Sworn To Conflict: Courtlight #3 (10 page)

“Titus,” she whispered with horror in her voice as she looked at the long gashes on his chest.

“Don’t worry about it,” he whispered, clearly in pain. “It’ll heal.”

She stared down at the green pus pouring from his open wound and wished her powers included healing. She looked up and around for help but everyone was engaging in battle. There was no one to help her. No one to save Titus.

He knelt with his fisted hand on the ground in front of him – trembling.

She whispered, “It’ll be okay. It’ll be okay. We’ll get help.”

She looked up and screamed in horror. A spidersilk, fangs dripping, was almost directly on top of them. Titus knew he couldn’t fight it. He did the only thing he could to get Ciardis an extra second to flee to safety.

Shouting at her to run, he staggered up with a roar and turned to face this new enemy with his battleax gripped hard in a double-handed hold at his waist.

Eyes wide, Ciardis did as she was told. As she turned back to call to Titus, she saw the massive spidersilk thrust down to pierce his armor and his heart.

That was her mistake. She stumbled. She fell.

The spidersilk tossed Titus’s dead body off of its forearm and clambered forward toward its intended prey: Ciardis.

Breathing heavily Ciardis watched death come for her with detached wonder. And then Inga was there. And she fought like a mythical Fury reborn.

She took on the killer of Titus with a battleax in one hand and a shield that she had picked up in the other. It was pure luck that she had them both in hand, because the spidersilk thrust down its forearms with almighty speed, intending to spear Inga just as it had done to Titus. She thrust up the shield and the battleax in a cross, catching both forearms in the thick wood of the axe and the metal of the shield.

Warlord Inga screamed her own battle cry of rage as she took off the spidersilk’s head and prepared to face another that had come up on the side. Ciardis stood waiting and watching to make sure than none snuck up on her again, and she heard an ominous hiss from behind her. Turning on light feet, her dress fluttering around her, she prepared to face her enemy.

There before her was a vividly purple spidersilk. It crouched low to the ground with its six legs splayed out as if it intended to leap. And leap it did, right toward her. She couldn’t turn her back on it to run, but it turned out she didn’t have to. From her left a blurry motion moved with the speed of a racehorse across the snow. With shock she realized it was another spidersilk, and it was carrying something. A thick wooden spoon.

What in the world?

It leapt and met the other spidersilk in midair, piercing the body in front of it with its pincers. With a screech the rescuing spidersilk walloped the enemy spidersilk with the spoon over and over again as they landed on the ground with the dexterity of their race. Soon the bigger spidersilk’s head was reduced to red mush on the ground, and Ciardis realized that her savior was none other than Inga’s spidersilk. It chattered something at her that she didn’t understand and then raced off toward Inga, who was battling five of the creatures with another of the frost giant race and an armored soldier.

Ciardis let out a cautious breath. There was nothing around her now but bloody mounds of snow, decapitated bodies, and the strange sounds of battles in the distance. Turning, she looked around to find a safe place to hide.

A male voice shouted a command over her shoulder as she made the turn. “Ciardis,
down
!”

It wasn’t a request, and she didn’t hesitate. She threw herself to the ground and felt the burn of fire on her spine as she went. By the time she looked up, the charred remains of a spidersilk lay less than a foot away and General Barnaren was running toward her. As he reached her he pulled her up against him roughly and she felt the back of her dress split.

Blushing, she realized that the lightning he had thrown had done more than singe the back of her dress. It had cut it in half like a fiery scythe. She clutched the dress to her front hastily, but it wasn’t like she could hunch over and hide. They were in the middle of a battle, after all. Fortunately Barnaren hadn’t noticed. He stood so close to her that she was practically underneath his arm—his mage arm, she realized. Some mages were able to build power more quickly in battle, because they favored the use of one arm over the other. Barnaren’s mage arm was his right. It was the one he always threw lightning from, or so she’d been told. In his left he gripped a sword.

She stayed where she was. Her opinion of Barnaren hadn’t changed but her desire to stay alive had certainly shot up. Together they could combine their powers on the offensive. It was a good place to be. Especially for a Weathervane.

