Apparently she read my mind, because she looked me directly in the face, regardless of the way it shone, and said firmly, “Should our forces fail—the Powers grant it be not so! Yet, should they fail, then we, the people of Shayle, are prepared to fight and die in defense of our city. Men as well as women, we have sworn that we will perish to the last before The Evil ravages our homes.
“My lady, you know that if Shayle falls all of Aerisia falls with her. Myndundred, Laytrii, Lonolith—all will follow in their turn. This is your time to prevent that.”
“What if I can’t? What if I fail?”
“Has fear of failure restrained you before? Does it restrain those even now at war? They know they risk their lives; they know they may do everything in their power and The Evil still triumph. Yet they fight anyway. Would you, the Artan, do less than those who fight in your name?”
She was right, of course, and I felt ashamed. Here I’d halfway believed that being the Artan demanded a level of bravery required of no one else. Now I saw the folly, the self-centeredness, of that idea. The enemies my friends faced at this very moment were every bit as real as mine. I’m sure their fears were similar to my own. But they weren’t giving in to those fears. They were overcoming them and doing what they had to do. Time for me to follow their example.
“You’re right, Lady Alvana,” I admitted meekly. “I’m sorry for being a coward… for being afraid.”
She smiled sympathetically. “There is no shame in fear, my lady. Only when fear keeps us from duty is there shame. And you, I think, will shame no one this day.”
No, I promised myself. Not if I can help it, I won’t.
Resolved, I mounted the horse provided for me. Setting my face and my mettle towards the battlefield, I’d gathered the reins loosely in my bare hands and was prepared to leave when the Portex’s wife stopped me.
“Lady Hannah?”
Her upturned face was pretty. Soft. Appealing.
“My lady, one thing more would I say.”
“Of course. Please do.”
“Lady Hannah,” she said, speaking rapidly as if to get the words out but firmly and with conviction about the message she shared. “I find a thing to be true: that sickness comes before health and sorrow before joy. That although shadows are cast in the light, night must always yield to morning. I believe that death is strong, but love is stronger. I am convinced that if we use all of our gifts, powers, and abilities for good, then all of the pain and suffering this life can bring will surely be rewarded in our final time.”
It was a stirring speech, one that ripped the weak places of my heart away. Seconds later, when I rode out Shayle’s city gates, I heard those words echoing and reechoing in my mind, and I was no longer afraid.
Ranetron and Spinner
Garett Wy’ Rinstead, High-Chief of the Ranetron, was dying. Blood streamed from frightful wounds on his chest and head, soaking the ground on which he lay. His breathing was labored; his chest struggled to rise and fall. His eyes were growing dim, even as the dawn sun brightened in the morning sky. The heat of it fell warmly across his face.
“Elisia…”
His pale lips, drained of color, moved, forming the name.
My love, I am so sorry. Sorry I will not be returning to you. Sorry pride and foolish ideals kept me from making you my bride long ago.
Elisia…
Memories came, filling his last moments with bittersweet remembrance. His mind swept through over a decade of life, back to the first time he had ever seen the beautiful Spinner…
She was a maiden of fourteen winters, come from the Valley of Flax where she had been taken in, an orphaned child, and raised. This was her time to live a full year at Laytrii’s palace, studying the ancient tapestries created by the Spinners, tapestries that depicted the great events of Aerisia’s past. He was four years her elder, a lad of eighteen, and already rising through the ranks of the Ranetron.
The first time he caught sight of her, she was dressed in a marvelous gown of flowing green silk—a creation of the Spinners, no doubt. The gown complemented her willowy frame, falling in attractive folds to the marble floor. Her head was tipped back as she peered up at an immense tapestry, and her golden-red hair flowed to her tiny waist in a profusion of curls, waves, and ribbons, exposing her slender neck. She was so beautiful, even then, that his breath caught in his throat and he rubbed his eyes to clear them, assuring himself that what he saw was real, not a vision.
She was real.
