by Ru Emerson
'Nisana, get out of here!’
'No! I can—’
'Get killed by accident, get back to the horses, go!' Galdan stared briefly the cat vanished; his fingers tightened on Ylia's shoulder and he pointed. She drew sword and dagger as some of the creatures broke free and came straight across the clearing for them. The shield caught again, and threw her off-balance. I can't do this; despite Eya's words. It"ll kill me. I'll be careful. That's all. She crouched down, dropped the dagger and dragged the shield free, tossed it behind her into the rocks. Movement back there: her armed and Erken's backup coming around to block the gap. Somewhere across the clearing she could hear Marhan shouting above the storm.
She caught up the dagger, leaped to her feet and held the sword high, an extension of her arm to bring her household armed forward, cried aloud: “Nedao!” “Nedao!” came the cry from half a hundred throats behind them: it echoed across the boulder strewn clearing. “Nedao!” Galdan roared in reply, and as he set himself to her left; struck his blade against hers.
Lightning lit both blades as they touched, lit two upturned astonished faces: Silver flame crackled from the points. Ylia cried out in sudden pain as heat washed through her in a red-hot wave; Galdan shouted something, she never knew what, and staggered away from her. Only the rock saved him from a fall. The Mathkkra halted uncertainly, turned, fled into the caves in the other direction, and were cut down.
Gods; I'm killed! Galdan thought, dazedly. But he could move, could see again. Could see and feel all too clearly: the Mathkkra were a bloody horror as they had never been on that ledge where she'd saved him. He was dimly aware, through the roil of pain/overly sharpened senses/more pain/tingling nerves of a hand reaching for him; Golsat had come diving out over cover to help him back to his feet. And then his vision was clear, his nerve steady, he was again his own man. Or am I?
Mathkkra had swerved away from Ylia's deadly silver blade, from the shower of ghastly radiance she and Galdan had triggered, onto Eveya's swords. But more came, and again more, until it seemed the hold was bottomless. The line to the south disintegrated, the fighting became one on one. The Mathkkra drove hard to the east, pressed men back into the trees, but Marckl and his men swept around behind from the north and kept them from breaking through. North, Erken and Corlin were hard beset but their lines had held hard, and in the worst place, for many of the men were strung three deep across the base of cliffs, with only rock to protect them and not always enough of that.
“To me! Hold!” Levren's voice rose above the storm as a winged form detached itself from the northern cliff and floated downward. The men around him held their ground—greatly to their credit, for many of them were young and the death-stench of the thing was heavy. It trumpeted deafeningly then and spiraled to earth, half a dozen arrows in its belly. “Look sharp!” Levren shouted. “Avoid their gaze, shoot them down! And come with me!” He turned and moved south behind Ifney's lines so he and his bowmen could have a better view of the cliff face.
The storm was nearly overhead: lightning and thunder mixed, Ylia's ears rang with the noise. The rain still held off. Pale bodies littered the ground, blue in the lightning. But there were more still, and more again: and now they fought frantically, seeking only escape. Three Thullen lay in the clearing, two more among the trees. Another had escaped, bearing off the shrieking lad who'd gone too far into the open for safety and had looked too high to sight his arrow.
Her sword arm cramped, she staggered, swore as her toe stubbed into rock. Galdan tugged at her shoulder. “Come back here, out of the front lines, rest!” And as she shook her head, he glared at her. “Even your father did that, you know! You're too tired to be safe out there. You'll get someone else killed besides yourself, you fool!”
“All right, let go of me!” she shouted back. Galdan called over his shoulder; Golsat and two others pressed past them and to the fore. “I never fought for so long before,” she said as they moved back and he found her a flattish rock.
“So? It's nothing to be ashamed of.”
“I'm not ashamed—!”
“Your face says otherwise. Rest. Sit, have some water, take a good look at your armed. See who needs backing up, moving around. Part of your job also, you know. Father and Corlin can't see clearly enough what's needed, from where they are.” She cast him a dark look. “Don't look at me like that. It's not my fault the King never sent you on maneuvers.”
“We never had any, not lately,” She said defensively. The water was warm and tasted of the skin holding it; she rinsed her mouth and spit most of it out.
