Swords Over Fireshore (7 page)

Make ready.

Ehranan's voice rang in his mind, and through him to all the armies. A tension rose in the khi of the ælven as the hundreds across the river braced to move, took firm grip upon sword or bow, and turned their gaze westward. Their silence was a heavy weight within the wood.

To Rephanin it seemed even the trees watched. Their slow, dull, constant khi—the foundation of the forest—was more alert than usual. All living things awaited the outcome of this conflict.

Among the ælven west of the river, those engaged in fighting the kobalen, the reaction to Ehranan's command was anticipation, hope. If all went well, their ordeal would soon be over.

Forward.

Ælven warriors poured from the wood, streaming across the ford, thigh-deep in water that was cold and fouled with kobalen dead. The army had taken no water from the river since the battle began.

Reaching the western bank they spread across the valley, silent and swift. If any kobalen saw them they raised no alarm.

Swords to the fore, archers behind. Prepare to loose a volley on my signal.

The warriors crossed the river. Ehranan's voice in thought rang out with the force of every ælven's will.

Now!

Arrows vaulted through the air, a chorus of high-pitched voices singing doom to those below. They rose over the heads of the waiting sword-bearers, sailed in a high arc across the battle-littered ground, then fell with deadly effect among the kobalen, who shrieked and turned to see the new threat behind them.

Again! Loose!

A second volley rose and fell, scattering the mass of kobalen. They were fewer than they had been when they had first crossed the mountains, though they still outnumbered the ælven.

Loose!

With the third wave of arrows, kobalen broke from the fight and began to swarm up the steep mountainsides to the west. Some ran into the river and were swept away by the deeper waters below the ford. Some ran north toward their attackers, shrieking their anger, fitting darts to their throwing sticks as they ran.

Charge!

A cry rose from all the ælven as swords were raised and the line of warriors moved to meet the foe. Rephanin had a fleeting sense of his hand gripping a sword hilt, felt an echo of Ehranan's racing heartbeat as he advanced with his army.

Bright sparks of pain or surprise or bewilderment lit across the field as ælven were struck by kobalen weapons, wounded or killed. Rephanin tried to hold himself apart from them, tried to let the points of anguish fade against the greater glow of elation from the ælven armies.

The trap had worked; the kobalen were broken. All that remained was to hunt them down or drive them west into the cold winter grip of the Ebons.

Midrange Pass lay to the north of the northern army, out of the kobalen's reach now, and in any case it was blocked with snow. A cold death would be the fate of kobalen who ran westward and tried to struggle across the unforgiving mountains to their homeland.

Many did so. Many others tried the river. The few that managed to reach the eastern shore were picked off by ælven archers.

A few hundred maddened kobalen persisted in fighting, besieged north and south by the ælven. They fought ferociously, eager to cost the ælven as dearly as they might. A group of them broke through the northern army and scattered, some running across the ford, some escaping into the pass.

They would have to be hunted down, Rephanin agreed with Ehranan's fleeting thought. Highstone, Alpinon's chief city, was less than a day's ride to the north. The folk there were aware of the kobalen threat—indeed, some of the warriors on this field were from Alpinon's Guard—but it would be better to prevent any kobalen from reaching them.

The fighting dwindled as the last few kobalen on the field were slain. Rephanin drifted, waiting for Ehranan to give more commands. As fear and tension drained away, a great weariness overcame him.

Captains to me. Where is Phaniron?

On the field, some warriors began to tend the ælven dead and wounded, seeking out fallen friends and comrades, while the rest gathered around Ehranan. The army made no cry of triumph.

Rephanin let commands of a more mundane nature wash through him. Companies were sent to harry the kobalen who had run west, to begin clearing the river of kobalen dead, to gather wood for pyres.

Rephanin let it all pass over him. There was an ache within him, and he could not find its cause.

Night was coming on a cold wind. He preferred the night; when at home in the magehall in Glenhallow he was a night-bider, taking his rest by day. It had been so long now since he had rested at all that he had no will to try to find his flesh and ascertain its needs.

He should do so, he knew. The needs of the flesh, the needs of the soul. He wondered, did his soul bear the weight of all these kobalen dead? If so, he could not see that he would ever be able to atone.

Turisan fretted as he rode across another of the valleys south of Midrange. Sunlight had broken through the clouds, turning the snow in the road to slush and then to mud. The sun should have cheered him, but his thoughts were far distant.

Eliani was safe, but something had upset her. Only the conviction that she was not in immediate danger kept him from speaking to her. They would talk when both were resting.

He rubbed at his aching shoulder. The wound, taken a few days since at Midrange, still troubled him. The kobalen's dart had gone deep.

Was the battle still underway? He heard no sound of it on the wind, but they were yet some distance from Midrange.

