Authors: V. Holmes
She pulled back the string a few times, letting Arman adjust her grip to her first two fingers. Her arm ached. After an hour her arm shook, but she could draw the bow smoothly.
Arman stopped her as she raised the weapon again. “You're shaking. I think your body has had enough. Starting slow is best, and you're doing well. Do you want to try again tomorrow?”
A tiny smile flitted across her face. “I think I would. Are you coming back to the inn?”
Arman helped her unstring the bow and put it away properly. “I'm meeting Kam and Wes. I can meet you here at the same time tomorrow, though.”
Her steps were sure on her way back to the inn. Her mind felt stronger from the aching muscles in her arms and back. Her forgotten, neglected pride uncurled in her chest. She smiled, lifting her face to smell winter on the wind.
Φ
The 26th Day of Valemord, 1251
In the two weeks since Alea had begun her training the bright gold and crimson leaves had turned brown and fallen from the branches. Even the sunlight was cool, and Alea had to arrive at the training hall early to warm her muscles from the walk. As she doffed her cloak she noticed a circle of men at the opposite end of the hall. Two in the center grappled at each other with bare hands. She watched from just inside the door, curious. After a moment she recognized one fighter's blonde curls. Hand-to-hand combat was something she had never seen, though she had heard brawls from her rooms.
Arman's forearm came up to sweep into his opponent's neck.
How do they not kill each other?
The heavier, older man ducked under the swing and drove a fist between Arman's shoulder blades. Arman rolled with the blow and came up spinning, hands already guarding. He allowed the next strike to pass then swung an arm across to unbalance the man, a punch going to the lower ribs. When they stepped apart, Arman saw her watching. He shook arms with the man and stepped from the circle, another taking his place.
Arman grabbed a rag from a bench, wiping sweat from his face and neck before going to her. “Afternoon.”
She greeted him, looking at the floor. Sunamen men and women were never seen out of day clothes by any but their spouses. The bare chests and backs of the combatants made her uncomfortable.
“Are you all right?”
She nodded, her gaze not moving from the sawdust. “I was not prepared for so much...” she waved her hand in his direction “...skin.”
He choked back a laugh and pulled on his shirt, rolling the sleeves up. “Forgive me, milady. Our women often see us in various stages of undress. Most of our swimming is done nude.” He nodded in the direction of the men still wrestling. “There are a few holds and hold-breaks you could learn, you know.” He grinned wickedly. “Clothed, of course.”
She glared at him. “I'm sorry if my people's choice to protect themselves from the desert sun offends you.”
He held up his hands in surrender. “Of course, milady. Jesting aside, though, not all attackers are considerate enough to stay in bow range. Every woman I know has certainly used hold-breaks to dissuade persistent advances.”
Memories of many of the household women's last minutes flashed through her mind and she winced. “Teach me, please.” She followed him to a cleared section of floor.
“They will likely grab you by the arms or hair.” He moved slowly, showing her where an assailant might grab. He made her act as the attacker first, show how he could loosen her grip long enough to pull free.
When she mimicked him, her movements were indecisive and she winced each time she twisted his arms.
“Be firm.” He showed her how to form a good fist. “Use their weight and balance to your advantage. Move forward, as if your block was a blow itself.”
She felt foolish when he moved her fingers into a better position, but her blow sent him back a pace. She smiled and returned to a ready stance.
“Confidence is everything. Try again.” Arman's hands flashed forward, grabbing both her wrists and tugging slightly.
Suddenly she was no longer in the training hall. The oasis was dark and the smell of blood filled the air. The hands on her arms were not Arman's but a soldier in leather armor. Merahn laid a few paces away, eyes wide and blank. Alea's head spun and a voice shouted at her, though she could not hear the words.
Suddenly she was aware of gentle arms holding her shoulders and a low voice. “Milady. You are safe. You are here with me. It's Arman. You're in Vielrona.” His murmured litany wormed through her panicked thoughts.
She opened her eyes. She was on the training hall floor and Arman crouched before her, holding her. After a moment she pulled away. Her breathing still hitched and her heart raced. “I was in Cehn. There was a soldier, and Merahn—” Her voice broke and Arman shushed her gently.
“Can you stand?” When she nodded he helped her up.
“Wardyn, you set?” one of the men called.
“Set. The heat is getting to her,” he called back.
She heard mutters about noble women, but Arman's excuse helped her ignore the worst. She let him keep his arm over her shoulder until they were out of the hall, then stepped away. After the violent memories, contact made her skin crawl. She followed him wordlessly back to the inn. The crowd in the common room was beginning to grow, but Arman tucked her into a corner booth.
