by D A Godwin
“Are you ready, Shalindra?” Tormjere asked, shouldering his pack.
She hesitated before getting to her feet. The entire time she had been with him, he had never once slipped and called her Kataria. In fact, he had never spoken her real name even before she donned her disguise.
My real name, or given name?
It was hard to tell. She had hidden from everyone and everything in her life, called upon her goddess to save lives, and bestowed blessings. There were times that Shalindra the cleric seemed more real than Kataria the princess. That confusion frightened her deeply.
“How much farther, do you think?” she asked. Around them, the trees were still too thick to see through, but he would know.
Tormjere listened for a moment before answering. “The battle isn’t over, but it has shifted to the south, which is good. It’s not far now. We’ll move slowly.”
It took little more than an hour before they came upon their first evidence of the fighting: two dead soldiers in the yellow and red of Gyland.
“Their attack did not go as they hoped,” he said.
Kataria shuddered. Though these weren’t the first bodies she had borne witness to, the violence that had been done to them made her unexpectedly sad. Tormjere noticed her reaction and kept them moving.
They crept to the edge of the tree line and emerged. Before them lay a scene of utter devastation. Hundreds of dead were strewn across the field. Each man lay as he had fallen, some still clinging to weapon or shield. It the distance, they could see the bulk of the two armies still engaged. Steel flashed in the late afternoon sun. Arrows flew between the lines.
The Ceringions had penetrated the defensive barrier in at least two places but seemed unable to capitalize. Screams and shouted commands mixed with the harsh call of horns, combining into a cacophony of noise. The smell of death hung heavy in the air, and the pitiful cries of the dying carried to their ears.
Kataria’s heart plummeted and her stomach turned. “Why?”
Tormjere only shook his head—he could offer no answer.
“I can see the officer’s pavilion over that last hill,” he said, “near the village. With this flank collapsed, we’re now on the wrong side of the lines. There aren’t many choices other than straight across the open field or all the way around to the road. Either way, it would be best to wait for the cover of night.”
Kataria nodded numbly, still trying to comprehend the scale of what was happening. Her mind raced, and the world seemed in a surreal haze.
A feeble moan issued from a clump of mangled bodies and one of the Kingdom soldiers twitched as if trying to rise. Kataria rushed to his side.
It’s not going to work.
Horrified by the blood and the smell, Kataria forced down her feelings, gripped her symbol of Eluria with one hand, and placed the other on his damaged shoulder. She tried to meet his eyes, but they darted about without ever finding focus. She prayed to Eluria for healing, but nothing happened—the familiar warmth of the symbol did not come.
The man coughed blood and gave a choked cry of pain. With a tremor in her voice, she repeated her request, but still nothing. The man’s good arm flopped pitifully and clutched at her, smearing blood across her robes.
Tears welled in her eyes as she turned helplessly to Tormjere.
“You can’t help him,” he said.
“Through Eluria, anything is possible. I am doing it wrong. I need to…” Her breath caught in her throat as she followed Tormjere’s gaze down towards the man’s legs, half visible beneath the body of another man sprawled across them. One leg was badly cut, and the other twisted in an unnatural direction. It was incredible that he was even alive.
“Guide me, Eluria,” she whispered. “I must do something.”
Then she remembered. There was a prayer for the dying—she had read it once but could remember only the first line. She wrapped her fingers around the stirring warmth of her symbol and took a deep breath. Wiping her eyes, she took the man’s hand in her own.
“Eluria, take this man into your comforting embrace, that he may follow your light throughout the night and into the day, and find his place among the heavens.”
The soldier jerked once, then relaxed. A look of relief passed across his face, and his eyes closed for the final time.
Tears left streaks in the dirt on her cheeks. “I couldn’t save him.”
“You spared him further pain, and that was enough.”
She gazed across the field. Now that they were among the bodies, she noticed an occasional movement or feeble moan from men too injured to speak. She had been too overwhelmed to realize that some of those laying there were alive, at least for the moment.
