by Anne Logston
But the greatest abomination had only begun. As Chyrie watched, a monstrously huge hand, sheathed in red-gold flames, slowly rose from the crack, flailing about as if groping blindly for something. It extended slowly upward.
The gargantuan hand was the final blow. Too terrified even to scream, the barbarians turned and ran, trampling soldiers, animals, and each other heedlessly in their haste. Most dropped their weapons in their flight; others tripped and fell upon them. Many fled headlong into the cracks and pits that had opened in the streets. Those that made it to the walls were easy prey for the few soldiers with enough presence of mind to attack them.
For a moment Chyrie was unable to move, frozen in horror at the flaming hand reaching searchingly from the pit. In the end it was not her courage or even Valann who saved her; it was Weeka, chattering and scratching at Chyrie’s taut belly, that made Chyrie once more aware of where she was and how utterly dangerous her position on the stone wall was while the ground still quaked beneath her. She hesitated only a moment, thinking of Sharl and Rivkah, but her unborn children kicked painfully, and she turned away.
A roar of anger gave Chyrie only just enough warning to throw herself painfully to one side, and a huge, double-bladed axe struck sparks from the stone where she had stood. Chyrie drew her sword even as she turned, realizing as she did so how puny a weapon it was against the great axe, realizing that her pregnancy had largely negated any advantage her speed might have given her. She turned to see the barbarian’s axe upraised over her, his mouth wide with fury—then that fury changed to dull amazement, and blood dribbled from his open mouth. Then he toppled slowly, revealing the sword in his back and the figure behind him—Rom.
Rom dropped to his knees beside Chyrie, and Chyrie smelled the blood on him before she saw the wet stain covering his right side. He gazed at her a moment, then laughed hoarsely.
“So it’s you,” he gasped. “Where’s your mate, little elf, the mate who thought your life was worth more than my Ria’s?”
Chyrie struggled for words, but his pain, pain of body and soul, overwhelmed her. She turned and pointed mutely to the tower, where smoke still rose.
“So he’s dead, too,” Rom said, laughing bitterly again. “So you know how it feels, little elf, to lose everything that makes life worthwhile.”
He coughed, and blood bubbled at his lips.
“Ria died so you could live,” he gasped. “Now I think I’ll join her. I’m the lucky one, little elf.” He leaned back quietly against the wall, coughed again once, and was still. The pain from him ebbed away, slowly, gently, into peace, and for a moment Chyrie’s mind cleared.
“Fair journey,” she whispered.
Chyrie sat by his side until another tremor shook her from her stupor. She turned and searched for the hook of the rope hanging on the outside of the wall; to her relief, it was firmly anchored. Awkwardly she slid down the rope, groaning as her feet thumped jarringly to the earth on the other side.
Once out of the city, the swamp’s odor was overwhelming, but it’s very malodorousness gave Chyrie an anchor against the confusion in her mind. There was still dying going on in the city and in the forest, and each life that flickered out wrenched through Chyrie like a spear through her vitals, but she stumbled onward, heading instinctively to the forest with no more thought or direction than a wounded beast seeks its den.
Crossing the moat was simply but horribly a matter of climbing over the charred and bloody corpses that filled it, but nothing could shock Chyrie now from the chaos in her mind. The ground between the walls and the forest was littered with corpses and soaked with blood, and the ground strewn with caltrops and riddled with pits; here Chyrie had to force some conscious thought and pick her way more carefully. It took hours for her to cross the short strip of land, creeping painfully along and dragging the heavy packs, but Chyrie heard the sounds of battle dying out, both because of distance and because the barbarians themselves were retreating farther south with every moment. The earth still shook occasionally, but slowly the tremors, too, were fading away. The rain also slowed and stopped, and Chyrie hoped that meant that Rivkah and the other mages in the city were alive and able to stop the rain.
At last Chyrie reached the forest, only to face an even more horrible sight. She had stumbled uncaring past the corpses of barbarians and citizens of the city, but now mingled with the human corpses were the bodies of elves, hewn and mutilated with savage ferocity. Here and there a few still moved feebly, elves and barbarians alike.
