“Don’t leave, Kitalla.”
“What would you have me do instead?” she asked with a flash of her old self. “Tell you a bedtime story? Something about bunnies drinking tea?”
“You could. But I’d be fine if you just sat nearby for a while.”
“Protecting you?” she asked petulantly.
“Mira’s gone. Dariak and Randler are gone. Don’t you go, too.”
“You’re being childish, Gabrion. Grow up.” She took a step toward the door.
“Please, Kitalla. Don’t go.”
She breathed it quietly, but he heard her anyway. “I have to.”
Chapter 11
Champion of Savvron
Gabrion knew something was terribly wrong when Kitalla disappeared for the next few days. She didn’t visit him anymore, but he knew from the resonance of his jade that she hadn’t gone far. Perhaps he had said something offensive, or maybe she was striving to teach the villagers proper defense. Either way, she was gone and he missed her company.
What he received instead was attention from the town’s healers, including his father and old Klerra. Everyone asked him endless questions about his injuries and they poked and prodded when he least expected it. When he shooed them away, he struggled to calm his thoughts and drift off to sleep. It was difficult because it wasn’t only Kitalla’s absence that was on his mind. He still hadn’t seen his mother. Terrsian avoided the subject at all costs, deflecting Gabrion’s questions either by offering a meal or saying she was off somewhere.
“Father, level with me,” he finally demanded.
The tall, solid man crumbled like a heap of clothing. He sank down on the edge of Gabrion’s bed and buried his face in his hands. “There isn’t much to say. She’s gone, son. I couldn’t save her.”
“What happened?” he asked.
“It was maybe two months ago. The Hathrens came to town with a pair of mages. They played with us, mostly, shooting spells at the children to make them run. The soldiers kept the adults from coming to their aid. But your mother wouldn’t have it. She ran out there, kitchen knife in hand, and she ordered them to stop. She accused them of becoming heathens, no longer Hathrens. They didn’t appreciate the wordplay. They told her off, but she refused to back down until the children were safe. I tried pulling her back but she wrenched herself away from me. Before I could intervene, they…” his voice drifted off and he shook his head. “I was too slow, when it comes down to it. I should have gotten her out of harm’s way. She didn’t need to die that day.”
“If not her, it would have been you. Or both of you,” Gabrion said.
“Better me than her,” Terrsian retorted. “The troop left after her death. It’s been like that ever since that first attack. They come, kill someone, then leave. Only your friend was able to break that chain.”
“We’ll end it for good,” Gabrion declared, his voice sounding haunted. “You’ll see. Savvron will be safe.”
Terrsian was silent for a time. He reached out and placed his hand on Gabrion’s knee. “Son, you’re no longer a farm hand, are you? You’ve gone across this land and you’ve developed fighting skills, but you’ve also grown. Your heart is stronger. Your determination is more focused. Seeing you hurt like this was hard for me. I feared I would lose you, too. Yet, already, you’re coming back to yourself and regaining strength. Son, I believe in you and your quest, whatever it may be. If you set your mind to it, I know you will succeed.”
Gabrion’s eyes shimmered but tears did not fall. He grasped his father’s hand and held on to him tightly for what felt like the last time. He knew his childhood was gone from him then. His father had granted him ascension to manhood. When their hands released, they were no longer father and child. They were men, respectful of each other, and honor-bound to protect those around them.
Some time later, Terrsian crafted a midday meal as Gabrion stretched and walked through the house, fondly remembering his mother’s presence with every step. He was gaining mobility again and it felt good being able to rise and sit on his own, without the excruciating pain he had arrived with. The wound itself was healing nicely, though it was taking its time; he still would need a while before he could brandish a sword in any meaningful way. He didn’t venture outside yet, though, fearing the waves of weariness that still overtook him randomly.
As evening approached, the main door crashed open at Kitalla’s touch. Gabrion opened his mouth to greet her, but she interrupted him, her eyes lit anxiously.