“If you can't eat that's fine, but I think Ma's tea would settle you a bit.”
“Tea would be good. And maybe one of those meat, bread things I helped her bake this morning. A small one though. My stomach is flipping.” She closed her eyes and willed the calm Sunamen mask onto her features.
Arman returned a minute later with a tray of meat pastries and two mugs of tea. He sat across from her and set the tray between them. After she had taken several deep sips of her tea he peered at her. “I have been fighting since I could run, practically. Kam is damn near the only man in the city who is smaller than I am. I was always the littlest and it goaded me, so I picked fights with any lad – the bigger and wider the better.”
A small smile curled Alea's mouth and she began to pick at her pastry.
Arman grinned. “At any rate, I picked the wrong man one night. I usually had Kam at my back, but he was working, and this man had friends. I thought they would never stop. My ribs cracked, my nose broke so badly I couldn't breathe through it. One forearm bent the wrong way and my leg was fractured. I don't remember most of the blows. Lying in a gutter, with the rain and scummer from the Upper privies, though? I remember that. I was certain I'd die there.”
Alea had forgotten about her food. The irregular line of Arman's nose showed where it had healed crooked. She stared at him, surprised and touched. Men usually told of their bravery, not being beaten into sewer run-off.
“My Pa found me, finally, and brought me home. It took me a long time before I stopped having dreams of dying in the streets. I still dislike the dark.” He pushed his hand across the table to rest beside hers. “What you experienced was a thousand-fold more terrible. It will haunt you, even when you're awake.” He looked down. “I just wanted you to know you're not the only one.”
She smiled. “Thank you.” Nervous determination creased her brow. “I want to learn, Arman. I need to. Today showed me that I cannot be weak.”
“Cehn's attack does not make you weak.” He interjected. “But I would love to continue teaching you. Tomorrow we will go slower.” After a moment he smiled. “You know, I'll never speak to you again if you tell anyone that story.”
She laughed. “You have my word. I am sure you have never been bested since then.”
He straightened and stuck out his chest dramatically. “Not even by giants!” The conversation was lighter after that. Arman asked careful questions about her life in Cehn. The foreign words rolled from her tongue, but the light in her eyes was new.
In the days that followed Arman added half an hour of hand defense to her lessons. He did not grab her. Instead he showed her how to align the bones and muscles of her body to move him farther. He explained how most defenses she learned could become attacks. She grew accustomed to the patrons of the training barns and their gruff advice. They respected her will to learn, despite her strange background. The work was hard and quick, but Alea's body was stronger for it. Strange exhilaration came with strength and some unnamed thing, deep within her, grew stronger too.
Φ
The 28th Day of Valemord, 1251
Alea glanced around at the myriad lanterns. "What exactly is this a festival for?"
Arman frowned. "You know, I can't remember." Wes was already at their stall, Kam and a young woman perched beside him. Arman grinned and ushered her over to the others. "You know Kam and Wes. This is Veredy Cordyn."
Alea's smile was nervously wide as she hurried over. She offered her hand to the pretty blond. "Well met, Miss Cordyn."
The other woman laughed softly. "Please, Veredy is fine. Now that we're all here shall we find some supper?"
They stepped into the street, leaving Wes to mind the stall. Veredy fell into step beside Alea. The air was thick with wood smoke and the smell of cooking meat. The cobbles were sticky with spilled ale and sauce. Alea pointed out a vendor selling roasted shell peas, but Arman made a face.
"You dislike peas?"
Arman waved her comment away. "It's a bad tale."
Kam pounced on the opportunity. "Who are we to deny a lady entertainment?" He grinned and sidled up to Alea. "We were celebrating my twelfth birthday—"
"Fourteenth, you could barely hold a pint when you were twelve," Arman interrupted. "If you must tell her, make it the truth."
"Like you could hold any more." Kam sighed. "We were celebrating a birthday and decided to visit as many taverns as was possible and still be able to walk home."
"They carried Kam," Veredy pointed out.
Alea hid her smile. "I'm sure he gave a valiant effort."
"Anyways, the roads were growing wobbly and we chose to nap in the root cellar of Master Megurdy's tavern."
"Since Kam was enamored with Megurdy's eldest daughter."
"Wes bet Arman, here, that he couldn't eat a whole basket of shell peas sitting on the cellar shelves. He did just that and won the two silver."