“Let’s you and I set fire to a couple of spidersilks.” He didn’t look down her. He might have been commenting on the wind for all the emotion in his tone. But she heard the fierce satisfaction and she relished it. She could finally
do
something.

“Let’s,” she said, not bothering to keep the happiness from her voice.

He laughed. “Little mage. Not many a woman could be this calm in the midst of a battle.”

“My lord, I think you’re surrounded by women who are calmer, more methodical, and quite ferocious fighters. You just have to recognize them.”

Without prompting she gripped his upper arm, sought out his mage shields, and poured power and magic in the opening in his shields that he had left for her. As she did so she noticed that Barnaren’s soldiers had formed an honor guard around them. They fought the spidersilks and kept them away from their commander. 

And then the world split asunder.

General Barnaren called upon his power. Unlike the time she had enhanced the Weather Mage’s gifts with water, which had felt like being drawn into a maelstrom of high winds, cool rains, and turbulent rapids, this felt like being lit up with a hundred blazing fires and ferocious lightning strikes. The general’s magic was alive, sentient, and barely contained. And he delighted in it—the destructive power and the untamable nature of the gift that came with harnessing fire and lightning. He raised up his arm and crafted a huge lightning bolt that was almost godlike. Throwing it was easy. But, to Ciardis’s surprise, he wasn’t interested in throwing it like a javelin. He began to build on his power, forcing a tie between the bolt of fiery lightning and his power. When it launched from his hand a line went straight back from the thunderous bolt to his mage core. He pumped all of his magic into the bolt and it spread like a multipronged spear to coordinate a ring of attacks of fire and lightning that targeted the spidersilks. The bolts twisted in midair to become layers of crab nets that landed neatly on top of the spidersilks they targeted. The creatures went up in flames until nothing but charred remains lay in lumps across the fields.

Ciardis smiled in satisfaction.

General Barnaren surveyed the area around them. He said, mostly to himself, “There are more. There are always more.”

“More in the camp?”

He startled as if he had forgotten about the young woman who leaned against his chest under his arm. He didn’t take his gaze away from the surrounding area, but he did answer her.

“Yes, hiding. But more than that...these creatures have become brazen, but none have dared to wage a direct assault on our camp before.”

Ciardis wondered how they’d managed to pull this attack off. After a pause he looked down and noticed that she was clutching the front of her dress to her closely. With a muttered curse, he said “Why didn’t you mention the dress?”

She blushed, “Didn’t seem important when you’re about die.”

He coughed and took off his cloak to quickly to place the blood-stained fabric around her shoulders. She took it gratefully as she asked, “Are the spidersilks mages themselves?”

“No,” he said as he turned his attention to the men around him.

Brusquely Barnaren ordered his soldiers to search and clear the area of lingering combatants. Inga and a group of her women warriors walked up to intercept them.

“General,” said Inga, the dark blood of the creatures dripping down her face. “You should keep some alive.”

“Why?” he said without pause.

“They could tell us something—why they attacked us in broad daylight, for starters.”

The major from before stepped forward. He had a tourniquet tied around his upper arm but was otherwise unharmed. “We’ll get nothing from them even if we keep some alive. They’re ignorant beasts that we can’t communicate with.”

“That you can’t communicate with,” Inga said pointedly.

The general stared at her and stroked his bearded chin. “You’re right.”

He turned to the major. “Order the men to clear the camp and save at least one of the lingering bastards if found.”

The major saluted and left with one last lingering look of distaste at Inga.

Inga didn’t deign to acknowledge his presence once she got her way. She looked around the area, with a displeased look and her body covered in blood from head to toe. It looked like a bucket of the red fluid had been dropped on her, but Ciardis knew it was a testament to how many she had killed that day.

“How many did you lose?”

Inga’s gaze cut to Ciardis from where she surveyed the area in turmoil around them. “Four.”

Four was enough. Four was more than Inga had expected to lose today. Now her group of women numbered only twenty-two, and Ciardis knew it pained her deeply.

“I will bury my warriors,” Inga said shortly. She turned to leave without dismissal.

