"My lord—I think we had better follow him," he said, as the new Marshal's Herald stepped attentively to his side and touched his elbow.
"No—" Ilea said.
"Yes," Pol ordered through clenched teeth.
The stretcher bearers took Pol outside, following the Marshal, and they all went out into the open air.
Once outside, Pol found Satiran gently shoving the young Herald aside with his nose and taking the latter's place. Now he saw what Satiran saw—which was taking some getting used to, since there was a peculiar blind spot straight ahead, but an enormous amount of peripheral vision; one eye saw Pol, while the other surveyed everything on the opposite side. The Lord Marshal's tent stood on the top of a hill overlooking White Foal Pass, where the army of the Karsites spread out beneath them, an ugly blot upon the white snow. Although it was nearly dark, there was enough light to show more than Pol wanted to see.
Bonfires blazed along the front of that blotch, seven of them in all, and Pol saw why the Lord Marshal had called the bonfires cursed. At the heart of each was a stake, and tied to the stake was what was left of a man. Beside each fire was a person in long, hooded robes; encircling the fires at a healthy distance were other folk in the robes that Pol recognized as being the Sun-priests he was familiar with. Despite the distance, the clear air of these mountains made it easy to make out what was there—and Satiran's eyes were exceptionally keen. Lan peered down at the bonfires, one hand on Kalira's shoulder, standing as still as one of the trees beyond him.
"It's when the fires burn down to coals that the things start howling. The victims in the fires are no one of ours—none from the army, that is," the Lord Marshal growled. "We try and retrieve the bodies of our own before they can get to them, and we've seen them dragging ruffians in Karsite rags to the fires and trussing them to the stakes. I'm assuming that the victims are brigands or thieves."
"Or just some poor fellows who were in the wrong place," Pol replied. "Whatever they are—I doubt they deserved—"
The fires below them suddenly—
—erupted.
Once again, Pol heard that strange sound, as of something soft and heavy hitting the ground; it wasn't like thunder, nor like a tree falling, though it had something of the character of both those sounds. Now, though, he realized what it was—what the cause was, anyway. Lan had called the fires, and they had answered.
Between one heartbeat and the next, the bonfires grew—no, grew was too mild a word for they way they increased exponentially in size and fury. The burst outward in all directions, and they ate the priests around them before the latter could even twitch, licking out, enveloping them and devouring them before the eyes of their followers! The newly-roused fires roared, their voice like a chorus of wild beasts, so loud that if there was any screaming going on down there—and there must be—it was completely drowned.
In the next instant, the fires merged into one, a line cutting across the pass, effectively separating the Karsites from Valdemar. Not a chorus of beasts now—the single fire roared in a solitary voice of triumph, and as it roared, it began to move, spreading toward the Karsite tents.
Pol and Satiran stared, mesmerized. Probably everyone in the Valdemaran lines was doing the same at that moment. For the moment, he forgot his pain, forgot he was tired unto death, forgot everything but the fire in front of him. The flames clawed at the sky, reaching higher than the treetops, high as the mountain peaks on either side of the pass. Little vortices twisted in the midst of the flames, dancing along the burning ground delicately, gracefully. The fire drove forward, chasing the Karsites out of their encampment, driving them back to their own border. Pol felt the heat of it scorching his face even from his stretcher; he couldn't imagine what it was like down in the pass!
Showers of sparks, storms of sparks spun through the sky above the flames, yet none of them landed on the Valdemar side of the fire-line. Choking, black smoke billowed above the fire, yet none of it blew across to fill the lungs of Valdemarans.
:What are our people doing?: Pol asked Satiran, for nothing could be seen of the Karsite side but flame.
Satiran turned his head, and just below them ranged a sea of faces, all staring at the firestorm incredulously, mesmerized by the power and the awful beauty. No one moved; and if anyone spoke or even shouted, it couldn't be heard above the roar of the fire.
Trees actually exploded from the heat, burning pieces flying in every direction except toward the Valdemaran forces.
The fire crawled slowly away, and where it had been there was only bare earth and the smoldering remains of stumps. It retreated up the pass, presumably sending the Karsites fleeing before it.
:What's Lan doing?: Pol prompted.
Satiran swung his head about, obedient to Pol's wishes.
Satiran couldn't see Lan's face from this angle, but the boy was no longer standing rock-steady. He swayed a little, and so did Kalira.
That wasn't what made the hair on the back of Pol's neck stand up, though. What he saw was chilling and was probably sending a finger of fear down the spine of everyone else who could see the boy.
Tiny blossoms of flame danced around Lan, flickering in his hair, floating in the air above him, twirling on his fingertips, and the tiny fires swayed to the same directions as the greater fires.
Blessed gods!
If there was anyone who hadn't known of Lan's powers before, they certainly were in no doubt of them now.
Lan's hand spasmed in Kalira's mane; the flamelets vanished.
The boy collapsed, his knees giving out beneath him. He slid down Kalira's side to land in a crumpled heap on the snow.
And the firestorm below faltered.
