“I’m going to get you to Curatio,” Martaina said to Cattrine. She could feel J’anda hovering next to her. “We need to get something to cover you, and we’ll make certain you’re healed.”
“I’ll give her my robes when we’re out of the camp,” J’anda said. “Take care with her, those wounds are …” The enchanter cursed, a word that Martaina had heard before, something in the dark elven language that was so foul it left a bitter taste in the air. “Barbarians.”
“No doubt,” Martaina said, hurrying along as fast as she could side-carry the Baroness. The tents around them passed in slowest speed. The soles of Cattrine’s feet were red with blood and covered with dirt, which stuck to the crimson in flecks, dust holding in place from the stickiness. Every time Martaina tried to readjust her grip, Cattrine cried out; there was nowhere to hold the woman that wasn’t hurt, oozing blood with her every motion. “I’m not certain she’s going to survive the walk to camp,” she whispered to J’anda and hoped he caught it.
“I will endure,” Cattrine said. “This is not the worst of my husband’s affections I have experienced, not by a very lot. I have saved him, and with him, this land, and that is all that matters.” With that, her head drooped, and she fell into unconsciousness, yet no more of a weight on Martaina’s shoulder than she was before.
Martaina exchanged a look with J’anda, and they hurried on, the trail left by the Baroness’s feet dragging a line of red through the pale dust that followed them all the way back to the Sanctuary camp.
Chapter 46
Vara
“So they circle,” Alaric said from the head of the Council table, Vara, Vaste, Erith and Ryin there with him. “The Sovereign needs food for his legions, and he turns his eye toward the Plains of Perdamun.” The Ghost rested a hand on his helm, the peculiar, almost bucket-shaped helm. “They will not let us rest long, if their objective is to hold the plains for themselves. We would be like a knife perched at the small of their back, ever ready to strike at our leisure, destroying their caravans and tearing asunder their lines of supply.”
“Not that we would do such a thing, attacking caravans and whatnot,” Vaste said with a sense of irony.
“You’re damned right we would,” Ryin said, frowning at the troll. “This is a war, the dark elves are our enemies, and we would be fools not to toss as much chaos as possible into their camp.”
“I was making a joke,” Vaste said, straitlaced. “Bear with me, as I know it was the first I’ve ever made, so it may be hard to discern given my usual tendency toward the serious-”
“The Sovereign is right to fear us in this way,” Alaric said. “As Ryin points out, our loyalties in this war were long ago revealed by our actions, and if they were to begin running shipments of grain to the dark elven armies in the north and west, we would be ill-brained not to cost them as much as we could, especially now that he has tipped his hand to reveal that he wants us destroyed.” The Ghost shook his head. “And so we enter a period of consolidation and licking wounds on the Termina and Reikonos fronts; all that remains to supply his army for the next hundred years is to put his boot on our guildhall and apply the pressure until we are finished.”
“Or so he thinks,” Vaste said then shot a look around the table. “Right?” He looked to Erith. “Right?”
“Why are you looking at me?” Erith snapped. “Because I’m the only dark elf at the table?”
“Yes,” Vaste said, nonplussed, “the same as if we were discussing something to do with trolls, I’d probably be the reference point.”
“Well, I don’t know what the Sovereign intends,” Erith said with little restraint. “He doesn’t run his plans by me, nor I by him. I left Saekaj when they opened the gates and allowed the exodus, and I haven’t been back since. From what I know, he’s vicious enough that yes, he would stomp us down if he thought we were even a slight threat. Just look what he did in Termina, and the elves were doing nothing more than passively supplying food and weapons to the humans.”
“Not the happiest thought,” Ryin said, “but what do we do? Can we take on whatever he sends our way?”
“Yes,” Alaric said.
“No,” Vara said after the moment’s pause that followed her Guildmaster’s statement. “Alaric, the dark elven army at full force must number in the hundreds of thousands, of which there are quite a few magic users. Not as many as we possess, to be certain, but a considerable number. We have something on the order of four thousand at our disposal, and even with the somewhat gross mismatch of our spellcasters to theirs, we are desperately outnumbered.”
