Smoke and Rain

by V. Holmes

  The 25th day of Llume, 1252

  Arman groaned and changed course as an alert went up. He wanted to speak to Alea, but she would be busy tending the wounded from the new attack. Horns sounded again and Arman slid to a halt. Those aren’t attack alarms. He turned down a narrow alley between the mess tents and headed towards the center of camp. A throng gathered by Indred’s tent. Bren already stood among the officers, holding a serious conversation with Narier. Alea appeared moments later, still wearing her blood-drenched apron. She flashed him a smile and craned over others’ shoulders to see.

  “What is it?”

  He shrugged, “I only just realized it wasn’t signaling an attack.”

  The crowd parted for the approaching riders. The clean Athrolani uniforms of the new soldiers looked almost foreign next to the weathered tabards of the camp’s soldiers. General Aneral took in the mess of tents and mud. She raised a hand in greeting and drew her horse up. Though her mouth softened in a brief smile at the relief in the tired soldier’s eyes, her gaze was hard. Her lips thinned when her boots splashed into the muck.

  Indred shouldered his way through the crowd and saluted her quickly, “General, you are a welcome sight.”

  “What the fates happened here?” She tugged her gloves and helm off. “The last missive you sent was written two weeks ago. I arrive only to find starvation and blood. I ordered you to lay siege on the Berrin, not yourselves!”

  “The siege—if you can really call it such—has done as much harm as good. The Berrin are weak, but their resolve is not.”

  Eras waved his words away. “Call a council, save the reports for then.” She shot her squire several orders before striding over to where her tent was being erected. Moments later the call for officers went out, though most still milled about the circle around the general’s troop.

  As the council tent filled, Eras edged around the table to where Alea sat. She grasped Arman and Bren’s arms in greeting and bowed her head to Alea. “I’m glad to see you whole.” Her eyes lingered on the shadows under the young woman’s eyes and the hollows of her cheeks. “You have been learning the details of war, it seems.”

  “I have.”

  Indred slumped into his chair with a weary sigh. At Eras's gesture he leaned forward, “We estimate their numbers are 1700 or so, but ours are over a hundred less than that. They have yet to take the advantage, which makes my skin crawl. It’s like waiting for a man to bleed out. We’ve tried to mobilize but they counter before any ground is gained.”

  “What of the scouting missions in the forest.”

  Indred pointed to the map, “The Berrin erected ditches and walls, makeshift, but manned and armed. The rear door is repaired. They have three lines of men camped back there, with guards and such, as much as a hundred paces into the tree line. We have been unable to discover much else about their camp—visibility is horrid in this weather and the river has risen enough that crossing is almost impossible.”

  “Where is Kerin? He should have no problem scouting.”

  “Dead, ma’am.”

  She sighed. “Send another scouting party before dawn, river be damned. If the Bordermen agree, I’d like them to go.” She rubbed the bridge of her nose. “Five minutes here and I’m frustrated. I admire that you’ve lasted weeks. This would be so much easier if we could just torch them.”

  “Why can’t we?”

  Her copper eyes flicked to Bren. “In this rain the oil just washes away, and we’d need a fortune of it to burn anything so wet. Otherwise they’d all be burnt in their boots. This damned campaign already threatened to drain the military coffers.”

  Arman leaned forward, a thought making furrows in his brow. “What about potash?”

  “You want to grow a garden to feed ourselves?” Vinden’s comment drew chuckles. Even poor jokes were appreciated after the bleak weeks.

  Arman ignored him. “Hass Orean’s barn exploded after being struck by lightning.”

  “A barn exploding? That’s the most you can give us?” Indred sighed and turned to Eras.

  Narier cut off whatever comment the gallant planned. “He’s right, sir. Barns get struck all the time, but the most they do is burn usually. When Potash gets wet it turns to stone, so we have to keep it dry, usually with metal bins. My Da used my old armor usually.”

  Eras's brows rose, “Lieutenant, you realize armor is the property of the kingdom.”

  “Not the point, ma’am. The only barns that exploded were those with potash in them. Not sure why, but every few years it would happen. If the stuff wasn’t so good for growing, we’d have done away with it years ago.”

  Arman nodded his thanks at the man. “We’ve been burning grasses and trees for weeks now. Raid every campfire here and we’ll get enough.”