Across the field, the two sides had begun to disengage, neither wanting to fight into the approaching night.
“What will be done for them?”
“We lost today, and are far enough removed from the main host that they likely won’t search during the dark for fear of being cut off. The Ceringions may come for their dead, or to finish off the dying.”
A hoarse, gasping croak called out for aid.
Shalindra scrambled towards the sound. A man with greying hair and a slight build clutched at his side, trying to staunch the flow of blood. Unable to move and barely conscious, he could do little more than stare at her in wide-eyed panic as they approached.
Shalindra knelt beside him and placed her hand atop the gooey mess of the wound. It was a sticky mixture of dirt and blood, but she forced her eyes from it. She had to succeed this time. Holding his gaze in hers, she again called upon Eluria. Warmth ran through her fingers, and the flow of blood from his side slowed and then stopped as the open wound was slowly replaced with scarred skin. He managed to struggle upright but looked about as if he had no idea where he was. Tormjere put out a hand to steady him.
“How?” the man stammered, clearly not understanding what had happened.
Tormjere lifted him to his feet and pointed towards friendly forces. “Can you mark the torches?”
The man’s eyes lost focus for a moment, but he managed a weak nod.
“Walk towards them and do not wander to your right, or you’ll wind up on the wrong end of a sword again.”
The man staggered off across the field as commanded, weaving unsteadily on his feet.
“Will he make it?” Shalindra asked.
“Probably,” Tormjere answered. “As long as he goes halfway straight, he’ll run into the sentries and they’ll find a place for him.” He paused. “Shall we follow?”
Shalindra looked down at the blood on her arms. Some was from the man who had died, and some from the one she had saved. She looked to the Kingdom camp again. New trenches were being dug, but no help for those still on the field was forthcoming. On her chest, an insistent warmth stirred in her symbol, giving her a confidence unlike anything she had felt before.
“There are many left with nothing but prayers to aid them. This night, through me, Eluria will answer.”
She expected him to argue, to try and change her mind. He had disagreed with so many of her choices already, and with the danger surrounding them it was, by all logic, the wrong decision. But she could not walk past the dying when it was within her power save them, or at least to try.
Their eyes met and his mind touched hers. Before, she had resisted such contact, but this time she welcomed the connection. She wanted him to understand, to feel the certainty of her conviction in ways that words could never convey, even if it made no sense. She could feel him filtering through the options, weighing the risks and consequences.
He looked away towards the Ceringion camp. “We must stay quiet, and can risk no light.”
She saw the nearly-full moon beginning to rise behind him, and smiled. “We will not need it.”
Long into the night she worked, walking through the moon-lit field from one injured man to the next. She restored those that she could, sending them staggering in ones and sometimes twos towards the camp. Comfort she
gave to any beyond her aid, easing their often tortured passing as best she could. She felt each man’s wound, experiencing their pain even as she worked to dispel it. Each effort sapped more and more of her strength, but she knew that time was precious and pressed ahead without pause.
Though her hands trembled from exhaustion and her voice faded to a faint whisper through lips parched with thirst, her conviction never wavered, and every prayer was answered.
* * *
“An’ I tell you, it was an angel!” Tuck said, to the disbelieving looks of his audience around the campfire. Their dark, gloomy mood had little to do with the absence of sunlight. As if the Ceringions grinding them down day-by-day wasn’t enough, other, far more real evils had visited the battlefield, and simple tales of salvation would not drive them away.
But even though his head was still spinning, Tuck was certain of what he had seen, and he hopped up and pounded a fist into his palm to emphasize his point. “She come down from the sky and put me together again!”
“More’n likely a bird came down and pecked out yer brains, Tuck!”
The gathering exploded into laughter, a rare show of amusement after the events of the past few days.
“Took a blow to the head, he did,” another said.
