by Jim Galford
Turning to where the remaining few soldiers lay, Estin was considering how to reach them when a distant crackling roar caught his attention. Looking up, he only had a second to think before a ball of yellow flame would crash down on them. Raising his hands overhead, he summoned all the strength he could in a vain attempt to slow or stop the fireball. Nausea and pain flooded his whole body, but he kept pushing, trying to limit the power of the magical flames.
The impact of the spell threw Estin backward, and he did not even realize he had hit something. The whole world seemed to spin, and his body felt as though every inch of his fur was on fire. Realizing the sensation might be accurate, he shook off his dizziness. While he was not actually burning, much of his fur and clothing was singed, leaving raw pink blistered flesh in various areas. His left leg was twisted, and when he tried to straighten it, he screamed in agony.
Estin searched the lines around him, finding some of his soldiers down and smoldering, though many more were still upright, fighting to hold the lines. His spell might not have spared the heart of the fireball’s landing, but he had saved twenty or more people by his exertion. That quick-thinking had saved their lines from completely collapsing.
Panting as he tried to steady himself, Estin bent as far as he could over his leg to get a better look. Between his upper ankle and knee, a large gash in the flesh had pieces of bone protruding. Swearing, he slumped against the stump of a tree he was lying against. He tried to force his mind to relax despite the pain, which would be essential if he was going to heal himself. Laughing weakly, he realized the wound further crippled the leg he had broken years earlier. If he did not find a way to mend it soon, he might not be able to walk when it did heal.
Around him, about a dozen soldiers were dead and dying, though from the look of things, many more had managed to keep fighting with little more than minor burns. He had deflected a good portion of the spell, but not nearly enough. With that section of the line already weakened, the undead were once again pushing past the living. In another fifteen feet, they would be atop Estin. The efforts of his archers in the trees could only slow them so much.
A roar and barking let Estin know reinforcements had arrived. From behind the undead lines, a group of wildling wolves and cats tore through the zombies. They kept going, giving the remaining soldiers a chance to recover lost ground by confusing and disorienting the enemy. When the undead tried to pursue the wildlings, a second group came running from the other direction. Consisting of almost entirely bears and badgers, they held their ground against the undead, bringing the zombies to an abrupt halt. The tactics would not hold out forever, but they bought plenty of time for Estin.
He slowed his breathing and fought to control his pain. Gradually he managed to find enough calm to draw magic again, and the voices came as whispers. Knowing it would be painful but having little choice, Estin reached down and put his hand on the broken bone of his leg and funneled magic into it. Warmth spread first, but as the bones began to shift and tear their way back through the flesh, pain dwarfed the sense of comfort, nearly disrupting his concentration. Pushing past the pain, he managed to keep the spell going a little longer before his heart began pounding painfully and his hands shook from the effort.
Collapsing onto his side, Estin tried to move his foot and found he could feel his toes and their claws slide on the rocky ground. He could not feel parts of his leg through the ache of the wound. He desperately wanted to heal himself more, but knew anyone healed tended to become exhausted by their body’s efforts to heal itself. Magic use did much the same thing. As both the caster and recipient, he would pass out before he managed to pull together another spell. If he managed to stay conscious, he could kill himself with the effort. It would have to be enough.
Estin dug his fingers into the loose ground and pulled himself deeper into the woods, away from the front lines, which were stable again. He tried to put some weight on his wounded leg, but it buckled immediately. While he had repaired much of the damage, the bone was still broken. He resorted to continuing up the hill on his stomach as fast as his arms could pull him. Behind him, he could hear the screams of soldiers being dragged down by the undead, giving him even more incentive to get himself as far away as he could.
“Estin!” came a female shout from the woods.
As Estin searched for the speaker, Alafa and Barlen appeared from the trees. Racing over to him, they grabbed his arms and pulled him up the hill and behind a large stone as shelter. Almost as soon as they got him behind the stone, Estin’s fur rose on end. A bolt of lightning exploded into the area where he had been moments earlier. Something had actually been aiming for him.
