Home at Last
Page 5
The elves waited, and the people from another world actively watched all sides. Today, the window was opened over the walls of Orten.
Ilanta. The Kingdom of Tantre. Orten
Timur looked out over the walled Plain from the top of the gate tower. Of the once rich suburb, famous for its gardens and business district, only the skeletons of houses were left. Burnt ash covered the burned earth. Here and there the dark haze was smoldering, although, it was strangely fortunate that there was already nothing to burn there.
“Well, how’s it going?” Blackie landed on the observation platform, from which Rigaud dismounted awkwardly. He was recently wounded for the second time and nearly lost his right leg, but thanks to Timur’s foresight, who preserved the tincture of dragon’s blood, his leg was saved. The limb was saved, but for a real recovery, rest and adequate nutrition were required. But where could he get either in the besieged city? Groceries were through rations cards and strictly limited. No one expected the appearance under the walls of the “greenies” and such an influx of refugees, additional mouths, as it were. The governor of the province did not have time to prepare full reserves in case of a siege. Fortunately, the former rector defended the army garrison and the regiment of griffons, which Marshal Olmar wanted to halve and send north. Etran insisted; she felt with her heart that hard times would come.
“One more storming and that’s it,” Timur turned to his friend.
“I know,” he answered in a serious tone. “I flew around the walls. In some places, there’s almost nothing left of them. I don’t know how we got rid of the zombies today. What’s with your griffon?”
Rigaud leaned on the railing and glanced at the space littered with zombie remains in front of the walls.
“She got hit.” Timur swallowed. “The right wing withered from the curse it contained. How she managed to reach the city, I can’t imagine. We cut out the bullet, so she wouldn’t suffer.” His friend nodded sadly. He knew what kind of meat they would be feeding the half-birds this evening. “I was ordered to head the seventh evacuation team. The inhabitants of the lower city are being transferred to the Middle. There are no free griffons yet.”
“So, the decision has been made,” Rigaud said affirmatively. “I’m so tired.” He turned away from the bloody picture and slowly moved down the wall, sitting back on the bare stone and his head in his hands. “Timur, I’m scared. Every day I’m afraid I’ll die. I’m afraid Marika will be left alone, and I’ll never see my son. I’m afraid the ‘greenies’ will take the Middle. You’ve got it easier…”
“No, I don’t.”
“No?”
“Lubayel’s pregnant.”
“Targ!”
“And you know,” Timur leaned towards Rigaud, “I want to kill as many ‘greenies’ as possible. I’m afraid of dying too, but if my death helps Luba live, I can do it. Do you think they wanted to die?” He waved in the direction of the field of dead bodies and clenched his fist until his knuckles turned white. “No, they wanted to live. It’s unlikely that these people could imagine that the Meriyan renegades and orc shamans would turn them into zombies. Could you imagine when playing toy soldiers as a kid that the game had nothing to do with the horror of real war? You know, I was a quiet boy. If anyone had told me a year ago that I’d be bludgeoning people to death, I would have spit in his face. You are afraid to lose Marika, I Luba; we’re all afraid of something; we have something to lose. That’s why I haven’t given up and I’m not complaining. Get up!” barked Timur. Blackie whimpered, startled; Rigaud reluctantly rose. “You’re a soldier, Targ take you! If you come undone, then we may as well surrender the city to the orcs. Do you think these people are not afraid?” Timur shot a glance in the direction of a large group of urban residents, barricading the streets. “These shoemakers are risking their lives on the walls of Orten and will die like real heroes. If you even try to put your hands down, I’ll tear your head off!”
“You know how to cheer someone up,” the skinny guy smiled.
“Let’s fly. Command is waiting for you. Bye for now. Don’t even think of dying!”
“You neither, otherwise Lubayel will not let you go home.”
“That’s for sure.”
“See you.”
Timur, glancing at his departing friend, and went downstairs. The military commandant and Governor Etran were soon to approach the central gate. The commanders of the evacuation teams answered to the former rector of the magical school directly. He went downstairs just in time. The governor, the commandant, and, oddly enough, High Prince Miduel were already at the gate and were talking about something with the militia commanders and the commanders of the gray orcs, of whom there were more than ten thousand in the city. The orcs caught Orten in a trap four hundred years ago. History likes to repeat itself. The shamans, a hundred leagues from the horde’s main destination, sacrificed several thousand captives and put up spatial shields.
Timur stopped behind the governor, nodding his head to numerous acquaintances. Thanks to the king’s unfinished intrigue, a lot of people knew the “young hero of Ronmir,” Targ take him.
“Madame governor!”
Necros, the necromancy teacher, jumped out from around the corner of the nearest house, surrounded by a dozen senior students of the school of magic. Only light hair slightly touched with platinum was left to once the pink-cheeked, cheerful blond. During the siege, Necros turned into a shadow of himself. Now more than ever, he corresponded to the canonical description of a necromancer: gray flabby skin, bloodless lips, sunken cheeks, and dark circles under the eyes that sparkle with a feverish shine.
Etran turned towards the exclamation. “What do you want, grall Necros?”
