by Rachel Lee
Tess, who had been drawing in the dust at her feet with a twig, spoke. “There is a larger doorway open now.” She sounded almost as if she were in a trance. “Can’t you feel it?”
Tom felt a shivering within, an unpleasant sensation, not unlike when he feared he might fall from a great height. He closed his eyes, trying to deal with the feeling, trying to find his well of courage. But instead of courage, he found words that insisted on being spoken, though he had little idea what they meant.
“When the three approach, the Twelve must guard the unbound Enemy.”
His eyes popped open, and he found everyone staring at him.
“Well,” said Archer, “that’s clear enough. Would you could tell us the outcome, Tom.”
Tom merely shook his head, wondering at these times when he felt compelled to speak words that did not seem to be of his own design.
“I will tell you,” Archer said slowly, tossing yet another small coal on the fire, “that the Enemy has grown since last he and I crossed paths. In those days he could not have done what I saw him do in Lorense. Nor what I suspect he does with the weather. It will indeed take the Twelve to save us.”
As if his words had drawn the fury of the heavens down on them, the skies swiftly clouded over and the wind became a gale of sleet. From around the entire camp came cries of surprise as everyone hunkered down within cloaks and blankets.
Tom edged closer to the fire. Tess alone seemed oblivious but continued her tracings in the dust of the ages.
As quickly as the gale had arrived, it vanished, as if the peaks around them had swallowed it up. Above, the sky remained clouded but appeared benign enough otherwise.
“That was strange,” Tom muttered.
Ratha placed a hand on his shoulder. “Eat up, lad. Matters will get stranger yet.”
Tom turned to look the Anari in the eye. “If you seek to comfort me, that is an unusual way to do it.”
Ratha laughed, a sound that seemed to drive back the edges of evil. “I was just assuring you that you have much adventure to look forward to.”
It was hard now for Tom to remember that only a few short weeks ago he had been living with his family in the small town of Whitewater and dreaming of great adventures rather than the humdrum life of a gatekeeper’s son. Thinking back on it, he sighed. “I think, Ratha, that I have encountered more adventure than a lifetime needs.”
Ratha leaned close. “Aye, lad, you have. We all have. Unfortunately there seems to be no end in sight.”
Archer had taken note of Tess’s writing in the sand. “What do you seek, Lady?”
Slowly Tess looked up. “It is a symbol I saw in the temple at Gewindi-Telnah. I keep feeling that I should know what it means.”
Archer left the stone on which he had been sitting and went to crouch beside her. “Show me,” he said. “I have some command of the Old Tongue.”
Carefully she traced the flow and curve of the intricate symbol, trying as best she could to get it to resemble exactly what she had seen on the wall.
Archer nodded slowly. “It says, One who blazes with the light of the gods.”
“I wonder why it seems so familiar,” she said.
Sara leaned over. “You forgot part of it, Tess.” Taking the stick from the other woman’s hand, she drew a rounded triangle around the letters. “Does that mean anything?”
Archer’s expression now looked as stony as any Anari’s. “The enclosure means that it holds within a name. The name in this case is…Theriel.”
“The White Lady,” Tom breathed. “She of the legends.”
Reaching out suddenly, Archer rubbed away the symbol with his gloved hand. Then, without a word, he strode away from them.
Tess stared after him. “I upset him.”
“Much about the past upsets him, Lady,” Ratha said bracingly. “Especially when the present is but another maw of the past.”
“What does that mean?” Tom asked.
Ratha cocked his head to one side, as if considering his words with care. “We fight an old battle, Tom. What is to come has already been.”
* * * *
The fleeing villagers rested only long enough to see to their needs and catch a few hours of sleep. By midday they were on their way again, following a path that would have been invisible to all but the initiated.
Everywhere there seemed to be a recognition that they were leaving behind the familiar forever. That at the end of this march, one way or another, the world would change eternally.
Sara found herself walking among the Telneren, with Tom at her side. The women sang in an easy, lilting rhythm that matched their strides, and although Sara could not understand the words, the melodies and harmonies seemed to reach into her soul. She squeezed Tom’s hand and glanced over to him. The look on his face gave her pause.
