The Healer's Legacy

by Sharon Skinner

  “Against a small group and with your companions you are a formidable force, but a battlefield is different.”

  Kira crossed her arms and frowned, repressing the comment that crouched on the tip of her tongue. She knew that Milos wanted to protect her. As much as she loathed the idea of killing, she needed him to understand she did not want his protection. Not if it meant that others must fight in her stead. “I have the chain mail Master Jarrett provided and the shield and short sword from Ragnar. Just because I do not always carry a warrior’s weapon, does not mean I have never learned to wield one.” She pushed aside the painful remembrance of those hard lessons at Toril’s hands. “And Kelmir will be beside me.”

  “We will also have need of your healing skills.”

  “Milvari will take charge of the wounded with Master Jarrett’s assistance, and Brilissa and her staff are prepared to do their part.”

  “Kira, please.”

  Milos reached out for her and she backed away. “I will not stay behind with the women and children. This is my fight, even more than it is yours.”

  A horn sounded in the distance and they both turned toward the blaring. Across the flat expanse of frozen ground, a lone horse galloped toward the hold. There appeared to be no rider, but the archers who stood at intervals along the walls threw back their cloaks and reached into their quivers to nock arrows in preparation for an assault.

  The horse slowed as it came closer. Something lay slung over the saddle like a sack of grain. The steed stopped and began to graze, cropping the short dry stalks just outside the line of pikes and barriers that now surrounded the hold.

  Milos grew pale.

  “What is it?” Kira squinted, trying to focus on the distant animal in the early morning light.

  “Not what.” His voice was gruff. “Who.” He climbed down the ladder and headed toward the main gate.

  As he strode toward the gate, Milos gave orders to the archers on the wall to stand ready and called for Harl to bring his horse. “I need two men to accompany me,” he said.

  A short muscular man with gray hair and a grizzled beard approached. “Holder Tem,” the man said urgently. “It might be a trap. Allow me to go in your stead. My brothers and I will bring in the horse and its burden.”

  Milos began to protest, but before he could speak two mounted riders arrived leading a saddled horse. The man mounted his horse without waiting for the holder’s response. He gave Milos a crooked smile. “It has been some time since this farmer went to war, but I have not forgotten how to swing a blade.”

  “Ride in Troka’s light,” Milos told him before directing the gate to be opened.

  The men galloped out of the hold, and the gate swung shut behind them. Kira stayed on the wall, watching the riders leave. They skirted the pikes and spread out in a line. The gray-haired man sidled slowly up to the grazing horse and took hold of the reins that dangled from its neck as the other two men kept watch. He raised the covering from the horse’s burden and dropped it again before leading the animal back to the hold.

  No riders attacked from Toril’s encampment, no arrows flew, and the men returned without incident. Kira held her breath when the gates opened to allow them back inside. With a shake of his head, the gray haired man dismounted and handed the horse’s reins to Milos. Kira hurried down the ladder.

  Milos lifted the cloak and dropped his head. Jolon hung limp over the saddle, his shirt covered in dark blood. In death, his blond face seemed even younger than his years.

  “It seems you were right about trusting him,” Milos said. “He is no longer Toril’s man.”

  Kira’s throat tightened at the sight of Jolon’s broken body. She reproached herself for asking him to go. He had been too eager. Now, one more death was charged to her. She lowered her head and made the sign of the circle. “May Troka gather and keep him.”

  “Take him to Master Jarrett and Brilissa.” Milos laid the cloak back over Jolon and gave the reins to Harl. “Tell them the rites will have to wait until we are finished with this day’s sorry work.”

  Kira watched Harl lead the horse carrying Jolon’s body toward the stables and hope waned. “Jolon must have been discovered with the Demon’s Claw. It appears we face the full strength of Toril’s army.”

  “It does, indeed,” Milos said.

  “Then let me go to him,” Kira hissed.

  “No. This was a clear message. Even if you were to go to him now, he would not be merciful.”