Arman tried to interject, but Kam swatted him with his hat. "We didn't know that they had grown great lengths of fuzz-mold of a most marvelous pink. Needless to say, Arman was ill for three days and has been unable to eat the things since."
Alea's stomach ached from laughing. "Truly?"
Arman nodded, shaking his head at his own foolery. "Unfortunately, while Kam may exaggerate, it is true." They turned the corner onto the broad market street that held most of the food vendors. Alea gestured to a stall selling desert hare and cacti—one of her favorites from Cehn. "What of this?"
Kam shrugged. "I've never tried it but I'm willing." He shouldered Alea playfully and she realized he was shorter than she. "You promise not to poison me?"
"Ver and I will get Wes's and our supper from Ferrin's smoke pit." Arman called over his shoulder. "Meet you at the stall!"
Alea helped Kam pick what to try. Their hands were full of wooden trays of dripping food as they made their way back to the corner. She glanced back to the stall where Arman and Veredy had stopped. The young man held a tray, watching as their food was cooked. Veredy leaned against his shoulder. "You must have a thousand stories from when you were younger," Alea said wistfully as they made their way back to Wes.
Kam laughed. "I have often wondered how we've not had our thumbs taken for stealing."
Alea stabbed a bit of hare with her wooden pick. "You seem to be less rowdy now. Perhaps not you." She trailed off.
Kam glanced at her and realized she was jesting. He grinned. "It was Arman's doing. He was careless and rough—never held to one girl, always wanting to be free of the city. When his father died something changed. Overnight he became devoted to the work left behind and to making a future with Veredy. He's rarely even drunk now."
Alea looked over at Arman. He was engrossed in whatever Wes described, a bite of food poised, forgotten, on his knife.
So she's promised to him.
She glanced at Veredy. Her chest ached at the thought. "They are lucky."
The 30th Day of Valemord, 1251
The Village of Marl Bodi, Athrolan
"DAMNED WEATHER." AN'THOR SWORE. He had foregone the comfort of the inn's finer rooms, but with the snow drifting through the crack on the side of the window, he was mentally kicking himself. Being born in a snow-blasted country made him all but immune to cold. He still hated it.
I could do without seeing another flake.
He stuffed a crumpled shirt into the crack and dragged his chair closer to the window. He tugged his bearskin higher around his shoulders. The dense, white fur of the hood hid the chipped ivory horns that curled upwards from just behind his temples.
He swore at the window again, but his tone was resigned. He would only be there for the evening and that time would be spent with his black eyes fixed out the window. He heard a Miriken troop approached from the east. Centuries ago there had been scattered citadels of the Laen, protected by their eerie male guards. The gods' human armies destroyed them all and Athrolan barred the Laen from its cities, fearing the same fate. Ahead lay rocky grassland that stretched from Athrolan's mountainous southern border to the dense forest at its center. There were few cities and no trees to hide them. If the Miriken were going to catch up, it would be there. He had urged the Laen west, towards the vast forest of the Hartland, but the Laen were as stubborn as they were endangered.
The sun set and then the moon. The village of Marl Bodi quieted and all lanterns were dimmed. An'thor shifted in his seat, returning feeling to his legs. He could see candles in rooms across the way and the glint of the harness metal on the rider under the stable eaves. He rarely met the Laen's other protectors face to face. Other than he and Albi'giran, the mounted man below, they were all human. Albi'giran was Asai and had known An'thor for longer than their other companions had been living.
A door shut softly down the hall, making him straighten. He extinguished his candle and stepped quietly out the door. A tall woman stood at the end of the hall, briefly silhouetted by lantern light. Their eyes met. It was otherworldly, like a frozen mountain stream or mist rising from a lake. He had spoken to her only a few times, but he recognized her. She nodded once before hurrying silently down the stairs after the others.
They left on horseback in dark clothes. Their heads were covered. An'thor knew nothing would be enough to hide them. Two of his companions had ridden ahead and An'thor would be within sight behind, with the rest flanking the party within shouting distance. An'thor and his gray horse had been known on sight for decades and the first few legs of the journey he had relied on his reputation. After seeing three refugee parties massacred, he knew that nothing short of luck could help the Laen.
"You're the Wanderer, eh?"
An'thor glanced over at the use of one of his old epithets. The Vielronan man who drew abreast had joined them just a week ago. "As much now as ever. You come from the mountains, am I right?"
"I am called Henly. What do you think of this Laen-child they've with them?"
"I heard the rumors when war broke out. I hope she stays hidden."
"Like your people?"