“Is something wrong?” she asked.
“They sing with such joy,” he said. “I can’t find any joy in this journey.”
She favored him with a smile. “Not even with me, Tom Downey?”
“Of course,” he said, his voice faltering. “I didn’t mean…it’s just…so much…and so much more….”
“Don’t lose courage, Tom,” she said, giving his hand another squeeze. “They sing with the joy of courage. The joy of those who know their cause is just, who know they will overcome.”
“If the last two days are a portent,” Tom said, “the Bozandari can stamp them out Tel by Tel until there are none left.”
“And if they allowed themselves to stand Tel by Tel, that might happen. But this is why we march to Anahar. I suspect Gewindi-Tel are not the only Anari with this idea.” She pointed ahead. “Look at how Ratha and Giri and Jenah have fallen in as one. Bonds of kinship are strong among the Anari, just as they are in Whitewater. When trouble befalls any, all respond. The Bozandari will regret having burned the tail of this great desert adder.”
“Do you miss home?” he said. “At the mere sound of the word—Whitewater—I see my mother bringing a bowl of stew to my father, then sitting by the fireplace with her knitting. And my heart weeps. I wonder how they are surviving this winter, and whether we shall go home to a ghost town.”
“Now, Tom, you know Whitewater folk better than to say such a thing. Why, look at us. Much hardship have we seen on this journey, and yet we walk on. Why would you think our kinsmen capable of any less? Whitewater presses its shoulder to the mountains. Our people are good beasts of burden. When the load is heavy, we pull together. Let us not fear for them.”
“Your Lady speaks the truth,” Eiehsa said, during a pause in the singing. “Fret not about what you cannot affect, Lord Thomas. The sun will rise and the sun will set, but the heart beats during light or darkness.”
“Lord Thomas,” Tom said, chuckling. “I am quite certain I do not merit that title. I am merely Tom Downey, of the village of Whitewater, son of a gatekeeper.”
“Lady Sara is a noble Ilduin,” Eiehsa said with a deep smile. “I am sure her eye would not fall fair on one less noble than she.”
“She’s right,” Sara said. “You are the son of a gatekeeper, yes, and a noble thing indeed is that alone. But you are more than that, Tom, and you know this to be true. Much do you speak that a young man would not see, and when you do, I hear the voice of ages on the wind. You are a prophet, Tom Downey. Mark my words.”
“A master of the obvious, perhaps,” Tom said.
“Now, lad,” Eiehsa said, “I suspect the Lady will be for tanning your hide if you continue to speak thus. You wonder if you are worthy of her. But that is your wonder, Tom, not hers. Her eyes say she has no such doubts.”
“Not even the least,” Sara said, giving him a playful smack on the bottom. “So either you are indeed worthy, or I am a blind and stupid girl. I’ll thank you not to imply the latter.”
“Are you going to let her spank you like that?” Archer said with a deep, grumbling laugh, having suddenly appeared at their side.
“Um…yes?” Tom asked.
“Very well,” Eiehsa said. “In the presence of such nobility as Lord Archer and his companions, perhaps our oldest and most beautiful song is in order. We sing it but rarely, yet it is the song that binds our souls as can none other. Sisters, let us sing.”
Their voices rose together, and even Archer sang along, translating the words for the rest.
Our roots lie deep in mountain stone,
On desert sand we stand, alone,
But not alone, not e’er are we,
For graced by blessings each are we.
The rising sun and setting moon,
Bring rhythm to the heart’s own tune,
The summer warmth and winter rain,
Renew our strength to stand again.
We live as one, in joy and peace,
And know we all, when labors cease,
That in the arms of gods we sleep,
Our souls forever theirs to keep.
Weep not, Anari, tall and proud,
Let not thy burdened back be bowed,
Created one by Twelve are ye,
Live long in honor, brave and free.