As quickly as it had begun, it died, until there was nothing in the pass but burning tree stumps, glowing coals, and blackened ground.
No one moved for a long time. Although normally this would have been an occasion for cheers, the sheer and terrifying power of the fire had left mouths dry with unspoken fear—and no one dared to approach the creator of that terror.
No one, except Elenor, who shook off her mother's hand and ran to Lan's side.
Kalira first knelt, then carefully laid herself down beside her Chosen, and Elenor propped Lan's head up against her flank as Pol finally broke his own paralysis and sent his litter bearers stumbling toward them, with Satiran right beside him.
"He's just exhausted," Elenor said, looking up at her father with relief. "He needs to be put to bed, though, and he'll need to eat like a starving man when he wakes."
Pol didn't doubt that in the least and fortunately the young Herald Turag was near enough to hear her. Without being asked to, he moved to Elenor's side, carefully scooped the boy up in his arms, and carried him off, Elenor running alongside.
Kalira remained where she was, she was probably just as exhausted as Lan was.
:Turag's Adan will stay with her,: Satiran said, moving in Herald Turag's wake. Pol went with him, lying flat and exhausted on the stretcher himself, one hand still on Satiran's shoulder. They caught up with the Lord Marshal's Herald just as he shoved his way through the entrance of a tent.
"He can have my bed for now," Turag told Elenor as Pol reached for the tent flap and held it open so Satiran could see inside by the light of the lamp that burned beneath the center-pole. There were several cots set up, heaped with blankets; from the clothing scattered about, this tent was shared by several Heralds. Turag put Lan down on one of the cots, and Elenor carefully covered him over, taking a cushion from nearby and settling herself on the floor beside him.
Turag backed away, then turned and motioned to Pol's litter bearers to bring him inside as well. With Satiran outside—there was no room for him in the crowded tent—Pol was left in darkness again. They transferred him to another cot, as Turag hovered nearby.
"What happened?" the young man asked Pol anxiously. "Did that boy—I mean—"
"The boy is Herald Lavan Firestarter, and yes, he caused—all that." Pol waved his arm in the
general direction of the pass. "Mind you, his strength comes from anger, and if we hadn't been attacked today, I don't know that he could have...." His voice trailed off, and he shrugged as Turag took in the bloodstains on his Whites.
"I forgot. You were the ones that were ambushed. I suppose that would give him enough anger for anything," Turag replied, his mind clearly more on Lan and the firestorm than anything else. "I'm not really suited for this position, I—" He seemed to suddenly wake up, and looked sharply at Pol. "Sir, would you please be willing to put off your rest for a little longer? I think the Lord Marshal will want an explanation."
Ah, gods, not more— He wanted so badly to sink down into the blackness of sleep, rather than the blackness of sightlessness. "All right—" he began.
"A handful of words!" Ilea said angrily. "And no more!"
The Lord Marshal did, indeed want an explanation. The Lord Marshal also wanted a great deal of assurance that Lan was no danger to their own people.
Finally even Pol's patience and strength were exhausted, and Ilea's was already strained to the breaking point. "My Lord," he snapped, his head pounding and his eyes one long streak of agony, "enough."
Ilea took this as her cue to speak the words that had probably been trembling behind her lips for the past candlemark. There was no mistaking the anger in her voice. She couldn't revenge herself on the man that had attacked him, but she could, and would, vent some spleen on the Lord Marshal. "With all due respect, my Lord—you know the King's position on this boy already, and my husband is tired, wounded, and should have been in a bed the moment we entered this camp! If you must have reassurance, seek it somewhere else!"
Pol knew that tone of voice, and pictured her in his mind without any difficulty, her eyes flashing, her head up, quite ready to do battle with the King himself at this moment. The Lord Marshal was no match for her in this mood.
Thank the gods. Pol didn't think he could have stayed there for another moment, and he didn't have to. With stammered apologies, the Lord Marshal sent for servants, who bustled about the tent, fetching food, drink, and a fresh brazier, emptying the tent of all the cots but the ones Lan and Pol were on, and a third one left for Tuck, who was already asleep on it.
Pol got cool cider to drink in short order, and a blanket warmed over the brazier, pain medicine, and piece of bread with cheese melted over it, along with a snow-pack laid gently across his eyes to ease the burning.
When the drug in his drink eased the pain as well, then summoned him down into slumber, he went. Willingly. With his hand clasped in his beloved Ilea's to give him comfort.
TWENTY-TWO
SOME time during the ride to the headquarters, Pol had made up his mind on several points; it had given him relief from the pain to work things logically through in that way. Losing his eyesight was not going to be a tragedy, and if Ilea could not Heal him, then he would simply accept that.
The events of the evening only confirmed that belief. He worked through everything as logically as he could during the ride, and during that night and the day and night that followed, in his dreams he was able to employ a technique called directed dreaming to work through things emotionally. It wasn't easy; he exhausted himself all over again, weeping for what he had lost and raging against everyone involved, including himself. But it had to be done, and quickly, and dreams were the best and least harmful place to do so. As a consequence, when he woke, he actually felt remarkably normal.