  “And how do you propose we cover the Berrin camp in ashes without being seen? Last I knew, none here can fly.”

  Bren grinned. “General ma’am, permission to go visit my old comrades?”

  Φ

  The 26th Day of Llume, 1252

  Wood smoke and fates knew what else tangled Alea's hair. She raked her fingers through it, exasperated. "I swear if we're here for much longer I'll cut this mess right off!"

  Narier glanced over with a smile. He was perched on his camp chair, scanning recent missives. "I like it down. I mean, your braid is nice too, but with it down you look more...."

  "Mad?" She lay back on his cot with a sigh.

  "I was going to say wild." He scratched a few notes in his officer's log. "I think the Dhoah' Laen should be wild. Untamed."

  "If I get much more dirt on me I might be mistaken for a monkey. I think that's as close to 'untamed' as I'll be." She began her braid, staring thoughtfully at the floor. "I want to go on the scouting mission tomorrow."

  He finished his sentence before turning to look at her fully, "You make it sound like something is preventing you from doing so." He crossed his arms and leaned back. "It wouldn't be Arman, now would it?"

  Her fingers halted in their work. "Your intuition is uncanny."

  "No, I just listen when people talk. Barrackborn mentioned Arman was less than trusting in your ability. I admit I was surprised he was the one to be overprotective, as opposed to your brother. Thank fates I was wrong. I worried he'd beat me senseless for taking you to bed."

  Alea blanched. "You told him that?" She was not ashamed that she had taken a lover, but she certainly did not need Bren knowing.

  "Fates, no! I do have some respect, Alea, even if I'm crass. He was at your camp when I returned the purse you left here the other night."

  Alea flushed. "Regardless, no, he's certainly not the one stopping me from scouting. He'd probably worry if I asked, but he lets me make my choices." She frowned, "What do you mean, Arman doesn't trust me?"

  "If he trusted you, he would realize you have a good head and are stronger and more able than you might have once been." He fixed her with a pointed stare. "If you're asking me for permission to go, to make yourself feel better about not telling Arman and sneaking off, forget it. You don't need anyone's permission, least of all mine, but take your guilt up with Arman himself." His smile returned. "I wouldn't mind if you waited to talk to him though. I hoped to have your company tonight."

  She laughed and grabbed his hand, pulling him down onto the cot with her. "I suppose I'll consider it."

  Φ

  Alea woke sometime after midnight, her arm numb and tingling from where his head lay across her elbow. His dark lashes fluttered in sleep and the shadows of expressions flitted over his face. What are you dreaming about? Is it war? When you dream is it glorious or terrible? Her arm began to burn from loss of feeling, but she was reluctant to move. Her relationship with Narier was mostly friendship, but their time was precious. His humor and easy acceptance of whatever she chose to be was a balm against the pain and confusion that came with both war and duty. She sighed and carefully extracted herself before kissing his cheek. "Stay safe."

  She dressed quickly, mo
re out of anxiety than desire to be warm. The familiar path between Narier's tent and her own seemed longer than usual and she broke into a jog. Bren was the only one in uniform, the rest of the scouts dressed to blend into the monochrome landscape. Her clothes were mottled and she smudged additional dirt over her cheeks and nose before buckling on the leather breastplate Bren had found for her. Dawn was still an hour away when she arrived at the river's edge.

  Reka glanced up at her from where she crouched by the barricades. "Glad to see you made it." The four Bordermen wore broad leather belts equipped with weights and straps. Wicked looking hooks curved down from guards on their forearms. Two other scouts and Bren arrived a moment later, their banter light, but quiet. Alea looked down, hoping to keep her presence undiscovered for as long as possible.

  Reka scratched a hasty map in the mud. “We’ll cross upriver, keeping to the hollows until we're well past both our banks and theirs. The river will pull us back towards the camps, so each of my men will have one of you strapped to their belts. We use the hooks to drag ourselves along the bottom and we’ll breathe through bladders of air.” She smudged the map out and began unbuckling the straps on her belt. “We have an hour to get under the trees, understood?”

