Fields of Wrath

by Mickey Zucker Reichert

  Imorelda shifted beneath him, but she said nothing more. Soon, her wild but familiar discomfort was replaced by the searing agony of Kentt’s misery.

  Tae sent, *Kentt, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. But you can’t surrender. You have to survive for Mistri.* Only then, he realized Mistri had not been silent. Her screams and sobs had formed a continuous noise in his mind, one so consistent he had blocked it out entirely. *We need you, and you need us. Both of you.* Tae had no idea of the truth of his words. Kentt’s belief that all the Kjempemagiska soldiers had died was unwavering. It was not a supposition; somehow, he knew. Tae had to assume the giants had some sort of magical connection, but it could not extend to humans and elves. It was still possible that some of the peoples of the continent, or the elves, were alive.

  Then, as suddenly as it had come, the storm was over. The sand settled back into its place, the sun reappeared, and daylight bathed the shores of Béarn again. Silence assailed them, as if all hearing had ceased to exist. Tae scrambled free of Kentt to look at the castle. After the near-total darkness, the sunlight blinded him. He shielded his eyes, desperate to see, and the familiar mountains filled his vision. The castle looked the same as it always did, gray and welcoming, as stunning a piece of stonework art as human tools could master.

  Kentt’s anguish had turned to a numb hush, letting Tae’s own emotions emerge. He savored the sight of Béarn Castle, still standing. He turned to assist Rantire but found her already beside him, her posture defensive, her face flayed raw, sword still clenched in her bloody fist. Tae loosened his hold on Imorelda, lowering her gently to the ground. The effort of shoving through his neck hole had scraped some fur from the top of her head; otherwise, she looked none the worse for wear. Her feeble meow of welcome was the first physical sound he heard.

  Kentt rose. Apparently, he had used magic to shield them, because he appeared entirely unruffled. The sand and wind had left him unscathed. He released Mistri and spun her around, looking for injuries. Her clothing was badly wrinkled, imprints of the dunes temporarily impressed on them, but she also appeared fine. Finally, Tae turned his attention to the open shore. A few of the warships remained, most of those listing. Others had vanished, leaving only scraps floating on the sea. Debris riddled the beach: wood, straw, metal. Clothing and bodies.

  Tae resisted the urge to flop onto the ground and sob. Now was not the time to grieve or even to demand answers. There were still lives that might be saved. And, Tae realized, for once he was not among the critically wounded.

  Saviar could not recall the last time he felt so physically battered and exhausted. Lungs smoky, head still dizzy from the swirling winds that had pummeled the battlefield and beyond, he staggered toward the center of the field. The elves had used khohlar to assure the disoriented survivors that no danger remained. Even the Renshai instincts, pounded into him since birth, could not override the emptiness he felt. Had a demon dropped from the sky, he doubted he could raise enough energy to care, let alone defend himself.

  Bodies and body parts littered the grasslands, chunks of armor and broken swords, bark and limbs as big as cottages. The forest trees, once wreathed in multicolored leaves, now stood or leaned like shattered skeletons, their tops charred. The grasslands smoldered in several places. Dazed humans walked in crazy circles or made their shuffling way, like things half dead, toward the center of the battlefield. Saviar saw the corpses, too. They hung in trees, carried by the gale. They lay buried beneath fallen trunks, smashed in trampled piles, flung across open terrain as if prostrated before demanding gods.

  A snort caught Saviar’s attention. To his right, at the edge of the forest, a white stallion nuzzled a human form dressed in the familiar blue-and-gold tunic of the Knights of Erythane. Saviar might have ignored the scene, one more casualty in a war that had claimed thousands, but it struck him odd to find a knight on the Renshai side of the battlegrounds. The generals had placed them at opposite ends of the front; and, while the winds might have dragged flotsam from anywhere, Saviar thought he recognized the horse as well. “Silver?”

  The horse lifted its head and turned to look at Saviar. It trumpeted out a shrill whinny, and its forehooves beat the ground in a frantic tattoo.