An'thor snorted. "My people are not hiding. They are too engrossed in themselves to care about what happens elsewhere. Why did you choose to protect the Laen?" He turned to see a short, dark arrow bloom from the man's chest. An'thor whirled around, whistling through two fingers. "Go, Theriim!" One hand whipped a blade from its sheath, the other hand fell to the weapon at his hip. It was a revolver, the metal polished and the bone butt carved to match his tattoo. For once An'thor was glad his race thought in metal and fire. He could already feel the pounding hooves of their attackers. He thundered up to the line of Laen. The Miriken appeared over the crest of a hill and none of the other guards had arrived.
Already cut down, then.
The woman in the lead looked at him, startled.
"Miriken troop, ambush. West, go west." An'thor winced and dragged his horse's head about. "What are you waiting for? Ride!" The first Laen fell within two minutes. The others continued to ride, making for the shadow of trees. Tiny curls of gray power wound about the horses' hooves or over their shoulders to block arrows. An'thor had lived too long to weep at the sight. With so many dead, the Laen's power was little more than suggestion. Suddenly a strange, female voice interrupted his thoughts.
Your horse is faster.
He glanced over at the Laen pacing him. It was Liane.
She looked back at the Miriken who still closed the distance, then at the girl flanking them. Her eyes glittered silver.
Go.
He swerved into the girl's horse, grabbing her wrist "On my horse, now!" She clung to his cloak and hauled herself up behind him. Her hands locked at his belt and he leaned forward. Theriim surged ahead. Within moments they had outpaced the others. The sounds of pursuit faded. An'thor's hands cramped on the reins by the time the sun rose. The line of trees rose before them and he finally allowed Theriim to slow.
"We made it, my lady." He patted the girl's hands, still clenching his belt. "You're safe now." She did not move and An'thor closed his eyes tightly. He drew Theriim up in the shadow of the forest and reached behind. His fingers came away covered in long-cold blood. He tugged her hands apart and dismounted, gently pulling her down after him.
Fates, not this.
Her eyes were glazed with the effort of keeping herself alive.
Albi'giran's red charger thundered up behind them, covered in foam. There was blood on the asai's blade and burgundy hair, but he appeared unharmed. He tumbled from his horse when he saw the girl. "Dammit, no!"
An'thor tore the back of her dress open. "Healers kit, now!" He stared at the girl in his arms. She was barely into womanhood. Her eyes were beyond consciousness, beyond sanity. Her body was cold.
It's just her power.
Too cold. He was afraid to break the shaft, afraid to even field dress it.
What if I break her concentration?
He finally caught her gaze. The fear chilled his heart. He moved quickly, snapping the shaft and working his fingers carefully into the wound. The bronze arrowhead was narrow, but hammered with a triangular base. It was designed to bleed. He pulled, the metal coming free with a horrible sucking sound and a welling of black blood. His fingers were slick, but managed a hold on the dully-pulsing arteries. He fumbled with the sinew and needle for a second, catching her gaze again. It was dim and her eyes more gray than silver. He dried his fingers and began to sew.
Albi'giran watched helplessly. There were words for An'thor's actions.
Hopeless. Denial.
She was dead the moment An'thor pulled the arrow from her chest. She was dead the moment they realized her power. An'thor's movements slowed. His frantic attempts at surgery ceased. "You're safe." His voice cracked. "You're safe now." The man seemed to crumble from within. She was dead the moment Azirik declared war twenty years before.
Φ
The 31st day of Valemord, 1251
Despite having spent most of his last thirty-two hours on horseback, Bren's whole body hummed. His broadsword was drawn, stained with Laen blood. In the early dawn light he could make out the flashing flanks of the horse ahead. He saw his men dismounted along the forest's edge and slowed. His horse's muscles trembled from the effort to bring them this far. The Miriken stood in a wide circle around the base of a tree. They looked shaken, but no weapons were raised. Bren halted at the sight of the body lying amongst the roots.
He dismounted, armor clanking softly in the stillness. “Her guards?”
One soldier shook his head. “Gone, sir. They were here, working on her, but when they saw us closing, they took off.”
“Cowards.”
Bren frowned at the man who interrupted. He edged closer to the body, noting the surroundings. The girl was still. Her skin had the bruised cast of death, but he knew to take no chances. Finally, within arm's reach, he crouched. He tugged off a glove and felt for a pulse. “She's dead. Good shot, Doric.” He sat back on his heels thoughtfully. “Sorier, you and Gorden start digging. Everyone else, make camp nearby. We're done.”