  Kira opened her mouth to argue, then clamped it shut. Milos was right. Any hope she had harbored that Toril could become the man she had once thought him to be, died when she saw what he had done to Jolon. Mercy was not one of Toril’s qualities. Power his only advisor. The flame of anger the only light in the darkness of his heart.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  Mayet sat at the heavily laden table, trying to look alluring despite the dirty rags she wore. Bright pennants fluttered in the brisk morning wind outside the open tent flaps. She had spent a hungry night in a cold cheerless tent and had been brought to the warlord’s pavilion this morning without explanation. Her guard pushed her into a chair at the end of the table and stepped back. Hunger scratched at her insides, but she had been offered no food or drink, so she sat in silence.

  Across from her, the warlord ate heartily, breaking his fast with mounds of freshly cooked venison, fresh fruits, and dark ale. Mayet’s mouth filled with saliva and her nostrils flared wide at the scent of seasoned meat, but she kept herself in check, breathing in a natural way as the muscular man ate his fill, his handsome bearded jaw moving as he chewed.

  He glanced up at her, stabbed his knife into the table, and licked his fingers. “You must be hungry.”

  Mayet tilted her head. “A bit, my Lord.”

  “Please feel free to partake.” He waved his hand over the table. “I would not want you faint on such an important day.” His lip curled in a half-smile.

  “My thanks to you.” Mayet surreptitiously wiped her hands on her skirt before reaching for a plate of meat. She was starved, but she moved casually, doing her best to maintain the manners of a proper lady. There were no utensils set at her place, so she picked up the meat and held it daintily between her fingers. Her stomach urged her to stuff the food quickly into her mouth, but she resisted, taking tiny ladylike bites and chewing them well. No other food, not one delicacy she could recall, had tasted as good as this plain roasted meat now did.

  She finished the first piece and reached for another, but the guard stepped from behind and grabbed her by the wrist. Toril’s icy blue eyes locked on hers.

  “Tell me once more about the hold’s defenses,” he said quietly.

  The guard tightened his grip and Mayet whimpered. “As I told you, they have had little time to prepare. Only what time it took to build the barriers, and not all of those are complete.”

  “Yes, my spies have told me of the weakness at the southern walls. Strange, one would think that the holder has no knowledge of fighting tactics. Why is that?”

  The guard squeezed again. “Ow! Why are you hurting me? I have told you all I know.”

  “How many men defend the hold and what weapons do they carry?”

  “I’m not certain of their number,” Mayet gasped. “But they have only bows and swords. Tem Hold has no catapults or other machines of war.”

  “Tell me again why you sought me out.”

  Mayet whimpered. “I wish to be your ally. I ask only that you consider allowing my son to take control of Tem Hold and the region surrounding it.”

  “Yes, but think of my position. You come to me in rags and tell me you are the rightful holder’s widow, Lady K’Tem. You offer me information that I have already gleaned from my spies, and you ask a favor of me in return.” Toril stared into her eyes. He sneered at her and held up a fist.

  The man dug his fingers deeper into her flesh and Mayet sank down in her chair. There were tears in her eyes. “But what about the traitor? That man Jolon? I warn
ed you about him.”

  Toril opened his hand. The guard loosened his grip, but his fingers remained wrapped about her wrist.

  “Ah, that is true. You did warn me of the rat in my midst.” The warlord picked up his knife and toyed with it. The cruel blade glinted as he turned it this way and that, admiring his reflection in the shiny metal surface. “We must remember to show our appreciation to those who aid us, must we not?”

  Mayet heard running footsteps outside the tent and a soldier rushed inside. The man knelt quickly and bowed his head. His words came out between panted breaths. “Lord Toril, please forgive the interruption, but I have urgent news.”

  Toril grasped the knife tightly in his hand and glowered at the man. “What is it?”

  “The camp steward sent me. The men, my Lord. They are ill.”

  “What men? How many?”

  The panting man seemed to shrink lower, cringing into himself. “I know not yet how many, Lord. More than a hundred, so far.”

  Toril stood. His hand moved with the speed of a striking snake and the knife stuck in the ground at scant distance from where the messenger knelt. “Go back and find out how many are ill and from what cause,” he roared. “And send me my generals.”