“Birds don’ talk,” Tuck huffed. “An’ I tell you she was there!”
“Blue eyes,” a voice interrupted.
The gathering fell silent, and Tuck turned to see a soldier with a squire’s badge standing behind him.
He looked directly at Tuck with an unsettled expression on his face. “She had blue eyes, didn’t she?”
“Yessir, she did,” Tuck answered. “Saw ‘em clear as the moon in the sky.”
The squire rubbed his side, and everyone could see the rent in his mail armor.
“Took an axe in my side,” he said, a haunted look coming over him. “I couldn’t do anything, just lay there thinking it was the end, and then she was there.” He rubbed absently at his side again and walked off in a daze. “Blue eyes…”
The crowd turned back to Tuck, suddenly eager to hear more of his angel.
Reunion
“Another two coming, Sergeant Blanin,” one of the sentries called.
Blanin rose from where he had been crouched by the fire, pausing to allow his eyes to adjust to the pre-dawn gloom. Though his gambeson provided far more warmth than was needed this early in the summer, the cheerfulness of the flames was a welcome distraction.
It was the only thing cheerful in the whole camp.
Yesterday’s fighting had been long and brutal, lasting until the sun was almost set. They were still alive, thank Remulus, but the result could only be described as another defeat. There hadn’t been time or enough men to search for survivors, and many wounded had undoubtedly been left behind. They had expected that a few survivors would manage to crawl back, but there seemed little hope.
And yet, survivors had wandered in all night. Sometimes singly, sometimes in twos and threes, they staggered back to camp. All were in surprisingly good health, though many were weak and disoriented. Some had no idea how they had arrived, while others told of ghosts or angels with blue eyes saving them. He put little stock in such tales, but no one had ever heard of so many wounded returning after a battle.
Two of his men ran out to meet this pair, as they had with the other survivors. One handed a waterskin to them, and, after a brief conversation, motioned deferentially in his direction. That was interesting.
Blanin studied them as they approached, with his soldiers a step behind. One was definitely a woodsman, with a sword and hunting knife at his waist, and the other was a woman, whose short robe was heavily stained with dirt and blood. From the way the woodsman was supporting her she was obviously wearied.
What caught his attention wasn’t the small warhammer on her hip—unusual for a cleric—nor the finely crafted symbol of Eluria that gleamed unblemished on her chest. After the stories of the night before, he saw what every other man in the squad saw: a pair of weary but strikingly beautiful blue eyes.
“You pick an unfortunate time to visit our camp, m’lady, but clerics of the moon are always welcome,” he said, with a polite bow. “We have healers just beyond that hill. They’ll tend to your wounds better’n we can.”
“Thank you, Sergeant,” she replied, “but that will not be necessary.”
He gave her a skeptical look.
“Where may we find Marshal Brouchard?” she asked.
Blanin was taken aback by the familiarity of the question, as if she were asking for an old friend. “I’m sorry, Miss…?”
“Shalindra.”
“Have you not heard? Lord Brouchard fell two days ago.”
Her shoulders slumped and tears welled in her eyes.
“Begging your pardon for delivering the bad news,” he stammered, alarmed at her distress.
She shook her head. “We have been many days on the road to get here, and…” Her voice caught in her throat.
“I am Tormjere, of the King’s Rangers,” the woodsman interjected. “Who commands now?”
“Ranger, is it?” Blanin asked. “They’ll be glad to have you around then. I believe Captain Deurmark rallies the banners now.” He shared a knowing look with Tormjere. Captains commanded a portion of their lord’s forces, but rarely more than a few hundred at most. The largest duchies in the Kingdom might have half a dozen captains, but most had only one or two. For one to oversee an entire army in the field could only mean that the senior leadership had been gutted.
Tormjere nodded his grim understanding.
“We’ll get some food, then sort it out,” he said to Shalindra.