  With a sigh of resignation, Saviar walked toward the horse. The last thing he wanted to find now were the bodies of his family members, but he owed Silver Warrior that much. The horse had served his father well for many years, and Ra-khir had shown equal dedication to the animal, insisting on tending it himself instead of trusting it to the ministrations of groomsmen.

  As Saviar expected, he discovered Ra-khir on the ground in front of Silver Warrior. Though still, he seemed intact, red-blond hair obscuring his features but his powerful body, and knightly garb, unmistakable. Saviar closed his eyes and knelt. His father had never sought a place in Valhalla, at least not before Kevral’s soul had gone there, yet Saviar wished it upon him anyway. Death in the flurry of swordplay would earn him that honor, but Saviar doubted the Valkyries would choose souls stolen in the mayhem of a magical storm. The means of his death mattered.

  Tentatively, Saviar reached out a hand and gently brushed away the errant locks to reveal his father’s familiar features. The purple stars of broken blood vessels marred his handsome cheeks, the look of someone squashed beneath a heavy object while still alive. Perhaps a tree had fallen on him, taking his life, then the powerful winds had whisked the trunk away to drop it harmlessly aside or onto another. Tears stung Saviar’s eyes. The means of his father’s death allowed him to mourn. He laid a hand on a ravaged cheek, surprised to find it warm. He touched Ra-khir’s lips, feeling a soft rush of air. Shocked, he pressed fingers to his father’s neck, rewarded by the throb of a living artery.

  Silver Warrior stuck his head over Ra-khir’s, watching.

  Afraid to shake Ra-khir and risk further injuring him, Saviar put his mouth close to his father’s ear. “Papa, wake up. Wake up! Wake! Up!”

  The green eyes shot open. For a moment, Ra-khir stared uncomprehendingly. Then, suddenly, he sprang to a crouch. His eyes told Saviar he regretted the motion. His entire body seemed to spasm, and he released an involuntary moan of pain.

  The abrupt movement startled Silver Warrior, who jumped back with a whicker of alarm.

  Saviar seized Ra-khir’s arm. “Papa. Are you hurt?”

  “Not . . . fatally,” Ra-khir managed. He added sullenly, “Though, for a while, I might wish it so.”

  Saviar remained still, allowing his father to rise at his own pace. Pretending not to watch Ra-khir move like a man twice his age, Saviar caught Silver Warrior’s flopping reins and held them near the stallion’s mouth. “I got tossed around a bit, too.” It was gross understatement. The gale had flung him like a toy, slamming him against a tree before he managed to wrap his arms and legs around a sturdy branch and cling until it passed.

  “One of the giants got hold of me,” Ra-khir explained, his breathing quick and shallow, a sure sign of broken ribs. “He nearly crushed me. I suspect I was out for most of the . . .” He seemed at a loss for words. “. . . tossing.” Though fully standing, he clutched at Silver Warrior’s saddle for support. “Magic, I believe.”

  Saviar harbored little doubt. He, too, had seen the surging auras prior to the explosion and killer winds. Fires had ignited in the tops of the trees and all along the plain, extinguished by the gale that had seemed determined to leave nothing living in its path. Yet, somehow, hundreds had survived. Hundreds out of tens of thousands. Saviar scanned the battlefield again, confused. Though an appalling number of bodies littered the ground, there were not nearly enough to account for all the dead. Surely, the winds had carried away some, but that could not justify the sparseness of the casualties. He estimated a thousand human corpses, but he doubted that number would more than double once those crushed beneath trees, driven into the forest, torn apart or blown away were added to the total.

  Elfin khohlar to
uched Saviar’s mind again. *All survivors come to the center of the field for counting and sorting. Assist the wounded to accompany you, if possible, but don’t delay. Do not attend the corpses at this time. All will be accorded proper honors, but it is imperative we identify them first. You have nothing to fear from giants; they have all perished.*

  Saviar wondered how the elves could possibly know the status of the Kjempemagiska, but he had no way to question.

  Ra-khir looked at Silver Warrior’s saddle but made no effort to mount. “Your brothers, Savi. Have you seen them?”

  Saviar stepped to his father’s side. “Want me to help you up?”