“How are they holding up down there?” Estin asked, rolling onto his back and gasping in agony. He would have to do something with his leg or he would be as good as dead out there.
“Lots are dying or dead,” Barlen admitted, looking down at Estin’s leg and grimacing. He quickly moved his eyes back to Estin’s face, putting on an overly fake look of cheerfulness, complete with wide grin. “The werewolves attacked…they’re helping a whole bunch. No wildlings are dead yet that I know of…”
“Forget about what species someone is and count everyone,” Estin snapped, more harshly than he had intended. “Right now, I need to get a healer down there to replace me until I can fix my leg.”
Putting a hand on Estin’s chest, likely to keep him calm or prevent him from doing anything rash, Alafa said, “We don’t have more healers. The army had five, plus you. Two turned on us…the other two are already unconscious and vomiting. You look better off than them.”
“The Turessians,” Estin groaned, covering his face. He wanted to scream, but it would not change anything. “I saw them…I helped kill them. They chose the healers for a reason. They waited to turn them until it was too late for us to run.”
Estin pushed aside Alafa’s hand and sat up. He either had to give up on trying to help, or he needed to heal his leg, which he might not even be capable of doing. Bracing himself, he shifted to see how bad it was. The whole section between his knee and his upper ankle was swollen around the spot where the bone had been protruding earlier. Brushing aside the fur, he could see the flesh under it was deep purple. Applying pressure to the puffy skin, he easily found the fracture, though the bones were nearly fused.
“I’m going to try to heal myself,” he told the two deer, carefully positioning his fingers. “If I pass out, please drag me back to the supply carts and let Linn or Feanne know where I am. I can’t help anyone like this, so passing out is not much worse.”
Alafa let out a little whimper and nodded. Barlen peeked over the stone they used as shelter, watching for threats.
Putting his hands over the broken bone, Estin closed his eyes to keep from looking at the injury. Looking only made it hurt more, which in turn made it harder for him to concentrate. He had to shut out everything the way Asrahn had taught him or he would never manage to heal himself. He had to control his thoughts, as well as his body, to have any hope of drawing more magic. More importantly, he had to monitor his own heartbeat, lest he push himself too close to death. He had often ignored her warnings, but this was not one of those times. Pushing too hard could stop his heart even before he blacked out.
The whispers of spirits were very slow to come this time and so faint that Estin could barely make them out beyond the screams of soldiers fighting and dying nearby. The magic he pulled from them felt as though he were trying to drag a body with little more than positive thinking. It gradually took shape and shrunk the swelling under the pads of his fingers. Then, without any real warning, Estin reached his limits and the magic came to a stop. He fell sideways to vomit across the ground, nearly atop Alafa.
Estin felt as though he had been drinking something awful for days. His head spun and pounded. Though his leg felt mostly better, he would not be much help to the other wounded, at least until he could rest for a little while. Trying to breathe through his mouth to avoid the smell of
vomit, he sat back up and lifted his leg to test its condition. Sure enough, the swelling was little more than he would have expected from a severe bruise. When he moved his ankle and wiggled his toes, his shin ached but not unbearably so. He was fairly certain he could put weight on it again, though the idea of standing up made him feel dizzy.
Putting his foot down, Estin saw both Barlen and Alafa were watching around the stone, having either lost interest in him or found something more fascinating.
“Do you two know where Linn is?” he asked.
Both deer jumped. They spun around to face him wide-eyed. Once he would have wondered at what had gotten them so distracted, but he was too tired and sick to care.
“We need to get to Linn. He needs to adjust the formation to deal with the losses here.”
“Right,” Barlen said quickly, hurrying to Estin’s side and helping him up. “We should go. Good idea.”