  Through her lashes Alea saw the green tinge to her brother’s face. They moved quickly, darting from hollow to hollow. The light of the campfires seemed terribly bright, and Alea felt far too close to the glow of the Berrin camp when Reka motioned for them to approach the river. They knelt in the sand of the bank. Softened ice from the river’s edge bobbed away, tinged green from floodwaters. Reka tugged Alea over. “You’re with me.” The warrior crisscrossed belts over Alea’s shoulders, strapping the Dhoah’ Laen to her back. She handed back a bladder of air and Alea tied it around her wrist.

  Walking the few steps to the river while pressed together was awkward. They moved steadily to avoid dangerous splashing. The river that had been waist-height weeks before was over twice that after the rains. The water sent a dull chill through Alea’s several layers and she found herself hoping she would just wake up, warm on Narier’s cot.

  Reka glanced back as the water lapped around their shoulders. “Save your air as long as possible. Hold your breath and don’t worry about me. The belt will keep us together. Do not lose the bladder.” She drew a long, slow breath and slipped under the churning surface.

  The weights in the warrior’s belt helped drag them to the bottom. The force of the water was tremendous and Alea wished the belt was tighter. Her eyes squeezed shut. Are we moving at all? Her lungs ached and she let the air stream out slowly. The trail of bubbles tickled. She touched the mouth of the bladder to her lips and sipped a breath. A steady tug-pause-tug on the belts around her shoulders told her they did indeed creep forward. She squinted, daring to open her eyes. The water stung. The river was black, but she made out the lumps that were their comrades. Rocks dotted the sandy bottom and caught debris from upstream. She could feel the power in the water, the lifeblood of the fields and hills for leagues. She drew a third breath as the ground sloped up. Soon they emerged on the far side. Water sluiced off them noisily and Reka winced, motioning for them to move slower.

  Alea stumbled as Reka released the belts. She felt incredibly heavy after the buoyancy of the river. Irer pulled parchment from a waterproof pouch. A corner had dissolved, but it was otherwise intact. They edged through the trees

  Φ

  Bren trained a spyglass on the fort. He whispered details to Reka as she scratched notes on Irer’s parchment. He had doffed the oilskin suit, the vermillion and green of Mirik’s uniform bright against the gray of the forest. “I’ll wait until an hour after dawn to light it, unless I’m discovered. When we take the fort Alea can use the vantage for whatever she needs.” He lowered the glass, “That’s all I can see from here. I’ll head in now, if you’re set. I’d rather get this over with.”

  “I’ll go with you.” Irer rose from his crouch. When Bren glanced over questioningly, the warrior shrugged. “The bastards can’t tell us apart.”

  Bren edged forward, Irer a silent presence at his back. When he was just outside the firelight he threw his shoulders back and strode into camp. A man with a goal is never questioned. He paused at the base of the fort, dumping a large handful of potash behind the general’s tent. They made their way through the camp, walking purposefully. Bren emptied the rest of the potash along the rear of the Berrin mess tent.

  “What are you doing?”

  Bren straightened, schooling his face into angry imperiousness before turning. “I dropped my purse, idiot. I can’t see anything in this dark.” His eyes met the bright brown of a Miriken soldier’s.

  “Barrackborn? I heard you deserted.”

  Blood rushed in Bren’s ears. Toar I didn’t think of this. He did not recognize the man, but that meant little. “Deserted? Toar, the shite you people believe. Milord king gave me a task and I carried it out.”

  The soldier eyed him skeptically. “It was King Azirik himself who told us.” His eyes flicked to the warrior behind Bren. “Irer, he’s one of the Athrolani now, isn’t he?”

  Bren’s heart plummeted at the words. If the Miriken knew Irer's name, he was doomed. He looked over his shoulder at the Borderman. “You’re the informant we’ve been trying to pin the past two weeks?” He heard the scrape as the soldier pulled his sword free, but did not bother to look. Instead he grabbed the lantern hanging from the mess tent and smashed it over the potash. The explosion was bright and hot and gave him the moment he needed. He dashed back to the forest, grabbing a torch as he passed the center of camp. He retraced their steps, lighting the potash as he went. It was an hour too early, but it was all he could give them. Alarm was sounded on his heels and he skittered through several narrow tent alleys. Hoof beats gained on him as he reached the trees. “Retreat!”

  Arrows peppered the ground as he slid behind a tree. Reka’s eyes were panicked as she shoved the map into her shirt. “What happened?”