“Were we fighting on open ground in a great melee, that would be of greater concern,” Alaric answered. “But we fight behind the walls of Sanctuary, which cannot be breached by magical means, and which we can hold nearly indefinitely against traditional methods of siege, as we have already proven.” The Guildmaster drummed his fingers against the table. “We need only keep careful watch in the foyer and on the wall, so that any catapults, trebuchets, or siege towers are destroyed before they come close enough, and we will be fine.”
“And if they breach the wall?” Vara asked.
“They will not.”
“Your confidence is unfounded,” Vara said, and she felt her blood go up. “They have magics, the same as ours, and they can be detrimental to rock and stone-”
“Which will be nullified by the enchantments that surround the wall,” Alaric said with calm, his hand now at rest. “Should they heave a great exploding fireball at us, it will disappear before it hits anything.”
There was a silence for a beat. “Well, that seems like the sort of thing each of us should be wearing on our persons,” Vaste said. “All the time, you know, in case you’re standing at a privy somewhere and a mean-spirited wizard hurls a lightning bolt at you.”
Heads turned to him slowly. “Happened to you often, has it?” Ryin asked.
“Really, when you’re handling your delicate parts, being struck by a lightning spell even once is quite enough to be getting along with.”
“It is not the sort of enchantment that is easily carried with you,” Alaric said. “It is rather more permanent, in much the same way as the alarm spell protects the grounds. It also has the ability to stop curative magics as well, which would be detrimental if you were, for example, stabbed by a blade and then someone tried to heal you.” The Ghost shrugged, a motion that was, like the man himself, subtle.
“So what do we do?” Erith asked.
“We wait,” Alaric said.
“But if you’re that firmly convinced that Sanctuary is unbreachable,” Ryin said, leaning forward with a passion that was not uncommon in the druid, “shouldn’t we send another army into Luukessia to aid Cyrus? Isn’t our duty to them?”
“Perhaps I have overstated my position,” Alaric said. “I do not believe that they will be able to breach the wall or overwhelm us through an assault on our foyer at present with the numbers we have to guard the wall and our sanctum. To send another army to Luukessia, along with the number of spellcasters and leadership it would take to make any significant difference over there would leave us in a weakened condition here. Our defense would be tenable but also inflexible. The less force we have available, the greater my concern. As it is, we may be able to begin offensive moves against the dark elves should we find ourselves able to confront their smaller armies and do so piecemeal. Sending away another two thousand, which would be the minimum in order to be of any sort of assistance to Cyrus, would leave our cupboard rather bare.” He shook his head. “In the event that they were to break our internal defenses or open the gates, that is not enough to mount a firm defense without resorting to …” He drew quiet for a moment. “… measures that do not bear thinking about.”
“Ooh,” Vaste said with a childlike delight. “Tantalizing! Another mystery with no hope for resolution at any time soon.”
Alaric favored the troll with a carefully measured gaze. “There is more to this place than stone and b
rick, my friend, and there is more to our guild than a simple roster of warriors, rangers, enchanters, healers, wizards, druids, paladins and that lone dark knight.”
“We do have that rock giant,” Vaste said. “Did we ever get him back?”
Alaric sighed. “I sent a druid after him; he should be back by tomorrow. But over-reliance on Fortin is a folly of its own sort. He can be killed; he is not invincible after all.”
“Neither are we,” Vara said. “Our defense should bear that in mind.”
“Which is why I am not sending away another two thousand of our number,” Alaric said with a deep sigh, “much as I might wish to aid our comrades. No, I am afraid they will have to make do with what they have, and we will re-evaluate should things turn worse.” Alaric raised his hand to his cheek and leaned against it, his dark, weathered gauntlets pressing his tanned flesh white where the fingers lay. “And I have a feeling, given what our friends are up against, that even with our illustrious General at the fore, things will indeed get worse.”