  “Yes, Lord.” The messenger leaped up. Eyes focused on the floor, he backed rapidly out of the tent and disappeared.

  Toril whirled about and Mayet felt his eyes burn into her. “What do you know of this?”

  Mayet shook her head, but remained silent.

  Toril snapped his fingers and the guard who held her slapped her hard across the face. Tears filled her eyes. Her cheek stung and she tasted blood.

  “I asked you a question,” Toril snarled.

  Mayet’s lower lip trembled and she swallowed hard. “I—I know nothing of any illness, Lord Toril. I swear it.” Her voice was high and squeaky.

  “We shall see.” He scowled at her, then turned to the guard. “Take her from my sight, but keep a close watch on her. We may need a key to pry open the hold gates.”

  The guard loosened his grip. “But, Lord,” he said. “If she has come here to betray them, of what use will she be?”

  He ogled her meaningfully and his lip curled. “Never underestimate the value a man may place on even the lowest of women.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  Archers manned the walls as foot soldiers filed out of the hold to take up positions behind the barriers. Kira had told Milos that Toril would wait until nearly midmorning to assemble his men. He enjoyed the anticipation before the battle, the air of tension that it brought. And he believed that waiting put his enemies on edge.

  Tem Hold’s riders stood at the ready inside the narrow back gate that faced the forest to the south. Kira stood atop the north wall beside Milos, gazing out over the plain. Vaith perched on her shoulder, his tail wrapped behind her neck. Kelmir sat on his haunches beside them, carefully cleaning his face. Milos had finally given in. When the time came, they would ride out together with the mounted troops.

  A shout carried across the yard, relayed by the men on the wall. Toril’s men were on the march. Kira stroked the little wyvern’s head. Vaith, it’s time. I need to see from above. But stay near. And safe. Vaith flicked his tail and stepped off her shoulder. He winged his way overhead, circling the hold, his eyes sighting clearly on the wall of riders that galloped toward Tem Hold.

  Through Vaith’s keen sight Kira watched the soldiers spread out across the horizon like a growing swarm of stinging insects. They stopped just out of bowshot, their horses stamping and throwing their heads about excitedly. Even their mounts seemed impatient for battle.

  A lone rider separated himself from the troops. He raised his hand to indicate that he wished to speak, and rode forward at a slow pace. He stopped his horse before the barriers and called out. “Lord Holder, a word.”

  Milos called down to the man. “I am Holder Tem. To whom do I speak?”

  “I am Lord Toril’s messenger. He bids you to come to his camp and confer with him.”

  Milos looked over his shoulder toward Kira. Toril did not negotiate, not when his men heavily outnumbered their enemies. She shook her head. Milos turned his attention back to the man. “I have nothing to say to a man who condones the kidnapping of children and the mistreatment of women.”

  As he spoke, Vaith continued to circle high above the hold, and Kira tried to count the numbers of opposing men. Their ranks were spread wide, but shallow and she estimated their numbers to be less than half what Jolon and the hold scouts had stated. What did it mean? Hope and fear struggled within her. Had Jolon succeeded in tainting the army’s food after all? Or was Toril merely baiting them?

  “This will not end well for you,” the man shouted. “Why not make a bargain and save your people and your lands? Lord Toril may yet be generous and merciful.”

  “I have not heard those attributes assigned to the warlord before. Nor do I wish to be beholden to your master. Tell him we are prepared to face him and his army on the field.”

  “A single woman is not worth all of this,” the messenger’s voice rose in frustration.

  “Does your master know your thoughts?” Milos retorted.

  The man shifted uneasily in his saddle. “Have you looked to your own, Lord Holder? There are those of your household that do not agree with you!”

  The messenger turned his horse and rode back through the assembled ranks and Kira did not have time to wonder about the meaning of his words. With a thundering of hooves, the mounted troops at each end of the line broke away from the main body and circled around the hold toward the southern wall. Kira stiffened.

  The battle had begun.

