the remaining warriors would perform additional honors. Depending on the origin of the deceased, the death honors included placing coins around the head or sheathing the sword.

  The Yalthum warriors were the only ones treated differently. They were carried out naked by one of their warrior priests, who was the only one allowed to touch the corpse after being declared dead. The Dagger honor guard escorted the priests, each holding a different part of the ceremony. The priest would lay the remains out and cover the face with a cloth, placing stones around the body. Once completed, it was covered with a special cloth, which Dohma was surprised to learn had been made by a wife, mother, or sister when the warrior had taken up the sword. Yalthum warriors carried their own death shrouds throughout their career.

  Dohma looked at row upon row of corpses and the unending procession of others being added. Gracia had thousands of deaths at the assembly battle. But more dead bodies than live warriors were being brought back from the ash fields. His back stiffened, and he clenched his fists.

  They will pay for this. All of this could have been avoided. Why did they start this? Why are they pushing it this way? There’s more going on here than a dead mage and an old murder.

  He was just about to turn away when he noticed a lone figure kneeling by one of the bodies. It looked like Orahda. He ran as fast as he could. As he got closer, he was sure it was Orahda.

  Orahda placed something on the forehead, stood, and turned back towards him as he approached. A smile came to Orahda’s face as he saw Dohma approaching. The body Orahda had been kneeling by wasn’t Cundia, as he’d feared. It was a grey-haired man. On the forehead was a gold coin.

  “M’Lord, I heard you survived. I was just about to come look for you.”

  “Who is that?” Dohma asked.

  “He was Brini of Thilis. An old student from before the time I came to Aelargo. He was almost as much trouble as you. But he was a good Dagger.”

  “I thought I saw you running, carrying someone. I hoped it was Cundia.”

  “It was. She lives. She wasn’t as lucky as you and me. She needs some time to recover. She’s in the officers’ hospital area.”

  A victorious cry came from the west. The call was picked up, and dozens of people started running.

  Orahda said, “If you don’t mind, I’d like to stay with Cundia a bit longer.”

  Dohma nodded. “Of course. Come see me later.”

  Waving, Dohma turned from the hill of death and started to run towards the commotion as a distant cheering started. Running between the tents, he came out as thousands of Daggers were gathering and applauding a group of men and women who were leading a series of carts loaded with wounded.

  Most of the gathered soldiers were focused on one cart. It took Dohma a moment to recognize Elades as the driver. He was covered in blood and ash, looking like a wild man. His head was wr
apped in a field bandage, and he had his left leg in a splint. Despite the wounds, he was waving and smiling. Clearly visible behind Elades was the huge body of Duke.

  Dohma’s heart raced, and he felt a surge of hope. Smiling, he pushed through the warriors to intercept the cart. As he approached, he noticed Duke’s body didn’t move of its own accord. In fact, Duke’s head was lying on the side, mouth slightly open and tongue hanging out. He showed no signs of life. Dohma’s hope fell.

  Duke didn’t make it. How can that be? I thought of all of us, he was sure to survive this. After all these centuries, to die now?

  When he got even with the cart, he climbed up to sit next to Elades and looked back at Duke. The wolf’s body was crushed. Upon inspecting him closer, he saw that one side of Duke’s head was caved in, looking like a gory bowl. Tears rolled as Dohma remembered that Duke had stopped and probably slowed himself down to carry him to safety.

  What happened when we were thrown apart?

  He looked at Elades, raising his eyebrows in question.

  Elades stopped waving and noticed Dohma’s questioning face. His eyes traced the tracks of Dohma’s tears.

  “M’Lord, he’s not dead.”

  Dohma glanced back, still seeing no signs of life, not even the movement of breath.

  “Elades, he isn’t even breathing.”

  Elades waved his hand dismissively. “He’ll be awake and yelling orders in a few days. Although,” Elades said, glancing back, “without that healer here, I think it will take him a couple of cycles to get back on his feet.”

  “Elades, how can you jest like this?”

  “M’Lord, you know the stories, yes?”

  “Stories, yes. Legends, myths only. This is reality.” He turned back to the wolf carcass, taking up the wagon bed.

  “M’Lord, you shall see. As Duke says, ‘Those aren’t worth believing, because they’re usually understated.’ If you believe in nothing else, believe in this. Duke will be back. Duke is the only true immortal of this world.”