“No one did, remember? Well, Father and Corlin—once or twice since I came of age. So I'm up on you, but only by that much. Drink that, nevermind the taste, you need it.”
“I—” She fought irritation. He was trying to aid her and he was right, she'd no experience at this kind of fighting. She took a decent mouthful of water, got it down. “Thank you.”
“Part of my duty,” he said stiffly, but when she looked at him, he grinned. “How's your sword arm? Tight? Here, I can do it better for you.” He rubbed the long muscles in her forearm, pressed circulation back into her shoulders and neck. She leaned forward, pulled the shield free of the boulders where it had caught. “Can't think why you sported that thing in the first place. It's not sense.”
“Sense you'll never understand.” she muttered in reply.
“If you say so. Now. Have a better idea of what's out there?” He drank, made a face at the bottle but swallowed.
“Mmmm. Ifney and Marckl are spread too thin. And Marhan's gone—I haven't seen him since I sat, have you?”
“He was in the trees a moment or so ago. I heard him. He's holding a second line just behind Ifney, in case anyone gets through. Corlin and Father could perhaps spare a few men for that west line, though.”
“Fine. Get somebody over there to tell them so.” She rubbed her palms and her fingers while he found two men to work back uphill and around to the northern rock ledges, then stood as he came back. “All right?”
“Fine. Or—” He glanced around, shrugged. “Fine as it gets, just now.”
“If you're ready, then, let's go.”
“At your side, my Lady.” She cast him another dark look, but if he was attempting his usual heavy humor his face gave no sign of it.
They were finally beginning to turn the odds; the Nedaoan army was pressing slowly in toward the clearing, and even Marhan's second line of westward defense was clearly visible through the brush and first trees. No Mathkkra had escaped, so far, and for the first time it seemed as though their numbers might be dwindling.
“'Ware!” Galdan shouted suddenly. “Thullen!”
It banked high, swerved to avoid a shower of arrows. Three protruded from a long, leathery wing as it turned again and came east. Two more sailed down from the cliff and followed it. One of the women screamed. Some of those behind her simply turned and ran: Ylia could hear Golsat bellowing after them, could hear Brelian gathering her remaining armed together to stand against the tri-fold attack.
Bendesevorian, your aid to me; I fear the blade and what it does. Eya, that I dare trust your words. Her hands shook as she reluctantly brought the sword up; the lead Thullen was heading straight for her, its mouth open wide so even the rows of tiny rasping teeth were clearly visible in the nearly constant lightning, the black eye-pits questing for her eyes. Galdan glanced at her, saw her intention in her stance and braced her hard with his shoulder. “Shelagn!” And the sword came to life.
Silver fire swirled outward: With a terrible, terrified cry, the Thullen tried to turn aside, too late; flame enveloped it. A cloud of silver smoke hid it from view as the cries grew fainter, smoke and fire compressed—it was gone. The two behind it came on, veering wide around the smoky ball that had been their leader. One was knocked back half a dozen lengths by the force of a dozen arrows and the bolt of Baelfyr that struck it. It slammed into the cliff face, burning fiercely. Men scrambled frantically away as it rolled down
the rock.
She pivoted as the reassuring pressure at her side vanished: the third was flying in low and Galdan was ready for it. His blade sheared through wing and bone and tore into the massive head, and caught there. The great wings flapped, it gained altitude; Galdan, with a startled cry, was pulled off his feet.
“Let go of it!” she shouted above the storm and pelted after him, but the Thullen was down again, still thrashing. Galdan staggered away from the rocks where he'd been thrown. Eveya was already there; her sword cut deep through the brown-furred neck and the creature went still. She fought Galdan's sword free, brought it to him. Ylia caught at his free arm. “You all right?”
“Uh. Wind knocked out.” He sounded it; there was a scrape across his cheek, his eyes were blurred. “I'll live.”
“You'd better!” she snapped back.
“How about you?” he demanded.
“I'm fine, don't worry about me. You sit. Eveya can hold my hand for a while. That was good work, Eveya!” Galdan shrugged, winced as pain knifed through his head and shoulder, and sat gingerly. He was seeing at least two of everything at the moment, the back of his head hurt, and his legs had twisted when he came down. And the sense of that thing; as his blade had touched it! Gods and Mothers, have I lost my mind? Or gained something else, when that blade and mine touched? he wondered.