Hearing the clink of his sheathed sword, she whirled to face him, alarm in her gaze. Yet, upon seeing him standing there in full dress uniform (there was a meeting with Council that day, as he recalled, something to do with a promotion), that alarm had faded to something else entirely. Her green eyes were the color of midsummer leaves as they shifted, looking him up and down. When the inspection ended, the smile tilting the corners of her full lips was very warm and revealed a shallow dimple in one smooth cheek.
They exchanged not a word. Feeling tongue-tied and awkward in the presence of such a lovely girl, he had hurried out the way he’d come, finding another route to the Council chamber. Even so, that night when he closed his eyes to sleep, all he had seen and all he had dreamed of was her...
Pain assaulted Garett’s body, and the injured soldier groaned aloud. His agony went unnoticed and unheard, lost amid a host of battle cries and screams from the wounded. Consciousness deserted him again, like the blood escaping his veins. Once more he slipped away from scenes of carnage and death to much happier times…
Two years following their first meeting, he was a grown man of twenty, and she was a young woman of sixteen. She was visiting Laytrii’s palace a second time, on this occasion as an emissary from the Valley of Flax, bearing letters for Council. Three Elders who wished to speak with her had dispatched Garett to bring her to the Council chamber. Nervous, he wiped sweaty palms on the hem of his tunic, cursing himself for a fool. He was a trained soldier and a Ranetron officer—why was he afraid to deliver a message to a lass he’d seen but a handful of times during her year at the palace and not even once since? Well over a year had passed since he last looked upon her. Would she remember him, as he certainly had not forgotten her? Garett hoped—and feared—that she would.
While seeking her out, the steps he ascended led him onto the flat parapet of the palace’s tallest tower. The view of mountains, sky, and forest was spectacular from here. And there she was, Elisia the Spinner, enjoying it.
His throat closed at a sight he found far more entrancing than any the high vantage point could afford, and he forgot to breathe. For several long seconds he simply stood there, overawed, gazing helplessly at the loveliest girl in the land. For her part, she was so intent on the panorama before her that she’d neither seen nor heard his approach. He might have stood there indefinitely, taking his fill of the Spinner, but discipline and training eventually intervened, and he cleared his throat softly to alert her of his presence. She jolted at the noise, whirling to face him much as she’d done two years earlier, her unbound hair swinging about her shoulders.
“Garett!” she exclaimed with a smile, as if she were pleased to see him.
Once more, he forgot to breathe. She did remember him. He could not account for the surge of joy he felt at that realization.
Time congealed as they stood staring at one another. Beneath his scrutiny, her cheeks flushed, turning a charming shade of red. Without stopping to think, he blurted out the first thing on his mind.
“You have sunshine in your hair.”
The instant the words fled his lips he felt every kind of fool for saying such a stupid thing to this girl—even if it was true. However, judging from her reaction, she did not seem to mind or think it so very foolish. Flushing, Elisia modestly lowered her eyes, a gratified smile playing about her mouth. Perhaps, Garett had decided, it hadn’t been such a terrible thing to say after all...
“Elisia.”
His dry lips worked to form that beloved
name one more time. How he wished she were here at his side. Perhaps it was selfish of him to force it on her, yet he wanted to feel her arms about him as he passed from this life.
Elisia…
Had he not made the decision years past not to wed her because of the dangers of his profession, the very real fear she might be left a young widow, he could have enjoyed her for some time as his wife. Possibly, he might be leaving behind a son to carry on his name, or a daughter his memory. Instead, all he had was wasted years spent holding the woman he loved at arm’s length.
Oh, Elisia, I need you now, he thought.
He wanted desperately to kiss her goodbye, to feel her lips against his one last time.
When the end came, he surrendered gladly to the memories flooding his soul, knowing it would be the final time. Still, what better to take with him when he passed than tender remembrances of his beloved Spinner and the first time he kissed her…?