“You have to get out of here,” she commanded with a slight note of panic in her voice. “This very moment, well or not. Terrsian, grab some essentials and take him from here. Head south or east, but stay away from the north.”
“What is it?” Gabrion asked.
“Danger,” she said simply. “Don’t argue with me. Just go. Keep yourself safe.”
“What of you?” he pursued.
“I have work to do here.” With that, she turned and stormed out, pulling the door behind her so Gabrion couldn’t call after her.
Terrsian looked at his son, wondering if he should heed the woman’s warning. “Your thoughts?”
“I think she means it,” he answered. “It must be bad.”
“Anything we can do to help?”
Gabrion drew in a deep breath and immediately felt searing pain lancing through him. “Nothing I can do, in any event. Slow walking, sure. Very helpful.”
Terrsian sprang into action, grabbing a satchel and loading it with food and waterskins. He grabbed a sword for his waist and a walking stick for Gabrion, though the young man protested it at first. They pushed their way to the door and stepped outside in the dwindling daylight. Gabrion looked northwest and saw a strange series of blue-white streaks blasting across the sky, battling with the sunset itself. Thunder echoed deeply, but he had enough experience to know that the sound wasn’t the result of lightning, but of booted feet walking in unison. It seemed that Kitalla’s recent victory against the Hathrens had spurned a full-force retaliation.
Kitalla was darting about and she saw Gabrion emerge from the house, leaning on the walking stick. She ran over to him and grabbed his shoulder. “You stay alive, and so will I. We have a promise to keep, remember?”
“To save Mira,” he replied.
“To save Mira.” She slapped his cheek and winked at him, then ran off, trusting him to take cover.
“Son?”
He stared after her for a moment before turning back. “She’s right. I’m not ready for this. But I will say, it would have been a glorious fight.” They strode off, after calling to the nearby elders to join them. As a pack of slow-moving villagers, they ventured toward the forest for cover.
Meanwhile, Kitalla had taken over the town’s defenses completely. No one stood against her after the past few days of setting traps and training the men to fight. She had left Gabrion’s side after the last skirmish, deciding she would keep his home safe since he presently wasn’t able to. After that, she knew she would have to move on, whether he was ready or not. But for now, she had a goal in mind. It was a challenge, a trial, nothing more. Grenthar himself could have set it and it wouldn’t matter. She was ready.
Fire-laced arrows were the first line of attack once again, but the villagers were ready for them. Every home was stocked with barrels or pails of water with one non-fighter dedicated to the purpose. The projectiles themselves were still dangerous, but old Klerra had been working on tarps that spanned the roofs across the houses in order to catch the brunt of them. The northern quadrant of the village looked like an oversized tent.
Their first volley thwarted, the Hathrens moved in closer. Packs of swordsmen flooded the streets and the fighting began in earnest. Kitalla was not among the first wave of defenders, as she was making other preparations, but she had trained the young men hard and they had been eager and capable learners.
Swords and shields crashed one into another, raising a cacophony that broke the spirits of some of the villagers, who the
n bolted and ran for the forest. However, the majority of the townspeople banded together and held the line tight, striking back to save their homeland and to keep these invaders from harming any more of their own.
Lancers raced into the forefront next, but Kitalla was ready for them. Their longer weapons would be a greater threat, for they could puncture the defenders from safer distances. With an owl cry, Kitalla alerted the brave boys and girls who were in the northern trees. They were perched on high, watching the archers and the swordsmen pass below them, knowing their homes were in jeopardy, but holding true to their orders. With the owl cry, they knew it was time for their part. The children cut or untied key ropes within the canopy of trees, releasing branches from their tethers and sending them crashing into the forces below. Many of the warriors who passed by were caught unawares, for the children released the traps from the furthest distances first. The fighters in front had no idea of the peril approaching systematically from behind.