His men slowly lurched into motion. He knew they were as tired as he, and they all deserved sleep.
Besides, this is it.
He could not look away from the girl's face. Her eyes were wide and her brow furrowed. He knew that expression. He noted the depressions where her guard's had knelt and the scattered evidence of attempted surgery. He finally found his knife and began to work on her fingers. The job was quick, and he had the small token wrapped in his kerchief within a minute.
The strength left Bren's limbs all at once. He managed to sit in the dirt with some dignity, but rested his head between his armored knees. The smell of blood was so familiar it went unnoticed among the other battlefield scents. He was tired of it. He tugged his helm off, too stifled by the smell of his own sweat. After several deep breaths he lifted his head.
“Fullsen!” Even his battle-shout sounded weary. They had reached the tree line two hours after dawn. The six Laen he had tracked from the mountains were finally dead. He managed to haul himself upright and be standing when the boy skittered to a halt before him.
“Lieutenant, sir?” He swayed where he stood, and he no longer had an arm on his right side. He seemed not to notice either.
“You wounded?” Bren peered at the dirty bandages.
“Healer fixed me up proper. Got a good story for the women!”
Bren shook his head. Fullsen's age was closer to a toddler than a man. “Can you pen a missive?”
“Surely, I scribe with my left anyways.”
Bren nodded once. He could not say that his own hands shook, that he feared he would be sick all over the parchment if he tried to write the letter himself. He tossed over his writing kit and gestured to the campstool someone had erected for him. “Address it to Milord King Azirik. He's on the coast now, I think.” He shook his head to clear fog from his thoughts. “We found the women. Just south of Marl Bodi, as expected. There were only six. They had guards, but we separated them. The Laen were cut down. One among them was the girl. She wore armor, and the others protected her above all else, above their own lives. We chased her to the Hartland, but she was already dead, shot down during pursuit.” He paused, as much to draw breath as to fight back nausea.
Is it normal to feel this way when war is over?
“I am confident that she was the Dhoah' Laen. I will await your orders. Signed Lieutenant Barrackborn.” He handed over the carefully folded kerchief. “Send this with it.”
Fullsen had carefully scribed each word, tongue clamped between his teeth in concentration. When Bren finished he glanced up. “Lieutenant, sir, permission to ask a question?”
“Yes?”
“Sir, is this true? What you just had me write. Did we really destroy the Dhoah' Laen?”
Bren frowned. “Yes. I suppose we did.” They had won. He had won the war his king began two decades ago.
“You killed her?”
Bren almost nodded, then shook his head. “Doric killed her. Arrow in the back.”
The boy leaned forward, his eyes hungry for more of the story. This was the event every Miriken boy was trained to work towards. “Did you see them? Did you see her? What did they look like?”
“I did. They were tall, I suppose. Hair blacker than night and skin that glittered, like dusted with silver.” He knew it sounded stupid, too poetic, but Fullsen was a boy, and a boy would not care. “Their eyes were silver. You could feel their power, cold, like walking the beach in winter. It was strange. Everything around them, even battle, seemed muffled.” He sighed. “I've fought them many times, but this was surely different.”
“What about the Dhoah' Laen?” Fullsen asked, rocking forward on his toes. “Was her skin made of metal? Did she have the black claws? Blue blood?”
Bren glanced up, staring at the boy, but not seeing him. He saw a face frozen in panic. Clouded eyes. “No. She looked like just a girl.”
Φ
The 33rd Day of Valemord, 1251
An'thor stared at the thick brown of his drink. He usually did not prefer alcohol. It dulled his senses and made for carelessness. He took a slow sip, rolling the acrid liquid around his mouth. It did not matter anymore.
I could drink until I'm tossed, and it wouldn't matter.
The tavern around him bustled, barmaids weaving around busy tables as patrons shouted as many lewd remarks as drink orders. An'thor and Albi'giran were a fragile bubble of despair in an oblivious, turning world.
Albi'giran knocked back another thumb of tar-whiskey. The grimace was violent on his ashen features. “We can't possibly be getting tossed in an Athrolani bar.”
An'thor's black eyes fixed on the other man's. “She's dead.” He gestured violently to the establishment. “This place will be gone in a year, two years, damn, I don't know, but it will be gone. Everything will be gone. The world is crumbling and the only chance at healing it is cold and dead on the edge of the Felds!” His voice was quiet, but venomous.
Albi'giran looked away. It did not seem real. “Perhaps I am grasping here, but are you certain she was...what you thought?”