Chyrie saw movement from the corner of her eye and melted into the bushes, her Wilding instincts serving her where conscious thought failed. The figures she had seen, however, were far too small to be barbarians—Blue-eyes, Chyrie realized. They moved silently among the fallen, tending the elves or giving grace to those without hope with a single dagger stroke. Each thrust speared agonizingly through Chyrie, and she bit back screams; she had not realized how much greater the pain would be when she was close to them.
(It is not only their pain,) Valann thought, pulling her back to her own awareness. (Your time is coming. It is a little early, but no matter. Come, we must find a safer place.)
It took several attempts before Chyrie could gather enough concentration to coax a deer into the carnage at the edge of the wood. More difficult was sneaking past the Blue-eyes to meet it, and clambering onto the shivering stag’s back was the most difficult of all. She clung there blindly, too distracted for a time to even direct the creature, letting him go where he would as long as it took her deeper into the Heartwood.
It seemed a miracle that no one stopped her, but Chyrie had no thought for anything but the pains tearing through her. There was no hope of reaching the altars, or even Inner Heart; Chyrie had wished at least to reach the clan of one of Rowan’s allies, but she quickly realized that she would never be able to ride long enough to pass through Blue-eyes lands. There was nothing to do but to find shelter as quickly as she could.
Finding a hiding place, to Chyrie’s surprise, was far easier than her other endeavors; she simply focused her attention on one of the many bears in the area and quested through its thoughts for the location of its den. The stag, of course, would not approach this area, but once Chyrie slid from the deer’s back, she coaxed the bear itself to guide her. The den was in the hollow of a huge tree, and the bear settled itself ponderously outside the entrance while Chyrie spread her furs on the ground and made a small nest for Weeka. By the time she had finished, she could barely snatch a breath between the pains.
(At last we will give these little warriors the freedom to kick as they will,) Valann thought joyously.
(Well for you to say so,) Chyrie thought sourly. (It is not you they kick. Would that you were here to help me through this.)
(But I am here,) Valann reminded her. (I can no longer direct the healing energies, but my knowledge and skills are with me. No, do not lie down. Drink a little water if you can and stand for as long as you are able. Walk, if there is room.)
There was no room, and the cramps in her belly would not have let her walk if she had had the whole of the forest to stroll in. Instead she crouched miserably near the entrance of the den, inhaling the welcome scent of the huge, dirty bear and the fresh, rain-wet smell of the forest, both equally sweet and familiar to her.
Rain fell again, then stopped. Chyrie grew unbearably hot and threw off her tunic and trousers, already wet with birth waters. The bear moved restlessly when Chyrie bit back moans, snuffling worriedly at the entrance to the den. Weeka chattered distractingly in the corner, ignoring Chyrie’s silent order to hush and leave her be. At Valann’s direction, she shuffled through his pack until she found the pouches he wanted, stirring some of their contents into a cup of wine. The bitter potion did not ease her pain, but it gave her renewed strength.
Over and over she squatted, sweat running in rivulets down her legs, straining to push the younglings from her with every bit of strength in her body and will. Then the wave would pass and she would sit back and res
t for a few precious moments before the next wave came.
She had seen a few births in the Wilding village, and more in their quarters at Allanmere’s keep, and as the time passed, her fear grew. What if Jeena had been wrong and her children were awry? What if she perished in childbirth and left her children alone to die without her? Who would cut them from her body if she could not bring them forth?
(If we must, you will find a bird and send it to the Blue-eyes’ Gifted One,) Valann thought patiently. (Even if they have no beast-speaker, they can follow the bird. The Blue-eyes would never have harmed you, and surely will not now.)
(My heart is as pained as my body,) Chyrie thought, gasping through another wave. (How can I live without you, and yet what could be more selfish than to snatch you away from the Mother Forest and your rebirth?)
(You have not snatched me away,) Val thought warmly. (You brought part of the Mother Forest with me. Oh, love, what I see there is glorious, but the greater miracle is here, this moment, with you.)