“Lady—look!” Eveya caught at Ylia's left shoulder as they moved forward, pointing with her sword. The Mathkkra were bolting. Levren's voice rose above storm, the cries of wounded, and the shrieking of the enemy: “Keep the lines, do not let them escape!” Then with a final flare and crack that left the senses reeling, the storm broke and rain fell in thick grey sheets.
“Hold the lines!” Brelian, not far away to Ylia's right, brought her armed in close, but there was no need: The Mathkkra saw only the trees to the west. Corlin's men came around wide to help box them in and Brelian and Golsat moved out with her household. Ylia sighed wearily, sheathed sword and dagger.
“Galdan, how are you feeling?”
“Fine,” he mumbled.
“Fine,” she mimicked harshly. “It's not polite to lie like that. I can see you're hurting. I need your help, and you can't give it if your eyes aren't tracking and your ankle's the size of a gourd.” He sighed. “Nevermind, I'll mend it, just—sit still, will you?”
He sighed again, but with relief at this time, as she withdrew her hands from his forehead “Thank you” And, with a rare genuine smile, “You look much better when there is only one of you.”
“Next time,” she replied tersely, “don't stay with it for the ride.” But she smiled in spite of herself.
“If that's your order,” he grinned.
“All right let's not. There's too much to do here yet.
You're worn—” He stopped as she turned an exasperated face to him.
“I have your father to give me lectures. You're not going to suggest I desert the wounded, are you?”
“All right, all right!" He threw up his hands. “Then I'll help you! Is that all right?” She nodded shortly; Nisana, who had been keeping an eye on the battle from the horse pickets, bridged to her.
The fighting had receded downhill, leaving only her and Galdan, half her household as a guard, and the cat A few of Erken's men were beginning to drag aside slain enemy, to mark their wounded, to move as many as possible to what dry ground there was against the southern ledges. There were wounded everywhere.
Galdan was silent as she worked, providing strength when she asked it, otherwise watching only. No, he hadn't imagined it, even without touching her, he could now tell what she did, how she healed. It stirred something deep down in his own inner being, something he could sense, couldn't quite reach. I could—I think I could do that. It frightened him: He was a Plainsman, no AEldra wizard, he'd never even had: his mother's Sight! And he was acutely aware of Nisana's thoughtful gaze, her rising curiosity. He wondered if she could bespeak him, as she did Ylia; if she could hear his thought. But somehow he knew she'd make no effort to read him, that she would respect his privacy of thought. He was intensely grateful for that. Whatever was there, he didn't want anyone to know. Didn't want to know himself. What has it done to me, that hells’ blade of hers?
Sprain, a cut, another sprain. Broken arm, a bad cut that had nearly stopped bleeding. A terrible cut to the upper leg, bad loss of blood; He'd known she'd need his aid for that one before she asked it, startled her by taking her hand before she could reach for his. Another broken arm. One dead. And then another; fighting had been intense here. He had to help her to her feet now, each time, had to hold her arms so she didn't fall over. The cat was clinging to her shoulder, even she looked exhausted. Ylia was beyond that, but he'd clone his share of trying to reason with her. Sooner or later, she'd simply pass out and that would be an end to it.
For now: One of Erken's boys moaned, not far ahead, deep in tree-shadow. There were two of them close together, one dead, the other near it. Ylia blinked to focus her vision, reached for the boy with a hand that wanted to tremble. I haven't much left, Mothers aid me there's no more seriously injured, I can't save them if it's so. She'd have sent Nisana back to the horses, but the cat was past bridging, and certainly past aiding her. Galdan still stayed with her, his hand strong, dry and hard as ever, reassuring in its constancy.
Something different—she couldn't waste the effort to try and understand it. Something different about his strength. About him.
Three of Ifney's lads lay in a heap, in the middle of the way the fleeing Mathkkra had taken; only one was still alive, but he was scarcely hurt at all, most of the blood on him that of his friends.