“Madame governor, Rector,” the necromancer said excitedly, pulling an ancient folio from his robe. The object seemed to be guarded by protection curses, magical seals, and deep antiquity. “I was in the lower levels of the school archives, and I found one volume that describes the spells the dragons used three thousand years ago to destroy the Great Forest. We can use it on the orcs.”
“We cannot,” the ancient elf cut him off, stopping the governor and dismissing Necros’ possible objections at once with a wave of her hand. “I’ve read about the ‘Kiss of the goddesses.’ The dragons voluntarily sacrificed themselves. There is no guarantee that you will succeed. The spell is designed for dragons, for their magic. Moreover, the ritual requires a life mage and people ready to thrust a ritual knife into themselves. The dragons just burned in their magic, giving up their strength. Where are you going to seek the life mage? They are few and far between, or do you want to take one away from one of the hospitals?”
The necromancer was embarrassed and looked around helplessly. The governor, the High Prince, and the commandant did not hear the reports of the commanders of the evacuation teams, putting them off for another two hours, and instead went to inspect the walls. Timur looked thoughtfully at the back of the ancient elf. Suddenly, he felt a gaze between his own shoulder blades.
“Aren’t you a life mage?” he heard and turned around, meeting the necromancer’s eyes. “I remember you and your friend. He turned out to be a dragon.”
“Let’s say I am,” Timur responded cautiously. He didn’t like at all the feverish gleam in the teacher’s eyes.
“Please hear me out!”
“You have five minutes.”
“Enough for me,” said the necromancer. He opened the folio and began to explain the meaning of the spell. Necros spoke with such fervor and ardor that he involuntarily enchanted, but the more he described the effect of the spell, the more his listener was horrified. If the unknown author was right, then the “kiss” was so powerful that the “fiery wall” used by Bahig Trekpaly four hundred years ago paled in comparison. A similar spell could destroy most of the horde.
“My dear grall Necros, there is one small nuance you’ve left unaccounted for—the sacrificial victims. Where will you recruit volunteers to slaughter themselves?”
A few mutilated men nodded. Timur felt a sucking emptiness form in his chest…
* * *
Timur sat down on the edge of the bed, trying not to disturb the sleeping Lubayel, but, as always, tried in vain. The girl slept lightly. Sometimes deer slept like that, keeping hold of their perception. One eye was off to dreamland, the second was awake, looking attentively at the surrounding world. As soon as she heard the slight scratch of her beloved’s boots, she woke up, but for a little while she didn’t move. Timur quietly crept to bed, sat down on the very edge, and stared at her face. It’s probably a gift, being able to sense other people’s emotions by the looks on their faces. Lubayel could always determine what someone was experiencing. Only once, she could not read someone else’s view, too much of it was mingled, and too much was the otherworldly—inhuman. That was when Kerrovitarr looked at her. A little later, the elf became convinced of her assumptions. The dragon could not be a human or an elf, although he sometimes wore the faces of both races. But that gaze… Now the girl knew that she could always tell a dragon’s gaze. Not read it, but distinguish it easily. As Timur looked at her, she felt a similar look, reflecting a mix of immense love, longing and regret, a touch of sadness, the rock-hard firmness of a mind made up, deadly fatigue, and… Lubayel opened her eyes and looked at her beloved. Deep in Timur’s eyes dwelt death and hope.
“I love you,” he said, moving to the head of the bed and kissing her on the lips. It seemed like a commonplace phrase; young people say it a hundred times a day to their other halves, but not in this case. The girl was seized with fear. She was used to her chosen one showing his feelings only rarely. Most often they were covered with will shields, and only the waves of adoration that pelted her from his gaze told her that behind the stone mask lies a living person. She wanted to cover her head with the blanket.
“Timur, what happened?” was all she could think of to say.
Timur turned away.
“I’ll never let you go!” Lubayel cried, throwing her arms around him in a death grip. “Do you hear? What are you thinking?”
Timur suddenly turned around and hugged her.
“What did you promise Hel?” she asked, pulling away from him slightly, in an almost calm voice. “Don’t lie, I saw death in your eyes.”
“I didn’t promise her anything and didn’t swear an oath.” Timur stared into nowhere for a few seconds, then, gathering his spirit, without holding anything back, told her about the evening’s events. “I don’t want to say that it’s pointless, that it should be someone else, that the city will stand and the orcs won’t take the Middle by storm. I don’t know, but we can’t keep the Lower city. Zombies destroyed twenty-percent of the wall, and it’s only a miracle that they didn’t break into the city today. Tomorrow, the outer walls will fall. Today, I evacuated the inhabitants of the business district and the refugees. If the orcs enter the Lower City, they will burn it, and the magicians won’t be able to deal with the smoke. All our ‘weathermen’ are on the borders. After all, the ‘greenies’ attack using the ghouls raised from the dead killed in Meriya and in our northern villages. Their infantry only took part in the assault three times and the cavalry only once. Orcs will cover the streets with corpses and throw bulbs of poisonous plants into the conflagration. We’ll suffocate from the stench of decaying bodies. The stench will cover both the Middle and Lailat.”