Chapter 47
Martaina
The walk was long and painful, even with J’anda to help her shoulder some of Cattrine’s dead weight. Though she didn’t wish to say it, she could plainly tell the enchanter was not nearly as strong as she, not nearly so capable of feats of strength, and so she suffered under as much of the woman’s burden as she could carry. At least she is only a healthy woman, not excessively weighty, as some are. Though now I wish she were Aisling; the woman is a twi, and would surely be much easier to carry than the Baroness, who was certainly well-fed if not well-treated …
The birds were chirping in the trees above her; they had hurried on, avoiding the slope that had required them to slide down before entering the camp. They took a half-mile detour that had them on the road, watching for any sort of traffic. Not far, by Martaina’s estimate, was the place where Cyrus’s body had been found. Hopefully Aisling got his head back to them and in time …
They came upon the very bend, the place where it had happened. There was nothing there but a bloody mess to mark the passage of events, nothing to show but the disturbed dirt that was as readable to her as any book was to a priest-perhaps moreso, depending on the dialect of the ground. She could see footprints, the places where the Sanctuary warriors had trod, dragging something with them back toward camp. There were other tracks, too, fresher ones, smaller, more dainty, leading out of the woods. “Aisling brought the head back here,” she said. “From here, I think they dragged his body back to camp. Though,” she conceded, “with or without the head, I cannot say.”
J’anda made no reply. The enchanter was thin, dangerously so. Between her and me, we would be able to carry him along easier than J’anda and I laboring under just her weight. To the enchanter, who was shouldering as much of the burden as his lean frame allowed, she said nothing.
The camp was in motion when they arrived, armored men moving about, the shine of the late afternoon sun catching on their armor, which was dull and unpolished after the long marches and recent idleness. She could smell the camp scent again. There was a quiet in the air, too. It was not as a meadow at midday to her ears (which was still quite loud) but neither was it as active as the camp had been before. The weight of the leather on her shoulders was nothing compared to the numbness setting in on her right arm where the Baroness had been perched for the last twenty minutes. Her mouth was dry and she craved water, but had feared to set Cattrine down not only for the woman’s own health but because she wondered if she would be able to get her up and moving again should she stop.
“Ahoy!” The call took her by surprise, even as she walked past the sentries, one of whom was Odellan, whom she noticed late.
“Ahoy?” J’anda called back, struggling under the Baroness’s weight, “have you gone nautical?”
“What?” Odellan said, approaching them. He reached out and took up Cattrine’s weight, picking her up. She was wrapped in J’anda’s outer robes, and the dark elf looked odd with only his tunic and pants underneath, both simple cloth and as close to the opposite of his rich red garb as possible. Odellan lifted the Baroness, cradling her in his arms. “I served on a galley on the River Perda early in my career.”
“Oh, good,” J’anda said, “for a moment I thought perhaps a career in piracy was in the offing.”
“An Endrenshan of the Elven Kingdom would not stoop to such a low,” Odellan said, adjusting the Baroness in his arms as he started through the small tent city of the encampment, Martaina and J’anda following behind. “Though another two months encamped here and this soldier might consider a pirate’s life.”
“Are you taking us to Curatio?” Martaina asked. Her mind was racing, her body fatigued, and she wondered how far away the healer was. He can still fix her wounds, make her whole again … physically, at least …. “Did they manage to resurrect Cyrus?”
“I remain uncertain,” Odellan said, carrying Cattrine against his mystical, shining armor, still polished even now, the carving in the breastplate filling the lines with blood from the Baroness. “I would assume a call would go up over the camp when the news made its way out, but I have heard nothing as yet.” Odellan’s already unexpressive face took a further downward turn. “Which, as you know, for an elf, is disquieting to say the least.”
“It means there’s likely nothing to be heard as yet,” Martaina said.