(I should let you go,) Chyrie thought despairingly. (But how can I?)
(My own spirit,) Val thought, (I will never leave you.) Chyrie closed her eyes and bit down hard on a leather scrap, screaming behind her teeth as she pushed, certain her body would surely split in two—then blessed relief as her daughter coughed on the furs.
Hesitantly, fearfully, Chyrie reached for an absorbent skin, dreading to look; finally, however, she turned to her daughter.
The infant was small and strong and perfect, from her tiny toes to the black hair that curled around the tips of her delicately pointed ears. Chyrie cleaned her lovingly, each flawless inch revealed a celebration.
(Oh, Valann, she is beautiful,) Chyrie thought joyfully.
(What color are her eyes?) Valann asked.
The baby’s eyes were squeezed tightly shut as she wailed, but Chyrie tenderly pressed one open. To her amazement, the baby’s eyes were neither brown-black like Valann’s nor amber as her own; instead, they were a deep blue-green, as if leaves and sky had bled together and mixed.
Chyrie had little time to ponder her daughter’s eyes, however, before the pains began anew. It was worse this time, for Chyrie was already tired and her son was much larger than her daughter, and twice more Chyrie mixed potions from Valann’s bag before the infant slid free of her body. For a moment Chyrie simply rested on the furs, too utterly exhausted to move; then her son’s choking cry roused her. She turned to her son—
—and froze, stunned at what she saw.
He was almost half again as large as his sister, and already howling and thrashing his arms and legs vigorously, as if outraged at the indignity of his birth, but those limbs had a thick sturdiness Chyrie had never seen in an infant. His hair was black and straight, like Valann’s, and the set of his face mimicked Chyrie’s, but his ears were perfectly round. Suddenly the baby paused, drawing in breath for a new scream, and his eyes opened slightly, showing the tawny amber of Chyrie’s own eyes.
Chyrie was still a long moment. Then she gently finished cleaning her son and lifted her children to her breasts.
(They are beautiful, love,) Valann whispered softly in her thoughts. (Both of them.)
(Both of them,) Chyrie agreed.
(And it is a fit day to give new life to the forest, when so many have passed on,) Valann told her. (How our clan will rejoice.)
That thought roused Chyrie from her drowsy contentment.
(I would see how they have fared,) she thought eagerly. (I will need our friends to help me manage these two little ones. Surely there must be—ah, yes, my friend the spot-tailed hawk.)
There was no reaching now for the sharp-eyed bird; it was with her already, and Chyrie had only to sort through the many visions in her mind to look out through its eyes, to soar through the trees to the Wilding village.
A black and smoking ruin met her eyes.
The trees were gone. The hanging shelters were gone. Only the scattered stones of the Wildings’ ovens and their equally scattered bodies marked that this had once been a living clan. Scavenger birds were there already, picking at the flesh of the dead. Most, horribly burned or mutilated, could not be recognized.
It could not be. Surely it could not be. Chyrie sent the spot-tail flashing through the forest, here and there, back and forth. Surely some few must have survived.
There were none alive on Wilding land. If any had survived, they had fled to another clan, and Chyrie knew deep in her heart that that they would never have done.
(I will never leave you,) Val thought again, his silent “voice” very small, very distant.
Chyrie had not screamed during her bearing, and she did not scream now. She held her children to her and wept quietly.
Chapter Fifteen
Sunlight on wet leaves, now turning red and yellow with the decline of summer. The smell of warm damp earth. Tender new seedlings reaching up through blackened ground.
Two humans, a man and a woman heavily pregnant, rode into the Heartwood alone, unarmed, unarmored, following the elven common road toward the heart of the Heartwood, but no Blue-eyes attacked them. They rode quietly, unhurriedly, seldom speaking to each other. They camped by the side of the trail, seeking clear spots where the vegetation had been burned. There were many such spots. No one came to their fire. The humans held each other in the night, silently.