General Barnaren said, “
We
will bury our warriors.”

Inga let out of a bark of bitter laughter. “How many have you lost today, General?”

“Thirty-seven,” he said. Ciardis wondered how he knew. He hadn’t spoken to any about his losses yet. And yet he knew.

“Thirty-seven men who—”

“Thirty-two men and four women.” There was a note of challenge in the general’s voice.

Inga lifted her head and turned around to face him fully. Her face was proud and full of scorn. She watched him as if daring him to expound on what he had said.

He didn’t back down. “I was wrong. I was wrong to not give you the supplies you needed. Without your warriors, the losses taken today would have been so much more.”

Her gaze was still haughty. Her mouth closed in displeasure.

“Then we will bury our dead together, General. This changes nothing.”

His gaze sharpened with steel but he held back his temper. “And then we will strike. Not in the crags of the mountains or the dark pass. But a full-on assault at the gates. We cannot let this pass.”

Her face showed approval, but still hesitation reigned. “And my warriors?”

“With my knights at the crest of the full assault. Supplied with all needed to defeat this horde.”

“Then blood shall be shed.”

Ciardis watched both Barnaren and Inga warily. It was nice to see some unity among the forces fighting this war in the North, but quite frankly they looked more like ravenous wolves circling each other than two commanders unified in their desire to strike back. She sighed and brought her attention back to the fallen men and women around her, the screams rending the air and stomp of soldiers rushing their fallen comrades to the healing center.

Barnaren had sent a soldier to grab some clothes from Ciardis’s tent. He preferred to keep her in sight while they still scoured the area for enemy spidersilks. She hurriedly changed in a hastily arranged shelter of cloaks propped on sticks and emerged to see healers racing across the fields to attend to the wounded.

As she watched blue- and white-robed healers rush by with their charges, she spotted the man who had given his life to give her one more moment to get to freedom. Titus lay on his stomach in the melting snow on the frozen ground. As she knelt beside him, she felt a tear slip down her cheek. Another friend, another savior gone. He joined Damias, her Tutorials instructor, and Maree Amber, Head of the Companions’ Guild and Council, in the beyond. She felt bitter bile rise up in her throat as she fought to hold back her tears and keep a check on her emotions.

She traced a gentle finger on the large man’s cheek. She’d known him less than a day, and what a day it had been. But that didn’t mean she didn’t regret the way his life had ended. Once more evil had won and regret filled her that it had taken another kindred spirit from her.

Kneeling beside him, she wanted to do something. Cover him with a shroud. Remove him from the dirt and grime.

“Lass,” said a gruff voice behind her.

“Lass,” the male voice said more urgently.

Frowning, Ciardis looked up at the shadowed figure of a man with a cane. When she didn’t acknowledge him fast enough, he cracked the cane against her shin.

She cursed, fists balled. “What?” She didn’t know him. She barely knew anyone in this camp. What could he want with her?

“The time to mourn our dead has not yet come,” he said flatly. “There are still living people that still need to be saved.”

She rubbed her shin and said, “I can give my gift—”

“No, we need hands and bodies from those without the healing gift,” he said.

He continued while placing a hand on the shoulder of the skinny boy beside him, “Follow the boy. Gather as many rolls of bandages and thread as you can and he will follow behind to carry the ointment.”

Ciardis wanted to protest. In the face of this grisly veteran, she didn’t dare.

“Go!”

Hurrying, she followed the boy, who introduced himself as Simon, as they ran across the mud-strewn and wet battlefield. It was wet with more than just melting snow, and she couldn’t avoid the pools of blood no matter how hard she tried. The bottoms of her new pants and her legs were soaked with sticky red by the time they made it to the tent. It matched the splashes of blood on her face as she’d yet had time to fully clean herself up.

As she and Simon rushed into the tent, she was able to catch her breath as she grabbed the rolls of pre-soaked linens and thread. Finally she spoke. “How did he know I didn’t have the healing gift?”

Simon gave her an irritated glance, as if she’d asked a very stupid question, and said, “Your aura. You don’t have the color.”