“There’s a kitchen set up near those tents,” Blanin said. “There isn’t much in this little town, but they’ll see you fed. One of my men can show you the way.”
“Thank you, but no,” Shalindra answered, regaining her composure. “I am sure every man is needed here, and I should be able to find the Captain without difficulty. May the peace of Eluria be with you.”
“May you find it as well,” Blanin replied with a bow.
As the pair hobbled away, eyes followed them everywhere. Tormjere was aware of the looks and whispers, but there was little to be done about it now.
“Do we continue?” he asked. “The further we go, the harder it will become to leave.”
Shalindra seemed barely to hear him and walked silently for a time before responding. “We cannot run forever. Edward is my cousin.”
“Who?”
“Edward Deurmark. I have not seen him in some time, but he is far enough removed from the capital that he should be able to help.” She sighed. “And we have to trust someone, eventually.”
He gave her a dubious look but remained silent. They crested the hill, and Tormjere cursed. A line of weary soldiers plodded towards a single cook site where a large pot hung over the fire. The men shuffled forward slowly, each getting about half a bowl of what looked like yesterday’s soupy mixture.
Protocol would allow him to eat first, since Rangers typically were out in the field longer and more often, but he doubted they would take kindly to anyone jumping the line. Perhaps if…
“We deserve it no more than they,” Shalindra said, anticipating what he was thinking. “We shall wait as they do.”
Tormjere gave her an amused glance. “What’s happened to that impatient girl I rescued?”
Even in her miserable state, Shalindra couldn’t help but smile at the jest. Something had definitely changed. She wasn’t the same person, and never would be again. The thought did not bother her as much now.
When they finally got their bowls of what was probably boiled roots, along with a small chunk of cheese, they found a quiet spot and sat on the damp ground.
Tormjere wolfed down his soup hungrily while watching Shalindra out of the corner of his eye, worried that she was too tired to eat. She caught either his look or his thought, and mechanically put food in her mouth.
“Re
mulus help me, I’m still starving,” came an exhausted complaint from a nearby group of soldiers huddled around a fire that had gone out some time ago. Sympathetic grumbles came from the group around him as they scraped the last of their soup into their mouths or sat forlornly staring at empty bowls.
“Hard to fight on an empty stomach,” one said.
“Hard to fight at all against a hellfiend,” another said dejectedly, making a sign of protection.
Shalindra perked up at the mention of such a creature. If true, it would lend credence to the rumors of the Conclave’s involvement.
If it was indeed a demon, and they aren’t spinning tales.
You think them mistaken.
I don’t know enough to judge. We’ve heard rumors that the wizards are behind this war everywhere we’ve been, but not a one has included demons.
Even the thought that it could be true was enough to make her appetite disappear. She looked down at her half-eaten soup, then back at Tormjere. Guessing her intentions, he shoveled the rest of his own food into his mouth, practically choking himself.
She gave him an amused frown before rising and walking to where the men sat. The one who had complained turned quickly when he noticed the surprised stares of his friends.
“Forgive me for interrupting,” she said. “But I have eaten all that I can manage and still have some left. Would you care for it?”
The man sat momentarily speechless, then slowly reached for the bowl.
“Thank you, m’lady,” he said, looking embarrassed.
She made certain that her smile encompassed every man around the fire. “Blessings of Eluria be upon you.”
She returned to Tormjere. “If you are finished now?”
Tormjere wiped his mouth unapologetically and stood. “We should find Lord Deurmark.”
Her eyes were already taking in the banners that fluttered in the morning breeze. “He will most likely be there, at that large tent.”
The tent, marked by a green pennant with an emblem of a white tower, was ringed by four pairs of men in the blackened mail of the Legion. The color symbolized their devotion to duty over house loyalties, but Shalindra’s step slowed as she caught sight of them, the betrayal still fresh in her thoughts. It was hard to trust anyone’s loyalties now. The guards were already following her with their eyes, however, so there was no turning back.