  “No,” Ra-khir responded, too quickly. Then, apparently trying to hide the extent of his discomfort, he covered badly, “We’ll leave Silver Warrior open in case we come upon wounded needing our assistance.” He took the reins from Saviar and allowed the horse to support part of his weight. “Your brothers?” he reminded.

  Saviar wanted to talk about anything other than Subikahn. “Calistin was beside me, at the front, last I saw him. The giants hadn’t touched him, but I don’t know about the storm.”

  They headed toward the middle of the plain. Others joined them as they walked, most appearing dazed and confused. Saviar steered several in the right direction, looking for anyone who needed extra assistance. “And Subikahn,” Ra-khir pressed, studying Saviar over the horse’s neck.

  Saviar realized he had made a mistake by mentioning Calistin first. He had always considered Subikahn a sibling and Calistin a plague the gods had forced him to endure. “When I last saw him, he had suffered a critical injury. He had mages all around him, though, attempting to fix it. I don’t know if they succeeded or what happened afterward.”

  “Oh.” Ra-khir continued to examine him over Silver Warrior. Though separated for months at a time growing up, the twins remained closely linked emotionally. It surely seemed odd Saviar had not waited to assure Subikahn’s survival before returning to battle.

  Saviar did wish he had remained long enough to know whether or not the healers believed they could save Subikahn. Ambivalent about his brother and their future, he still wanted to know whether Subikahn had found Valhalla or if he would see his twin alive again. At the time, he could think of nothing to say. Now, he had a million questions that begged answers before he lost Subikahn’s earthly presence forever.

  As Ra-khir still prompted him with silence and an anticipatory expression, Saviar explained, “There wasn’t time for conversation.”

  Ra-khir accepted that. “No, I suppose not.”

  They stopped to help an unconscious Western teen whose legs splayed at awkward angles. Saviar hefted him onto Silver Warrior’s back, arranging him sideways across the saddle, then they continued to the center of the battlefield. Knight-Captain Kedrin arrived at nearly the same time, supported between two other Knights of Erythane. Filthy and sodden, they had all lost their hats and, apparently, their mounts. At the sight of his son and eldest grandson, Kedrin smiled tiredly.

  A group of men who appeared war-weary but otherwise well greeted each straggler as he or she arrived, directing them to various places. Saviar lowered his head and awaited their turn. Fatigue pressed him until he thought he would fall asleep on his feet, then a young Erythanian approached them. “Sir Ra-khir, glad to see you.” He executed an awkward bow, then glanced at Saviar who resembled Kedrin more than anyone. “This must be your son.”

  “Saviar,” the Renshai introduced himself.

  The Erythanian pointed to himself. “Rayvonn. I’m supposed to inform everyone that the healers are overtaxed and taking only the most severely injured. Those bleeding heavily or unconscious.” He gestured toward a makeshift series of tents. One of the plains fires had been coaxed into life in the middle of the grouping, and people raced around assisting those most in need. He looked at the man dangling from Silver Warrior’s saddle. “That would include him.”

  Rayvonn continued, “We’re asking the able-bodied to assist in the sorting process. Everyone else is supposed to go there . . .” he pointed southward, “. . . if they’re Eastern. There . . .” He turned westward, “ . . . if they’re Northern.” He gestured over his shoulder. “Or there if they’re Western.” He added, somewhat conspiratorially. “If they don’t remember, I’m sending them to the healers.”

  Saviar grinned at the feeble joke. “Thank you. Let me get these two sorted and I’ll see if I can muster the energy to join you.” He would have preferred to sleep, but he supposed he fit the definition of able-bodied. Before Ra-khir could stop him, he hoisted the unconscious teen from the saddle and into his arms. He did not want to try separating the steed from his knight, and Ra-khir could use the animal’s support, emotionally as well as physically. “I’ll meet you in the Western camp.” Ignoring Ra-khir’s protests, he carried his limp burden toward the healers.

  The deadweight on his shoulders proved more of a burden than Saviar expected. He staggered into the healers’ camp, and it took extraordinary effort to ease the teen to the ground rather than dropping him unceremoniously at the healers’ feet. He knew nothing about the young man he had delivered, so he said nothing, simply tottered off to rejoin his father. He had taken only a few steps when Calistin appeared at his right elbow. “Been drinking, brother?”