  “Irer is a fucking traitor is what!”

  “If the attack is happening now, I need to be in that tower. I can lay shields on our men.”

  The words hit Bren like a bucket of river water. His gaze swiveled to the young woman pressed against the tree beside his. “Alea?” He shook his head. “This is nothing like we planned, you need to get out of here, power be damned.”

  Reka popped up from her crouch, shooting an answering arrow at their pursuers. “Get to the river.” A bolt struck her just below the ribs. She faltered, but stayed upright. Her draws were weakened, but a gurgled cry said they were no less deadly.

  Bren thrust Alea before him and ran for the water. Hoof beats grew louder. The sullen glint of the river appeared ahead. A horse burst from the trees beside them, spraying wet loam into Bren’s face. The rider grabbed Bren’s distinctly bright tabard, sword sweeping down and across the Lieutenant.

  Warmth rushed over Bren’s collarbone, followed by distant, stinging pain. His sight blurred and he found himself suddenly face down in the muck. The ground smelled of copper and mildew.

  Φ

  The 26th Day of Llume, 1252

  The energy of suspense hummed up Arman’s limbs. He was as eager as any to see the stalemate end, but battle made him nervous. He had yet to see Alea all day, and he hoped to convince her to stay back from the actual battle. She’ll have plenty wounded to contend with. Arman ducked under the tent flap of the infirmary, shaking rain from his shoulders. He raised a hand to greet Guffe. “Have you seen milady?”

  The healer tied off a stitch and sat back on his heels, puzzled. “She left with the Bordermen to scout.” He frowned, “You didn’t know?”

  Arman’s gut clenched. Without bothering to thank the man, he rushed from the tent, searching for any form that could remotely be Alea’s.

  Attack horns peeled suddenly, fire exploding from behind the enemy lines. This is too soon. They were supposed to wait. The camp burst into action. Armor was tugged on and weapons gathered e
ven as boots were tied. Eras' battle-shout arched over the tents, ordering formations. Another horn shrieked at the southern edge of camp, announcing an ally. Arman crossed the camp at a dead run. Blood drenched Reka's jerkin. One arm wrapped over Bren's shoulder. Alea's brother had a wadded shirt wrapped around his throat. It, too, was black with blood. Arman could not discern who held up whom.

  Indred called for a stretcher for Reka and Arman dogged them back to the healers. The gallant pressed Bren onto a stool.

  "What happened?" He waved a surgeon over. "Can you speak?"

  "Ambushed." Bren's voice rasped. "Irer betrayed us. He's been with them from the beginning. Everyone but us is dead or captured. I would be too, but the bastard doesn't know a sword from his arse." Bren hissed as the surgeon unwrapped the makeshift bandage. The gash was deep, but had missed the largest artery. Blood still pulsed slowly.

  "What about Dhoah' Lyne'alea?"

  Bren fell silent as the healer drew thick threads through the flesh of his throat. The shame in his eyes said enough.

  Indred paled and fled the infirmary, shouting for his captains.

  A shadow fell over Bren. Arman's entire body burned. He pulled the taller man up by the bloodstained collar. "Where is she?" Something beyond fury shone in the Rakos's eyes.

  "I kept her with me as long as possible. I went down. I'm sorry."

  Arman's fist collided with Bren's jaw, spraying blood and spit. He struck the lieutenant's eye next, splitting the brow before Bren retaliated. He drew blood from Arman's lip and felt a shift of bone as the heel of his hand met the bridge of Arman's already crooked nose.

  Rough hands pulled Arman back and Guffe shouldered between them. "Fools!" He pushed Arman back another step, "Don't we have enough enemies?"

  Bren held up his hands in surrender and returned to his seat.

  "I have work aplenty without my charges killing one another." He regarded Arman's face for a moment, then shoved his nose into place with a fluid motion. Shaking his head, he left them in silence.

  "Fuck! Damn!" Arman's newly opened nose bled again. He glared at Bren before storming out of the tent. There was too much heat in his body to feel more than an ache. His skin rippled with rage. He did not care that Eras had a careful plan for the attack. He did not care that he was injured or that anger made him careless. His hands should have shook as he buckled on armor. Instead they writhed with smoke.