Estin tried to look past the stone at the soldiers beyond, but Alafa hopped about in his path, obviously trying to keep him from seeing something. Knowing there was little to be done about whatever was going on down there, he relented. Barlen guided him slowly back up the hill toward the supply carts, where Linn would likely be barking out orders to his troops. Estin found he could walk without too much help, though his leg was definitely not strong enough to run on just yet. Another hour or two and he might be able to move quickly, but running would have to wait.
Dozens of running soldiers ran passed them, headed down the hill. That gave Estin some peace of mind, knowing the lines would not have to wait for reinforcements.
They approached what was left of the camp, where most of the tents had been torn down in a hurry and the supply carts were already on the move, ready to follow the soldiers. Among the remaining people, Linn turned between dozens of soldiers that continued to run up every few seconds. He said a few words to each before moving on, somehow managing to keep his head with the chaos surrounding him. Past Linn, Estin could see the destruction the three Turessian infiltrators had caused.
“Glad to see you made it out,” Linn called as they approached, then shoved a soldier toward the lines. “I heard the southeastern formation broke. We’re shoring that up now. Alafa, please take him over near the fire pit. We’re having all the wounded brought there until we can find a way to help them all. The herbalists and other non-magical healers are doing what they can.” Linn looked over Estin and added, “Rest as long as you need. My men are used to fighting without true healers. Don’t kill yourself trying to help, Estin. We need you alive.”
Estin let the deer steer him away from Linn toward an open area with a ring of stones still marking where the majority of cooking had been done earlier. Near it, easily two dozen men, women, and a few youths lay moaning and clutching at awful-looking wounds. Estin immediately wanted to try to heal them, but doing so could actually injure or kill him as weak as he already was. At the very least, he would pass out for hours, which would not help anyone. Reluctantly, he lowered his eyes, trying not to look at the people he felt beholden to.
Once he had reached the edge of the group, Estin eased himself down to the ground and leaned against a tree trunk. Estin settled himself, shifting to keep from putting all his weight on his tail, and then realized he was not alone. Both Barlen and Alafa still stood over him, staring and waiting with broad smiles.
“What?” asked Estin, feeling self-conscious.
Alafa looked over at Barlen before replying, “You’re in charge. We’re waiting for orders.”
Groaning, Estin nodded and leaned to scan the woods behind the two deer. Linn was already well on his way toward the battle, talking to several of his officers. In another minute, he would be out of sight.
“Go to Linn and have him send you back out,” Estin said. “He’ll probably send you to Feanne. You’ll be more help out there than here.”
After a moment’s hesitation, the deer finally turned, offering apologies for abandoning Estin, and left. He humored them until they were gone. Then he could finally relax.
Looking around at the other injured, Estin saw most of them were dealing with painful gashes caused by the claws or teeth of the zombies. The wounds were not likely to be fatal anytime soon, though infection could be, as could blood loss if not treated. The few doctors that moved between the wounded seemed to have everything in hand, doing their best to treat the cuts without magic. Their talents were likely more useful than Estin’s at the moment. They could keep working so long as they had water and cloth scraps to bind wounds, where as Estin could do very little in his condition.
He settled in, trying to shut out the distant sounds of battle. An hour or two and he might be able to help a couple more people. He had been using magic long enough to know not to let the chance to rest pass during a battle. The need to stop and recover was an inescapable fact of relying on magic. Leaning back against the tree, he forced himself to relax.
Estin had scarcely closed his eyes when he heard more people running into the area. He kept his eyes shut, sniffing without thinking about it. He smelled blood, sweat, and something familiar that the other odors covered. Opening his eyes, he watched as Linn came running back up the hill straight toward him with a larger group behind him.
“Estin,” Linn called out as he got closer, “I want you out of here, now! Go somewhere else to rest! Someone escort Estin out of here to make room for others.”
Confused, Estin sat up and started to ask what was going on when he realized what was coming up the hill behind Linn. There were groups of soldiers carrying bloodied werewolves among them. He could see three from where he sat, and from the sounds of it, there were more behind. A fourth was being carried by another of the werewolves, who looked to be on the verge of collapsing himself.