Ilea was not with him, but Satiran was, lying beside his cot on a thick layer of straw laid over the canvas floor of the tent. That was how Pol was able to see that Lan was still unconscious on the cot on the opposite side of the tent with Kalira beside him, a charcoal brazier warming the air between the two Companions, and everything else that had been in the tent with them except for a third cot was gone.
:The other Heralds removed their things last night,: Satiran informed him. :They've moved into a different tent. Just as well; it would have been very crowded in here. Ilea has been with you most of the time, until the Chief Healer here came and chased her off to a bed around dawn.:
A pile of uniforms lay stacked at the foot of the cot; Pol sat up stiffly, stripped off his bloodstained clothing and gratefully donned a clean, new set of Whites. The only things he retained were his boots. "Let's go find the Lord Marshal," he said aloud, standing up with care and one hand on the wall of the tent, moving to the side so that Satiran had a bit more room. "I have the feeling he needs more of that reassurance."
Satiran got to his feet with an eye on the brazier, once Pol had a secure hold on his mane, the two of them went out into the cold morning. The scent of stale smoke still hovered over the camp, and the blackened pass below was an ever-present reminder of what had so recently happened. Smoke still rose from the stumps of trees, giving the oddly disconcerting effect of dozens of black chimneys sticking up out of the earth, as if there was an entire village underground down there.
There was no sign of the Karsites. Anything that had been in their camp was ashes, indistinguishable from the ashes of trees and bushes; the Karsites themselves were nowhere to be seen.
:Well, given what happened to them, would you come back here?: Satiran asked reasonably. He raised his head and looked around alertly. :I believe that the Lord Marshal is in the command tent, and as you suggested, still in need of a level head to point out that Lan is no danger to our side. The vista that lies below us did not give him much of a sense of comfort this morning. I can't imagine why not.:
Well, Satiran was back to normal, at any rate.
The two of them made their way to the command tent, and this time Satiran just poked his head inside without an invitation, decided there was enough room in there for him, and squeezed his considerable bulk along one side of the map table, much to the Lord Marshal's gape-mouthed surprise,
"Sorry, my Lord, but Satiran is necessary," Pol said apologetically, wedging himself in on the same side as his Companion. Satiran seized a camp chair in his strong teeth and pulled it over to Pol, who felt it over, then sat down in it gratefully. Turag looked at both of them and then turned to the Lord Marshal.
"My Lord Weldon," he said, "I would like to be put back on duty with the rest of the army."
Pol was probably as surprised as the Lord Marshal himself; that venerable gentleman was taken entirely aback.
"Hear me out," Turag continued earnestly. "My only Gift is Mindspeech, which, I'll grant you, is very strong—but I have no battlefield experience, no leadership experience, and this is not the time or place to get them at the possible expense of making blunders. Herald Pol has both, you are known to each other, and even more important, he is the mentor of that—ah—remarkable youngster, Herald Lavan. Please, I beg you; let me go back to a job I know how to do, and put Herald Pol in my place."
"Hrmph," coughed the Lord Marshal, fingering his beard and looking at Pol with speculation. "I don't want you to think that you haven't been doing a good job—"
"I know my own abilities and limitations, my Lord," Turag relied. "I have been doing an adequate job. You need someone outstanding."
Meanwhile, Pol's spirits rose; the plain fact was that Turag was right—even without the use of his own eyes, he would be just as good a Marshal's Herald as Marak had been. Not that he wouldn't be happy to hand Marak's job back to him as soon as he was fit again, but in the meantime....
"Pol, how do you feel about this?" the Lord Marshal asked. "I don't want you to think this is offered out of pity, because it isn't. You're good—you may not be the strongest Mindspeaker about, but you're strong enough, and your Companion can make up for that. Being the youngster's mentor makes you doubly valuable to me."
Pol smiled wholeheartedly for the first time since he had lost his eyesight. "My Lord, I would be pleased and honored to accept. Herald Turag, I am and will be forever grateful for your generous offer and great soul."
Turag heaved a sigh of relief. "You're the generous one, Herald Pol," the young man replied. "And I'm t
he one who is grateful! Now, if you don't mind, I'll excuse myself and Adan and we will take ourselves back to the unit we came from!"
Turag lost no time in making himself scarce, which left Pol and the Lord Marshal alone for a moment or two—until the next crisis came on.
"How's the boy?" the old man asked, betraying just a hint of his unease.
"Still recovering. Last night's exhibition was well out of his normal abilities." Pol felt the edge of the table and pulled himself closer to it. "I hope you aren't planning on more of the same, because I'll be honest with you; I don't think he can do that sort of thing very often."
"Ah." That seemed to be exactly what the Lord Marshal needed to hear. "On the other hand, the Karsites don't know that, do they?"
"So any time fires start—" Pol allowed himself a cruel chuckle. "I can't say that seeing them run like frightened mice is going to make me unhappy. Well, let me tell you what Lan can do on a regular basis."
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