The specialist archers, who had little to do until the villagers burst through the front lines, turned their attention to the children in the trees. Taking aim, they sought to bring down the scoundrels and prevent them from taking any further action. Some were successful in their endeavors, but most of the children had released their trappings and immediately fled.
Kitalla was perched atop a taller house so she could view the battlefield. She called out various animal cries, informing the villagers to tighten their defenses to the west, or to refocus their efforts in the north. Yet as she watched, she could see that even with all her preparations, they would be overwhelmed when it came down to it. The leader of the Hathren army was taking no chances with this foray and had sent his best fighters in to take down the village.
She wouldn’t let them.
With a battle cry, Kitalla vaulted off the roof and landed on the ground in a careful roll, pulling out two daggers as she rose onto her feet. Charging forth, she burst through the western defenders and evened the odds by felling two Hathrens with quick jabs to their throats. She leaped over a sword thrust and pivoted around, driving one dagger into the man’s chest, while bringing her other arm up to deflect another sword. Bending low, she tripped another swordsman and let a villager finish him off. She pounced back up and smashed the hilts of her daggers together into the temples of an archer who had taken up a comrade’s sword, and brought him promptly to the ground unconscious.
“Finish them,” she called out, leaving the villagers to continue the fight. She sprinted off toward the eastern sector, where a set of three youths was standing back to back, swinging their swords wildly, trying to fend off their attackers. Kitalla let a dagger fly across the field, catching one man in the back and bringing him down. She then lashed out at two others, before a horn sounded in the distance and drew her attention.
It wasn’t the sound of retreat, she knew. She didn’t expect this group to pull back, and certainly not so soon. It was a call for reinforcements. Help would be on the way. She glanced around assessing the damages already scored. The Savvrons were holding their own, but they weren’t trained for this. A few days of sparring wasn’t enough to build proper stamina for a continuous flood of troops.
She left the younger defenders on their own as she raced ahead to the northern-most houses. She rapped on the door in a specific rhythm and the portal opened to admit her. “Gavinod, it’s your hour of redemption,” she said to the one-time baker. He looked at her with grim determination and nodded sharply. “Await the signal, but it won’t be long now.” After giving similar warnings to two other houses, Kitalla darted to the center of town and whistled loudly.
As best they could under the circumstances, the defenders drew nearer to Kitalla’s location after her call. They continued battling their foes, drawing them closer to the center of town, but working to dispatch them, too. Casualties mounted on both sides, but that was an unfortunate law of war. A law Kitalla was determined now to overwhelm in their favor.
The footfalls of reinforcements grew closer and the fighting intensified in anticipation. Kitalla helped slay the Hathrens and soon few were left in the immediate vicinity, giving some of them a chance to catch their breaths. But Kitalla did not rest. She kept a wary eye up north, awaiting the next wave of invaders, hoping they weren’t mages.
Luck was on her side, for a battalion of foot soldiers came marching forward, their swords gleaming in the fading sunset. She drew her hands beside her mouth and called aloud in her best imitation of an angry eaglon. With a loud crash, the back walls of the three northern houses fell toward the oncoming troops. Large barrels rolled down the makeshift ramps and plummeted into the midst of the foot soldiers. They looked at the obstacles in wary confusion, but when nothing happened, they ignored them and moved them aside or circumvented them, assuming the barrels had just been meant to knock them down.
What they didn’t know was the contents within each barrel, and with the fighting on in full, there wasn’t time to investigate anyway. Kitalla had designed them herself, inspired by some of Grenthar’s more devious traps. Each barrel contained several small oilskins, each full of lantern oil and a fuse. Also inside were parchment-wrapped packets of flour, which Kitalla had included upon the baker’s insistence, as well as a decent number of knives and other sharp projectiles. Right after knocking down the outer walls of the houses, a small torch was tossed within the barrel, and then the cover was hastily banged into place and the barrel was sent rolling down the wall-ramp. As it sat there on the field, being passed by the soldiers, each barrel burned from within until the lantern oil caught fire and dramatically increased the barrels’ internal temperatures.