  Kira followed Milos down the ladder to where Trad and Zharik stood waiting. She heard the thud of arrows striking the outer walls and the cries of men wounded or dying. Voices called out atop the walls and the hold’s archers let fly their bolts in a whizzing flurry.

  Milos leaped onto his horse’s back. Vaith circled above the hold. “What do you see?” he asked Kira.

  “Less than half of Toril’s warriors are on the field. No foot soldiers, but nearly five hundred horsemen. More than two to each of us. I could not see the rest of them.”

  “We need to find out where they are.”

  “I can send Vaith, but won’t we need him to watch the southern grounds?”

  “Send him. I think we’ll know when our trap is sprung.” Milos gripped his reins and turned to face the riders.

  Vaith, I need to see the camp. But stay high and out of danger. I don’t want you harmed!

  Vaith headed north in a bright flash of sunlight reflecting off glittering scales.

  The hold’s riders waited restlessly. The thunder of hooves grew louder as Toril’s troops closed in, encircling the hold. The staccato galloping grew faster and louder as the soldiers headed toward the weakest point on the hold’s defenses, the southern barriers.

  The ground shuddered and horses screamed in terror. “Now,” Milos yelled. “Stay close to the wall till you pass the yellow flags.” The narrow gate was thrown open. They made a mad dash out of the portal. Kira rode beside Milos with Kelmir on her flank.

  Between the barriers and the forest, a wide chasm had opened in the earth, the bottom lined with wooden spikes. The air filled with yelling and confusion. Toril’s men had been drawn into the trap.

  Seeking to take advantage of the apparent weakness in the barriers, they had ridden directly across the path of the Uldast gnomes’ tunneling. Men and horses writhed in agony or lay twisted and broken in the pit.

  The first wave dropped hard onto the spikes. Unable to pull up, the men who rode behind had tumbled over their comrades. Dozens of gnomes came pouring out of the woods bearing axes and staves. They swarmed among the remaining mounted soldiers, tripping horses and pulling men from their saddles. Amidst the chaos and disorder, the hold’s riders attacked.

  Kira held her shield and sword at the ready, as skirmishes erupted around them. A snarling man char
ged at her. His horse’s eyes went white with pain and fear as Kelmir raked his claws down the animal’s shoulder. The horse screamed, skittering sideways. The man’s blade swung wide and Kira ducked. Her sword sank into something soft as the man twisted aside. Kelmir leaped and the man was ripped screaming from the saddle.

  Milos traded blows with a beefy soldier wearing heavy chain mail. The holder aimed a lunge at the man’s chest. His sword glanced off the soldier’s mail and Milos lost his balance. He teetered in the saddle and the man raised his sword with a gleeful smirk. But before the soldier could strike, an arrow plunged into his neck, and he fell from the saddle.

  The way before them was open and Kira followed Milos past the flags that marked the edge of the gnomes’ trap and away from the walls. She tried to keep alert, seeking to stay cognizant of two places, as her mind flitted to where Vaith soared over Toril’s encampment. Far below, men lay thrashing on the ground, clutching at their bellies. The Demon’s Claw gripped them tight.

  Vaith tilted on the wind and circled. At the southern edge of the camp, a group of riders sat watching the battle. In their midst a bronze helm gleamed in the sunlight, a bright red plume jutting from the top. Toril.

  The din of battle faded away and, for a moment, Kira heard only the sound of fists hitting flesh. Her jaw tightened and she clenched her teeth as a thousand hurts came welling back. Toril.

  Beside Toril’s horse a dark-haired woman in a tattered dress struggled between two men. The messenger’s words floated back to Kira. “There are those of your household that do not agree with you.”

  An arrow whizzed past her ear and Kira was wrenched back, fully alert to the fighting around her once more. A bloody hand gripped her leg and tried to pull her from the saddle. A single downward slash severed the man’s hand from his arm. He howled in pain and slammed his body against Trad. Kira clutched tight as her horse leaped to the side. She leaned forward and squeezed her knees in hard. Trad whirled about and kicked. Hooves struck flesh and bone and the man went down.