Sara found herself singing along, her voice dancing with those of the Anari as if born of a strength beyond her own. If the Twelve had indeed created the Anari, then that grace must surely wash away any stain. For in the lilt of their voices, and hers, she found a peace like none she could remember.
Finally even Tom sang beside her, their voices rising like the dreams of lovers not yet met as if to play among the stars. Long had she wished for this, to hear his voice unite in song with hers. If it took a horrific flight through all the world to hear his voice thus, then every horror was paid in this moment.
“I do love thee, Tom Downey,” she said, leaning in to kiss his cheek.
In the instant that her lips tasted his sweetness, a brief, flitting whisper sounded. And then the arrow lodged in his side.
6
“By Elanor!” Tom cried, sinking to the ground.
Archer heard the cry, but his eyes were already on the ridge to their left, looking at the rainbow of arrows arcing through the air toward them.
“Cover!” he cried.
The words were unnecessary, as already the Anari were going to ground amidst the rocks, mothers clutching children to their breasts, men unslinging their own bows and nocking arrows.
Archer reached down and lifted Tom with one arm, the other gently pushing Sara aside. “Let us get him safe from further wounds first, m’Lady. Then you can tend to these.”
She nodded, her face white as a midnight moon, and scrabbled alongside Archer into the lee of a rock. The clatter of arrows on rock lasted another few seconds that seemed like an eternity, then stopped.
“Why do they show mercy?” she asked.
“It’s not mercy,” Archer said. “They have no easy targets and waste not the work of their fletchers. This is but a brief respite, and then they will fall upon us with all their fury.”
Tom let out a long, low groan, and Archer rested a hand on his shoulder. “Breathe easy, my friend. The wound hurts worse than it is. Your Lady Sara can tend it beyond any notice. I promise you.”
Tom nodded weakly, his eyes screwed closed, and Archer glanced at Sara’s face. She saw the truth as plainly as did Archer. The arrow had entered Tom’s side, just below the ribs, the tip protruding from his belly. He would indeed need Ilduin magick.
“I’ll get Lady Tess,” he whispered in her ear, so that Tom would not hear it. “And try to organize our defense.”
Sara nodded, and cradled Tom’s head in her arms, murmuring an entreaty to Elanor, the goddess of healing.
Archer slipped from rock to gully to rock, taking the faces of shaken Anari in his hands and explaining what he needed of them. In moments, their shock was replaced by a cold determination. Finally he reached the head of the column, where Jenah had already recalled the advance guards and was issuing instructions. Tess was tending the wound of an Anari whose calf had been pierced through, and Archer waited for her to finish before speaking.
“It’s Tom,” he said. “Midway back in the column. He is shot through the belly.”
“Damn them,” she swore, Ilduin fire flashing in her eyes. “I will go to him.”
“Quickly, please,” Archer said.
“They will attack soon,” Jenah said, after Tess had left. “They follow us like a hunter after wounded prey.”
“Yes,” Archer said. “And when this is over, we must consider why that is. But that is for later. For now, we fight.”
No sooner had the words left his lips than a cry arose on the ridge, and two hundred Bozandari rose from their positions and began to descend upon the Anari. These were not seasoned troops, for they came on too fast, and soon were stumbling amidst the loose shale and talus on the slope. Now the Anari added their arrows to the hardships of the advance, and within minutes the ridge was a roiling mass of screaming forms, comrades stepping on comrades in an attempt to press the attack, trying vainly to form battle order, lest they emerge onto the valley floor as a vulnerable rabble.
“Hold fast!” Archer bellowed, the order echoing down the line as a few Anari rose to advance.
To meet the enemy on the slope would be madness, for their descending mass would shatter any line. But once they reached the base of the slope, those in front would suffer from the headlong rush of those behind. Then they could be struck with effect—if only the Anari would be patient.
“Steady!” Jenah yelled, his deep voice seeming to carry the weight of the mountain itself as it boomed and echoed through the valley. “Steady!”
Arrows continued to thin the Bozandari ranks, but Archer could see that too many were making it through the deadly hail. “Ratha! Giri! To me!”