She was twenty years of age; he twenty-four. Tonight, she was being established as the Spinner Pronconcil. There was a celebration in her honor at Laytrii’s palace, a celebration complete with music, dancing, feasting, and laughter. Throughout it all, the then Ranetron First Lieutenant had been utterly miserable, even though he tried masking his pain with a set face and stony indifference. His attempts were far from successful, he feared, when he couldn’t prevent his gaze from straying about the room, following the Spinner wherever she went.
Behind him, someone’s lady giggled brightly. The laughter grated upon his overwrought nerves. At last he could stand the party gaiety no longer and slipped outside, trading the festive atmosphere for the relative quiet and peace of the palace’s central gardens. Secluded in a dark corner of the grounds, he kicked angrily at a stone in his path and swore under his breath. What game was this? All night long she’d hardly glanced his direction. Neither had she danced with him but seemed content to go through her paces on the arm of every other man in the room—except, of course, the Simathe High-Chief, who was in attendance tonight with a handful of his lords to honor Council’s newest member.
Again, Garett swore, jamming his fists onto his hips and glowering at the dark bush in front of him, as though it were the source of all his troubles.
“Watch your tongue, Lieutenant.”
A smooth voice and the crunch of a slipper on pebbles heralded the arrival of someone. Garett felt the skin on the back of his neck prickle. Someone? No, not a mere someone. It was Elisia. Slowly, he turned to face her.
“You followed me,” he lashed out.
Why, he didn’t know. Perhaps from a childish desire to hurt her as she had hurt him.
“Aye, I did,” she admitted, her tone light and airy. “Why do you leave my party, Lord Garett? Do you not wish to honor me, along with everyone else?”
She was so close, his beautiful Elisia, peering up at him in the moonlight. His empty arms were aching to hold her.
“I’ve no wish to be another fool falling at your feet,” he replied sulkily.
She only smiled, a secretive, meaningful smile he did not like. “Do you not?”
“Nay, I do not!”
“Hmmm…” She pursed her lips, considering the issue. “Is this the reason you did not ask me to dance? Or was it”—and here her careless manner and breezy tone of voice faltered—“that you did not wish to dance with me?”
Garett did not know what to make of this. Maybe she had suffered his censure more than she let on. He felt a beast for treating her so rudely.
Gently, he said, “You did not lack for partners, my lady.”
“Elisia!” she snapped. “My name is Elisia, and I did not lack for partners because you would not be one of them! I will not be another fool falling at your feet either, Garett Wy’ Rinstead! You would not ask me to dance, so I danced with others.” Tears of frustration glistened in her lovely eyes. “But had you asked, surely I would have forsaken all to have partnered with you.”
What she was saying hit him like a blow between the eyes. She had wanted him to ask, after all. She would have declined anyone for him: that was what she meant, was it not? Possibly he hesitated too long, mulling over the matter, for with a look of bitter disappointment she turned to go.
“Elisia!”
Although he intended to say it aloud, her name came out as no more than a desperate whisper. It was enough. Within the space of a heartbeat she was in his arms, lifting her face to his. When he kissed her, her body melted into his, and her lips were warm and velvet against his own. Soft moonlight smiled down upon the two of them, irrevocably locked in one another’s embrace. Garett, smelling the fragrance of her hair, tasted in her kiss a hint of the wine she’d sipped and wished with all his heart the moment would never end...
Dark Power
Norband, Chief Captain of the Simathe, plunged his short dagger into the Doinum before him and swiftly tugged it free. Hot blood spilled all over his hand, but he took no notice. A noise from behind alerted him, and with the grace of practiced movement he whirled, sword arcing to lop off the head of the dark-skinned swordsman behind his shoulder. The head went spinning through the air, the body plunging to the earth like a sack of meal dropped from a weary shoulder.
Grimacing, the black-haired warrior frowned at the corpses and pieces of corpses littering the ground about his feet. Oblivious to danger, he went so far as to kneel and flip over a nearby cadaver. Yes, of this one he was confident. Others he’d merely suspected, but of this one he was certain. He had killed this same man the day before. Who could forget, even in the chaos of battle, that livid purple birthmark covering half the dead man’s face?