“I said go, Estin!” Linn yelled, grabbing one of the doctors and pointing at Estin. “Get him gone!”
The doctor and two soldiers rushed at Estin, even as he was trying to stand. They were firm but careful as they grabbed his arms and started to drag him out of the area. Then Estin got another glimpse of the people bringing bodies up the hill. Some were definitely werewolves, while others were fallen soldiers. What caught his eye was Arella—still in her wolven form—limping near the back of the group, nursing a brutally burned shoulder that was slowly healing.
“Arella was with Feanne,” Estin mumbled, shoving one of the soldiers off him. When the man tried to grab him again, Estin lashed out without thinking, punching the man in the face. At that point, Linn rolled his eyes and turn away. He had been trying to keep Estin away from finding something out and that made Estin’s stomach lurch even more painfully.
Before the doctor or soldiers could get a fresh grip on him, Estin limped quickly toward Linn and the group of wounded. He ignored Linn’s glare and made his way to Arella, who lowered her face as Estin got near, though she still towered over him.
“Where’s my mate?” he asked, noticing Arella’s quick glance toward some of the soldiers. “Arella? Answer me.”
Then Estin realized what she had been looking at when she avoided his eyes. A pair of dwarven soldiers were carrying Feanne carefully toward the doctors. She shook violently and screamed, coughing up blood in the process, all the while clutching her side.
Running despite the pain in his leg, Estin got to Feanne’s side as they lay her on the ground, taking her hand in his. She was still conscious, staring up at the sky as she choked and trembled, though he could tell she was not seeing him at all. Looking down, he saw much of her ribs were exposed near burned flesh and fur. He could smell a storm on her—lightning. They had attacked her with magic, which he knew she could not heal as easily from. That had likely been the weakness exploited against the werewolves, as well.
“Feanne,” he said, tightening his grip on her hand and kneeling so his muzzle was near her ear. “Feanne, you’re going to be all right. Hang in there.”
A young woman in traditional country healer’s robes knelt on Feanne’s other side and
began applying fresh cloth to the wound, trying to slow the bleeding. Even before she covered it, Estin had gotten an idea of how bad the wound was. Bones were broken, and he was willing to bet her lung was punctured. The healer would not be able to do much with the paltry resources they had available in the camp, especially without magic. Within seconds the cloth was soaked through, and blood continued to run down Feanne’s side as she struggled to breathe.
“Get some extra bandages,” Estin told the woman, who hesitated. “Get them!”
The healer got up and went to a nearby cart where what few supplies they had left were stacked. As soon as she looked away, Estin put his hand on Feanne’s brow and whispered, “You’re going to be fine, Feanne. I’ll see to it. You can yell at me later. It’s your turn to save my life…remember that. You’re overdue.”
Closing the sounds around him out of his mind, Estin tugged at the faint murmurs of the disembodied voices in his head. His stomach lurched immediately and all his muscles began to ache, but he did not relent. He pulled at the vestiges of magic until he could taste blood and the first trickle of magic flowed through his fingers into Feanne.
Rough hands grabbed him, shattering his concentration. He flailed and tried to get his fangs into whoever had interrupted him, then froze as he was hoisted completely off the ground by the scruff of his neck. Slowly, Arella turned Estin around so he was looking into her wolflike face, her eyes narrow and deadly.
“She said you would try to be the fool when battles turned deadly,” she warned him, her voice barely recognizable as more than a growl. “I am under orders to stop you from making this kind of mistake.”
“She’ll die if I—”
Arella snarled. “We’ll all die soon enough,” she said firmly, lowering him just enough that his paws could brush the ground. “We will not rush anyone’s death. Turess, take him from me.”
Before Estin could react, Turess wrapped his arms around Estin from the side, pulled him away from Arella, and held him tight. Estin fought briefly, trying to get a grip, but Turess seemed to anticipate his movements, avoiding claws and fangs easily, as though he had fought wildlings before. Finally, Estin gave in and watched.