  Saviar wanted to turn Calistin a withering look, but that would take too much effort. Instead, he went still, waiting for his younger brother to catch up. In a moment, they were walking side by side. “The Western camp is over here.” Saviar inclined his head in the proper direction, his arms aching. He glanced at Calistin, surprised to find every part of him covered in gore. Torn nearly in half, his tunic hung in long tatters, revealing his sinewy, hairless chest, also caked in blood. “Is any of that yours?”

  Calistin walked in the indicated direction, at Saviar’s side. “Is any of what mine?”

  Saviar could scarcely believe Calistin needed clarification. “The blood, the guts, the bits of . . . stuff.”

  “Oh.” Calistin looked himself over. “Not much, I don’t think.”

  Saviar did not envy the healers’ task. Everyone surely had bruises and gashes from the tremendous force of the wind. Exhaustion and shock affected them all. Broken bones and crushed organs would prove common enough, but he doubted many who tasted the giants’ curved swords had survived. The power behind those deadly blades could cut through trees, and the Kjempemagiska often mowed down several men with a single strike. He hoped the elves still had some magic to assist, assuming many had survived.

  Calistin’s voice jarred Saviar from his thoughts. “Where’s Subikahn?”

  Saviar did not wish to repeat the conversation he had had with Ra-khir. “He hasn’t shown up yet. Papa and Granpapa are at the Western camp, though. They’ll be glad to see you.”

  “What about Darby?”

  The name did not immediately register. “Who?”

  “Papa’s shadow.”

  Saviar had forgotten about Ra-khir’s squire. “Haven’t seen him, either.” Not that I was looking. He hated himself for harboring resentment against the youngster, but he still felt as if Darby had stolen the life and attention rightly his. More so since Ra-khir had started spending all his off-time with Darby’s mother. He did not go so far as to wish the boy ill. Surviving one’s first battle was always a challenge, especially for someone inexperienced and constrained by a burdensome sense of honor. Hopefully, he was smart enough to run away and hide.

  The Western camp seemed remarkably sparse, consisting of a couple of hundred men and a few well-tended fires. Apparently, the storm had carried or chased the game away. The odor of roasting meat was conspicuously absent, and the men gnawed on hard tack. They had crudely sorted themselves by representative country, those officers who had survived and arrived hovering over them, counting and recounting as more battered warriors arrived.

  Saviar spotted Thialnir, his arm bound
against his chest, a long line of crusted blood where something sharp had opened his cheek. The Renshai had started with nearly three hundred warriors. Now, Saviar estimated between seventy-five and ninety remained, plus an additional twenty-seven, mostly children, in Béarn. On a percentage basis, they had clearly done better than most, especially given their placement on the front line. Some countries and tribes, it seemed, had lost the entirety of their armies. Still, the number of survivors was too small to fully explain the dearth of bodies on the battlefield.

  Calistin joined the Renshai, his welcome hardy and secure. Saviar paused only long enough to make his presence known and ascertain Subikahn’s absence before seeking out Ra-khir and Kedrin. He discovered them just beyond the Erythanian gathering. Seven additional knights had joined them as well as Darby who appeared windswept and sported an enormous bruise across his forehead. Seated on the root ball of a freshly toppled tree, Kedrin was in deep discussion with the elf known as Captain while Ra-khir stood by, watching and listening.

  Saviar sidled up beside his father and whispered, “What have we learned?”

  Reluctantly, Ra-khir turned from Kedrin and Captain to address his son. “They’re discussing how best to inform everyone what happened.”

  “What happened?” Saviar pressed.

  Ra-khir shrugged. “I’m not exactly sure, but Captain seems to know. Your brothers?”

  The abrupt change of subject nearly defeated Saviar. He cursed the exhaustion that made every little thing difficult. “Calistin has joined the other Renshai. Still no sign of Subikahn.”

  “Or, apparently, the Mages of Myrcidë.”

  That intrigued Saviar. “You think they’re still together?”

  Ra-khir shrugged. “They were when you last saw them. How long ago was that?”