“We are already here, m’Lord,” Giri said. “Where else would you find us in a fight?”
“Hiding under a rock, perhaps,” Ratha said, dark humor swimming in his words.
“Speak for yourself, brother,” Giri said, grinning.
“On my word, we advance,” Archer called, ignoring their verbal horseplay, his eyes sweeping up and down the line. “Jenah, can you flank them?”
“Aye, Lord Archer,” Jenah responded. “Doubt not our valor, nor our skill.”
“I doubt not,” Archer said, feeling his muscles tense for the spring. “I doubt not. Advance!”
Anari men and women rose and moved on the enemy, fire in their eyes, fury in their bellies. Archer had had but a few minutes to teach them the old fighting ways, and many were the mistakes. But many things were done correctly, as well, and soon the deadly swirl of swords began to bite flesh. The eyes of the Bozandari were wide with terror, for this was not the helpless prey they had imagined. Still, they fought with the skill borne of countless hours of drilling, managing to form a ragged line in the chaos.
If fury be the fuel of battle, then the Anari burned bright in its cauldron. They fought with the fury of men and women who had lost too much, endured too much, buried too many and grieved their last breaths. The Bozandari fell before them like blood-drenched sheaves of desert rye, yet still held their line.
With a deep cry that seemed to emanate from the depths of the earth, Jenah ordered his flanking force into the attack, and now the issue was fully decided as panic swept down the Bozandari line. For Archer, minutes stretched into hours, his mind blurred against the carnage at his feet, the clang of metal on metal and the screams of the dying. Killing had become an all too familiar routine, and his body performed almost without need of his mind. It was better this way, he decided. Better not to be there when he and those around him did such things. Better to simply let muscle and steel and nature take their course.
Tess looked up to watch the final carnage with a grim satisfaction, then returned her
attention to Tom. Words she did not remember having known flitted through her mind: sepsis, peritonitis. The wound was indeed grave, and her hands worked with almost mechanical precision to extract the arrow. The cry that rose from Tom’s throat as she drew the shaft out was beyond human, and Sara sobbed beside her.
“Find water,” Tess said, looking into Sara’s eyes. “And those herbs you keep in your pouch. Find them now, Sara. I need your help. Do you hear me?”
Sara nodded numbly, and Tess reached up to squeeze her shoulder with a blood-smeared hand. “Sara! Listen. I need you to help me. Get water and your herbs. Now.”
“Yes, m’Lady,” Sara said.
As she left, Tom’s hand moved to Tess’s thigh, gripping it so tightly that she could feel the bruises forming. She met his eyes and kept her voice steady and even.
“I have the arrow out, Tom. I need to clean the wounds as best I can, and put a poultice on them. Stay with me, Tom. Look at my face and stay with me.”
“Ohhhhhhhh Elanor,” he moaned. “My sins are grave.”
“He says the prayer of the dying,” Eiehsa said, kneeling beside her.
“Stop that!” Tess said, fury in her voice. “You are not going to die, Tom Downey, Prophet of the Prophecy. You are not going to die in this place. By the power of the Twelve, I forbid it!”
The sky seemed to crack with a thousand peals of thunder, halting even the last of the Bozandari in their tracks. Tess seemed to shimmer from a sun within, light blazing from her eyes.
“I forbid it!” she cried again. “You may not take him!”
The pouch between her breasts seemed to burn like fire, and she yanked it off, allowing the stones to spill over Tom’s belly. The stones flared like golden fire, dancing over his wounds. He cried as blood hissed into steam and the stones sank into his flesh, but she held his arms pinned as she looked up to the heavens.
“Ilduin tessuh nah elah! Ilduin mees lahrohn nah elah! Tessuh nah elah!”
Fury swept out of the sky, flaming hail sizzling on the dead, dying and fleeing Bozandari, igniting their bodies and reigniting their screams. An inhuman howl rose through the valley, a howl to chill the blood of the gods themselves, and with a final pealing boom, the sky seemed to expel its own rage. In the echoing silence that rode its wake, only Tom’s low whimper could be heard.