Ylia leaned into Galdan this time as she stood, the only admission she'd make of how worn she was. He looked around them, hoping he'd see no others, so he could presuade her to return to the City and her bed. “One more,” she whispered. “There.” She pointed.
Oh, no. He knew, even before she did, and he would have held her back if he'd dared. She saw only someone needing her aid, one final man who'd tried to stop the fleeing Mathkkra—single-handed, because the boys with him had fled or fallen, because there was no one left to back him, no one to guard his dagger side.
Ylia walked unsteadily through the trees, dropped heavily to the turf. Her hand touched the bare skin of an arm, came away redly wet. She felt for pulse at the throat; her fingers stopped. Froze against harsh beard, old skin, the soft leather bag Marhan always wore around his neck. “Marhan?” She was shaking, her voice trembled. She couldn't sense him: There was no Marhan left there to sense. ‘Oh no, oh no, oh no.’ Nisana struggled alert, leaped down from her shoulder to touch at the old man's arm. She leaned against Ylia's hand, wet as it was with the Swordmaster's blood. “Marhan! Marhan!" Ylia's voice broke; she caught at his jerkin, buried her face against his shoulder and burst into tears.
Galdan knelt beside her, finally wrapped an arm around her to pull her away, She tore free of him, staggered to her feet. Levren, who'd come running when he heard her outcry, caught her close, held her while she wept. Over her head, his eyes met Galdan's. Galdan shook his head. Levren closed his eyes on his own pain, leaned down to whisper against Ylia's ear. She shook her head violently, tried to pull away from him. She was trying to say something neither man could understand.
But Galdan knew, knew as surely as he'd known it was Marhan and known the old man was dead. Ylia's beloved Swordmaster had bled to death while she healed cuts and bruises; he'd died before she found him, and this time she'd call the fault all to herself.
A great pity for her and for the old man enfolded him, nearly pulling him down with it. An idea touched him: Try. She tried with Marckl, when she couldn't have hurt him, trying. You can't hurt either of them. Try. And, as his hands took hold of the old man's, as he brought the lolling head onto his knees: Inniva aid me, I have no right to ask this, what I seek here is for no mortal man, but she's grieving herself ill for him, and I can't bear to see it.
Somewhere, deep inside, thing
s were moving that hadn't moved before. He knew what she used to heal; if it was in him, he couldn't use it. Well; he had strength of will; he caught that up, brought it forward, focused it. ‘Marhan. Marhan, come back.’ No response, just as he'd feared—No! Never think that way, the fire only catches if you know it will! ‘Marhan. Swordmaster!’ He opened his eyes, stared down at the limp, unresponsive body. And, suddenly compelled, across the now moonlit glade.
Someone was standing there. He blinked, tried to focus. Marhan stood there, staring blankly into the distance. Moon shone through him. “Marhan?” Galdan whispered.
The old man seemed to suddenly take in his surroundings. Dark eyes peered near-sightedly to both sides of him. "Marhan!" Galdan wrenched at the source of his will, put everything there was in him into that name.
“Galdan?” The faintest of whispers, the sound of it only touched the younger man's thought.
“Marhan, come back,” Galdan's whisper was as faint. Levren, a pace away, still stroked Ylia's hair, her shaking shoulders, and apparently heard and saw nothing else. “Come back to us, Marhan.”
“I—” Silence. So long a silence, Galdan thought he'd failed after all; he fought away that dark certainty, pushed it from his thought with an effort that left him momentarily blind. “I was—” Marhan made a gasping little sound. “It hurt—ah, pain!”
“No, don't think on it. Come back, Marhan, we need you. She needs you,” Galdan repeated. Marhan took a step forward, a second. Squinted at the man crouched on the ground before him, at what he held.
He shook his head. “I can't. Enough. I'm old and tired, lad, I can't face it anymore. Any of it. Leave me alone.”
“We're all of us tired, just now, Swordmaster. Come back.” The uncertainty was gone; he'd win, he had to. Behind him, Ylia still sobbed as though her heart was broken. As it was. “We'll rest, it won't be so bad tomorrow.”
“Easy for you to say,” Marhan responded peevishly, and with the first hint of life to his voice. “You don't have to carry seventy-eight winters on your back! Leave me be, I've overstayed.”