Then all at once, the barrels exploded, amplified by the flour dust, instantly slaying dozens of Hathren soldiers. It was a demoralizing bloodbath that gave the enemy pause. As they struggled to recover, additional sets of barrels were loaded and set into the fray. Wiser with the second batch, the remaining fighters took cover, but it wasn’t quite safe for all of them. The barrel-rollers waited until the troops started moving again, but they didn’t anticipate the forces splitting in two, trying to skirt around their houses and enter the village from a different angle.
Kitalla had expected it, though, and the first unfortunate fighters fell headlong into deep pits, lined with brambles and broken pieces of wood. It wasn’t enough to stop them all, but their comrades certainly took better care entering behind them.
The Savvron defenders were doing well, but their losses were piling up, too. Kitalla realized that they could withstand another wave decently, maybe two, or until the Hathrens brought in their mages, after which there would be little hope.
She rallied her forces and reminded them of their victories this day. She cheered them all as heroes, challenging them to reach deeply within themselves and pull forth the powers of their ancestors to save their village once and for all. Cries echoed in the night air even as the next round of swordsmen rushed in.
Kitalla helped fight them off, but then her heart lurched when the blue-white bolts of lightning that had filled the sky earlier rose up again, not far away. Now that the villagers were tiring, the mages were coming. Kitalla pulled back, knowing only she had any hope of fending off the magic-users. The villagers of Savvron, having shunned magic so strongly, knew little about how to battle against it. Even Kitalla was uncertain in the thick of it, but she knew she had to do something. Without her, all would be lost.
She refused to let Gabrion’s home die.
She gave orders for the defenders to pull the fighters toward the east and west, clearing a safer path to the north for the mages to enter. They would need line of sight to cast their spells in any case, but she wanted them to focus on her specifically. Kitalla prepared herself by taking two fresh daggers in hand and stomping her feet. Left foot. Right foot. Up went her left hand, then right hand. She spun, bringing both arms down, lunging to the dirt. Around she went a second time, then she spiraled her daggers about her body, pulling the energy around her like a
blanket.
The mages came into view, hands sparking with energy. They saw her and called out to each other to attack, seeing her movements as a bigger threat to their powers. They couldn’t know of her dance skills, but she was clearly drawing energies and so she looked as much like a mage as they did. Fireballs and ice darts leaped across the way, arcing through the air, all seeking Kitalla.
The dancer focused sharply on her movements. She felt the offensive energies filing in from the distance, and she drew them toward her, still spinning herself around, pulling, ever pulling. The fire and ice shot toward her, then were caught in the streams of power she swept about herself, deflecting out and down into the dirt, impotent.
Enraged, the mages called for more powerful spells, staggering them so as to maintain a more steady flow of magic. Kitalla kept time in her head, spinning carefully about, trying to ignore the growing dizziness from all the turning. She managed to cast aside summoned rocks and binding spells alike. It wasn’t particularly clear to her how she was doing it, but she held on to Dariak’s words of so long ago. He had told her after observing her in Warringer—where she had dressed Gabrion up as a jester of sorts—that she dealt with energies in a way that opposed magic. Where mages manifested their spells from the outer world, in terms of their incantations and spell components, Kitalla’s power was generated from within. Both were empowered by the caster’s will, but the mages required more powerful components for more powerful spells. Kitalla, however, had the strength of will to defeat them all, so she told herself.
She could feel the spells aimed her way growing in intensity and she knew she wouldn’t be able to deflect them much longer. She hadn’t seen the lightning spells yet, but that was just as well after the story Dariak had told of lightning being drawn so easily toward metal. It was why she clutched her daggers during her dance, for she intended them to disrupt the lightning by casting them outward when the energy blasts were unleashed. Of course, that would only help with one or two such blasts. In theory.
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