Their worst fears as to why the enemy’s dead had disappeared were being confirmed by the haunting resurgence of familiar foes on the battleground. They had fought and slain drocnords and Cistweigh, humans and other dark creatures, only to be forced to kill them over again. Without the magic of the Artan to stem the tide, the might of the Dark Powers seemed limitless—even to the resurrecting of their dead.
Norband climbed to his feet, towering over his prostrate victims. Generally, most of his enemies went out of their way to avoid challenging a Simathe. Today was different. Today, the armies of the Dark Powers did not hesitate to confront even a Simathe. They seemed crazed, possessed with an evil, lunatic spirit driving them into a frenzy of killing. They seemed to enjoy it, too. He’d never fought a battle such as this.
A scream caught his ear, and he whirled to see a Cortain falling beneath the horde of six or seven drocnords that leapt upon her. Already, as he ran to her, he could hear the rending of her flesh. Even though all of the little beasts fell swiftly to his sword, it was too late. The young woman was dead, her throat torn out. Stooping, he traced his hand over her face, closing her staring, fear-filled eyes. She was barely more than a child, probably no more than seventeen or eighteen years of age, and this was, in all probability, the only ceremony she’d receive in recognition of her life and death on behalf of her country.
In a cold fury, the sight of the mutilated girl fresh in his mind, the Simathe lord slaughtered a grinning hulk of a warrior with broken teeth and rotting, black gums. Afterward he took out an enormous deathcat ridden by a female Cistweigh. Her once blond hair had ratted to a few clumps of sickly grey. Her skin bore the same pallor, and Norband assumed the life he’d taken was the last of her gifted three. And he was fairly certain he’d witnessed the Ranetron High-Chief slay this same pair the day before.
Norband cut a glance to the left, where his own High-Chief single-handedly battled three axewielders. No need there for his aid. Somewhere to his right, another deathcat roared and leapt towards a soldier Norband did not recognize, its bloody jaws gaping wide. The man avoided the bound by rolling to the side and into a pack of snarling drocnords. Norband sprang for him, determined not to see a repeat of what had befallen the young Cortain. By the time the beasts were dead, the man he pulled up was missing an ear but still alive. Nodding his thanks, the Ranetron backed away, disappearing into th
e fray.
Their lines were breaking. Their numbers were simply incapable of withstanding this relentless tide of The Evil. By now, they were backed to the original ground they’d stood upon the day the war began. Seeing the gates of Shayle so close, The Evil fought harder, the sight of their goal inciting a fresh, wild frenzy.
Well, defeated they may be, but he would fight until there were no others to fight beside him and keep on fighting still. Resolved, the Simathe Chief Captain gripped his weapons more firmly and set back to it.
Kurban, the Tearkin prince, appeared at his side, towering far above him. “It goes not well, my brother!” he hollered, needlessly stating the obvious.
No. The warrior-lord thought the word but did not bother shouting a response. No, it does not.
They were beaten. While he knew it subconsciously, Ilgard refused to acknowledge the fact either physically or mentally. Instead, he fought even harder, striking out fiercely as if to defy a reality he could not change.
Forgive me, Hannah.
His mind formed the words, even while his body never stopped fighting. It did not matter. His efforts did not matter. None of their efforts mattered. This battle was about to be lost. Their thinned ranks could not withstand their enemy’s numbers being doubled by their resurrected dead. Soon, they would break and Shayle would be under direct attack. When Shayle fell to the Dark Powers, the rest of Aerisia would undoubtedly be next.
Their navy might hold for a time; earlier, he had heard the sounds of battle at sea, but he’d no idea how it progressed. It seemed the enemy was either wary of the waters the Artan had used to drown the Warkin, or else had chosen to wait until this day to throw all that they had against Aerisia. Whatever the case, the Simathe lord knew they were all in grave peril, and doubtless that included their ships, as well.
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