“Aye.” Odellan circuited the last campfire as they came upon a tent that Martaina knew had been used by the few healers who had come along on the expedition as a communal quarters. Warriors bunk with warriors, for whatever reason, rangers with rangers, and wielders of magic flock together as surely as any fowl of the waters. He didn’t even duck as he pushed his way through the tent flap, Martaina only a step behind him.
The smell in the tent was horrible, blood overwhelming, more of it possibly than even at the scene of the attack, though it wasn’t as confined a space. There was a lamp burning, too, and the oil helped cover it only a bit. The tent was long, at least twenty feet, and ten wide. There were three healers all huddled in the corner, and Martaina could see Curatio on his knees, between the others, who stood with their backs to the flap.
“We have another who needs help here,” Odellan announced, and one of the healers, a human, sprang toward him immediately, leading the elf to the corner where he laid the Baroness down upon a flat bedroll covered in a thin white sheet. Martaina watched for just a moment and knew that however the sheet had started, it was no longer white.
“Did you manage in time?” J’anda asked, stealing Martaina’s question before she could ask it. She held her tongue out of habit, realizing only now that she was the only non-officer, non-healer in the room save for those being healed. Ignoring the pain in her shoulder from carrying Cattrine at the distance she had, she was in fine condition-especially compared to the man who lost his head only an hour ago. Oh, Vidara, let it have been less than an hour ago.
Curatio’s face was lined by the shadow of the tent, lit by the faint orange glow of the lamp. “It was in time.” He ran a hand along his forehead, one drenched in blood that left markings in the lines of his brow. “Only just, I think, and because his head has been separated for some time, our healing efforts have been unable to fully repair the damage. Still,” he took a breath and blew it out through his lips, which seemed to have lost all their color in the darkness of the tent, “he is alive, and well enough for now, though unconscious. I would not be surprised if he developed a fever over this, though.”
“But he’ll live?” Martaina let her breath hang in her lungs, as though she dare not chance to believe she had heard it correctly.
“He’ll live,” Curatio said, “but with a scar across his neck, I’d expect. A thin one but there, from what we weren’t able to heal. It appears minimal, almost superficial, as I can heal somewhat more powerfully than most, but … it is there. He’ll need to travel in the wagon as we begin our journey north.”
I saved him, Thad, Martaina thought. I
was faithful to my word … in this way. “Why are we moving the army north?” Martaina’s surprise at the question coming from her was genuine; she had not realized she asked it until it was out. A feeling of giddiness had flooded her, blotting out the pain of her arm.
“The scourge is sweeping through these lands,” J’anda said in answer. “It is … a problem we must deal with for several reasons. Especially since Sanctuary and Syloreas will be the only ones to stand between it and the balance of Luukessia.”
“You are wrong,” came a voice from the corner. It was faint, but stronger than when last Martaina had heard it. She turned, and Cattrine was sitting up on the bedroll, Odellan and the human healer at her side. “Actaluere will send its army north to aid you. I have seen to it.” Her face was still pale, white, and her eyes were sunken, as though she were already dead. I have not seen a more haunted and beleaguered look on a face since the night Termina fell.
“You were under the protection of Sanctuary, m’lady,” Curatio said, standing from where he had been at Cyrus’s bedroll. Martaina caught her first glimpse of the warrior; he looked almost normal, though his chest was bare and there was an accumulation of congealed blood about his throat. His chest rose and fell in a normal rhythm, though, and she felt her breathing return to normal and her focus shift back to Curatio.
“I no longer require it,” Cattrine said and, clutching the fabric of the robes closer to her figure, she stood tentatively, reminding Martaina of a foal get to its feet for the first time. Phantom pain, the searing agony that stays even after the flesh is knitted together. She is no doubt feeling it harshly now. “I’ll be making my way back to the Actaluere camp to rejoin my husband. Because of that, Actaluere will not go to war with Galbadien and my brother will be freed to send his troops north with Briyce Unger.”
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