“Timur…”
“I want you and our baby to survive.” He stroked the elf’s silver hair. “Don’t try to talk me out of it, otherwise I’ll despise myself all my life. To have the opportunity to stop this and not use it…” Timur’s voice left no chance. The decision was made.
Lubayel pressed herself against the strong shoulder of an adolescent who had grown up too early, a real husband. She was born Rauu and was a Snow Elf from an ancient warrior family. At the age of ten, she picked up a wooden sword. She knew firsthand what self-sacrifice was, and with her mind, she accepted the terrible decision her loved one had made, but why then were her cheeks so wet? She never allowed herself to cry; her father would not have understood tears. But now she wanted to roar at the top of her lungs…
They didn’t fall asleep until morning, giving each other unending passion and tenderness…
* * *
The tops of the mountains in the west were painted red, although the east was still hidden by the pre-dawn dusk.
Lubayel, whose face did not reflect a single emotion, meticulously examined her husband’s white ceremonial mantle, straightened the sling with a sword on his belt, and went out to the porch. She wasn’t worried about her wedding attire; she was sure there wasn’t a single excess crease on the dress. If it weren’t for the black and white cloak of the bride of Hel, the future widow accompanying her living husband to the goddess’ palace, she would have been happy. As it were, there was ice in her eyes and a marble mask on her face. A few minutes later, after setting the tribal shrines in the red corner and praying to the Twins in the prayer room, Timur left the house. According to ancient custom, she accompanied him to the first crossroads.
The crossroads. It was given a sacred significance not only in terms of worshiping the Twins, believing that the goddess are [S9]leading the person along the intended path, but also it was believed to be the meeting place of Hel and Nel. Whichever goddess held the thread of a person’s fate, that was the way he would go. At the crossroads, the Court of the Gods was ruled by severe northern Vikings. The Norsemen and the gray coastal orcs crossed the blades at the crossroads, believing that the Gods were on the side of the winner. Rarely, a madman dared to challenge the results of the Court.
The elf ran ahead, opened the little wicker gate-door in the solid gates (the servants disbanded on the first day of the war) and, holding it, went out into the street and was stunned. The whole road was covered with flower petals, bread crumbs, and precious grain. On the sidewalks stood hundreds of gray orcs, city dwellers, and Vikings. To calm down, Lubayel took a deep breath and looked down at the pavement. Her heart was beating furiously.
Many orcs, Norsemen and some common people, both men and women, had one thing in common—they were maimed by war. Some were without an arm, some without a foot, and some were burned or crippled from a curse received during the battle. For the most part, they were warriors who, because of the neglect of wounds and the influx of the wounded, were unable to obtain full-fledged assistance from the life mages. The mages could start the process of regeneration and raise a new limb for the person, but this required constant care and observation, and they could do it only if no more than three or four days had passed since the injury. But how could they restore an arm while dozens or hundreds of wounded were hanging on them? In that case, they would simply save the life, but they did not have the resources to restore everyone’s lost limbs.
The Rauu knew what disability meant for the gray orcs and Vikings who’d been brought up in their harsh traditions: it meant being a burden to the family and the clan, an extra mouth that could not feed itself, forced to weigh them down. Things weren’t so terrible when the mutilation was small; the warrior could still fight, teach the young, work in the field, or receive help when the clan was big. But what could they do when the clan or family had only fifteen or twenty souls left, and the mutilation turned them into a freeloader?
The news of the impending ritual flew around the beleaguered city. High Prince Miduel was wrong to think there would be no volunteers. Many former warriors preferred an honorable death in the name of victory to the gray, mean-looking routine with onl
y a phantom hope for recovery. Lubayel waited for Timur to come out, and she sensed triumph in most of the gazes aimed at her, triumph for the fact that the maimed person was needed, and hope that his death would serve the glory of the clan and win victory. Former soldiers were ready to pray for her husband for giving them a chance at a worthy and honorable death. Mad orcs, crazy Norsemen!
Timur came out on the road. For a moment, like his wife, he was frozen under the gaze of hundreds of people.
“Let’s go,” Lubayel said, taking her husband’s elbow and stepping onto the pavement strewn with grain and breadcrumbs.
“Let’s go,” Timur replied, dumbfounded by the ancient ritual unfolding before his eyes. It was when those going to death march on grain and bread which give life. He never thought he would witness such a thing, much less be a participant. For some reason, one of master Berg’s last lessons came to mind, a story about life on the edge of a sword. Reaching the middle of the road, he and Lubayel bowed to all gathered there. The soldiers bowed at the same time in response.
The grain crackled underfoot. Timur walked to the Golden Bridge, the place where they were going to hold the ritual with grall Necros. He was not thinking about the fact that a long line of dead men was following him, but that after the procession passed, the people would collect the scattered grains. Everything would be collected, down to the last grain. The people would sow their fields with them, believing that the bread baked from that grain gives health, strength, and courage.
Lubayel accompanied Timur to the intersection and moved aside. He would go without her on the sidewalk along the Road of the Goddesses. All the words had been said. They said good-bye at the entrance to the prayer room, but still, a mad hope for the return of her husband lived in the elf’s soul. Timur left without looking back.