After several days they reached Inner Heart, not long after sunset. They were met at its borders by a small hunting party of elves, who escorted them to the village. Most of the village’s huts were empty now. The humans declined a hut, telling the elves they must begin their ride back that night. The man and woman were led not to the large speaking hut, which was now gone, but to a small fire at the edge of the village, where they waited patiently, not sitting.
Rowan came quietly, alone. She faced them across the fire.
“Share our food and fire, and be made welcome among us,” she said.
“We are honored to share your food and fire,” Sharl said quietly. “May joy and friendship be our contribution.”
Rowan sat, and the humans did also.
“Those who returned from the city told me what passed there,” Rowan said, opening a wineskin and pouring three cups. “I could scarce believe their tales of the ground opening and a monster reaching forth, but I felt the shaking with my own feet. Many trees fell, but the invaders on our land turned and fled.”
“The shaking was real,” Rivkah said. “The crack in the ground and the hand were illusion. I did it myself. We terrified our own people as much as our enemies, I’m afraid.”
“And how do your people fare?” Rowan asked.
Sharl shook his head.
“When the wall was breached, we lost many people,” he said. “More were killed when the ground shook. The largest part of the survivors are the mercenary troops I brought in, and they have left now. Most of the city’s buildings have fallen, and large parts of the wall. Of what still stands, only a few buildings are truly safe. Several sections of the keep fell, and only a few parts are livable. There are huge holes in the ground where the rock collapsed into the springs under the city. It will take years of work before the city is rebuilt, and we have no money to hire the work done. I will have to go north again to my family and raise money to try again.”
He accepted the cup Rowan passed to him and drank in silence for a long moment.
“And your people?” he asked. “I saw fires deep within the forest, although Rivkah and her mages kept the rain falling until we were sure the army was retreating.”
Rowan lowered her eyes.
“Many clans were destroyed to the last child,” she said softly. “The lands of other clans have been ruined beyond any hope of sustaining them for many years. When the border clans were first attacked and driven from their territories, they fled inward and drove other clans in turn from their lands. By the time the barbarians turned away, most of the border lands had been burned or trampled beyond habitation, and many of the inner lands h
ad been badly damaged as well.”
“What of the alliance?” Rivkah asked gently.
Rowan shook her head. “There is no alliance,” she said. “They fought well together—beyond anything I had hoped or dared to even dream. Our Gifted Ones achieved magic we would never have believed possible. But when all was finished, they fell to fighting for the good lands remaining, where there is still game to feed them through the winter. Now the clans raid each other as they did before.” She sighed. “I could not hold them together, no matter how I tried.”
“New ideas take time,” Rivkah said comfortingly. “You might say this fruit didn’t have time to ripen.” She hesitated. “Is Dusk well?”
“Dusk is not well.” Rowan’s lips thinned. “A human spear, poisoned with their own feces, struck him while his mind flew with a bird. He will be long mending, body and mind, but he will mend.” She was silent for a long moment. “I was told Valann has returned to the Mother Forest.”
“He was killed at the same time as my teacher,” Rivkah said sadly. “We buried them together. Have you heard anything of Chyrie? She disappeared right after Valann was killed, and nobody’s seen her since. No one saw her leave the city, but we haven’t found . ..” Her voice trailed off awkwardly.
“You have not found her body.” Rowan sighed. “We have seen nothing of her. Jeena passed through Inner Heart, and she said—” Rowan stopped, shaking her head. “What she said is impossible. Chyrie is gone, I fear.”
“No.”
The voice that spoke was a harsh croak, rusty with disuse. Rowan, Sharl, and Rivkah stared into the darkness, and saw firelight reflect in tawny amber eyes.
The elf that came forward was almost unrecognizable as Chyrie. She was clothed in leather that looked tattered until the observer realized that the ragged pieces blended perfectly with the color-shifting leaves of late summer. The same vine designs curled over her skin where it was not covered, perhaps more thickly than before. She was still slender and wiry, her hair the same mess of golden-brown curls; but the soul that looked out through her amber eyes was wild and alien, giving her face a feral cast it had not worn before.