The sun's warmth was making him uncomfortable. He threw back his cloak from his shoulders, and rubbed a hand across his heated brow. At that moment, his party crossed the ridge into the next valley.

He recognized it; the last valley to the south of Midrange. He had camped on the north side of it the night after being wounded, along with other casualties of the battle.

Some of them had not lived the night. One in particular he remembered—a guardian who had been severely injured, and whose passing he had eased with Eliani's help. Dahlaran had been his name; a young recruit. Too young.

“My lord...”

Turisan shifted his gaze to the ridge, where Gothalan pointed. Beyond it rose a towering pillar of smoke.

He drew a sharp breath. The smoke was thick and black, so the fire must be new. High Holding had burned, but not like this.

“Let us hasten.”

The guardians were eager enough to comply. Likely they all had friends on the field at Midrange. To know their fate the sooner, whatever it might be, was easier than waiting.

The horses ran willingly, catching the anxiety of their riders. Even so, it was needful to stop halfway across the valley and rest the animals. Turisan bit back impatience as they slowed to a walk.

The smoke had begun to spread, flattening against the sky. Turisan could smell it now; a foul, unclean fume. He frowned, contemplating his choices.

If they crossed into Midrange Valley and discovered the battle was lost, they must retreat at once. He would like to reach Highstone, less than two days' ride from here, but if the enemy held the valley he would not be able to do so without crossing the Silverwash and swinging far to the east. Even then, he would be risking his life and those of his escort, circling around the enemy.

If the battle was still underway, though ... he would seek out Ehranan and deliver his message, then be sent to safety behind the lines, no doubt. Ehranan might even order him back to Glenhallow. He would have to compose a diplomatic refusal. He meant to continue north, whatever the situation at Midrange.

His gaze remained fixed on the smoke as they progressed. The sun grew warmer, intensifying the smell. Turisan considered getting out a cloth to tie over his mouth and nose, but that would require halting to search in his packs.

At last the horses were rested enough to trot again. The party crossed the valley floor swiftly, then slowed as the road began to climb the southern slope of the next ridge of mountains.

Turisan glanced westward, seeking the campsite, for it had been near a stream running down from the mountains.  He spied the stream and called it to Gothalan's attention. Nodding, the guardian led the party off the trail, uphill toward the place where the wounded had camped. They paused to water the horses and fill their own flasks.

Turisan silently acknowledged those who had died in that place, promising anew that they would be remembered with a conce. As he looked up the hillside, his gaze fell upon the blackened patch of ground where the pyres had been lit the next morning.

He drew a sharp breath, and looked northward. The smoke, now half-hidden by the ridge, billowed and roiled as black as ever.

A pyre? His heart quailed at the thought. If so, it was a pyre larger than any he had ever known.

After a brief rest, Gothalan remounted and led them back to the road, which climbed steeply now through the pass that led into Midrange Valley. The horses labored even at a walk. When they reached the crest, Turisan urged his mount forward, beside Gothalan's, gazing over Midrange Valley.

Scattered all across the north side of the ridge, the southern edge of the valley, were the camps of the ælven forces. There was no clash of battle to be heard, only the tremendous roar and stench of the massive fire half a league away, at the center of what had been the battlefield.

Turisan swallowed, his nostrils contracting at the heavy smell of death. It was indeed a pyre, though not for ælven. Even at this distance he could see that the burning heap was not shaped in the way of his people's custom. Ælven had surely made the pyre, but not for their own. They were burning the enemy's dead.

“It is over.” Gothalan sounded oddly disappointed.

Turisan looked away from the fire, scanning the camp. “Where is Ehranan?”

“Those tents?”

There were few tents on the field, and most were makeshift, from blankets. Two large pavilions stood out among the rest, well up the slope. Turisan followed Gothalan toward them, with the rest of his escort coming after.

“Hail, Mindspeaker!”

The shout startled Turisan; he glanced toward the sound, but could not identify the source. Others took up the cry, and suddenly he saw cheer in the faces that had been gloomy a moment before.

If they knew the tidings he brought, they would not be so welcoming. Keeping that thought to himself, he made an effort to smile and wave, returning their greeting as he rode toward the commander's camp.

Voices, real voices of the flesh, intruded on Rephanin's awareness. Someone was near his resting place, and the knowledge brought him back to it.

The vague ache he had felt for so long now came into focus, and it was a hundred aches, complaints of his neglected flesh. He was almost too weary to reclaim it, but he did so, opening caked eyelids just as Ehranan came into the tent.

A cold gust followed before the flap fell again. Rephanin shuddered, and realized that cold was one of the many troubles of his flesh.

Ehranan came over to where he lay, frowning down at him. The ælven commander was from Eastfæld, hailing from Clan Ælvanen as Rephanin did himself. The warrior's long black hair was caught back from his face in a hunter's braid. His sharp blue eyes sought Rephanin's, dark with concern.

“How long has it been since you have eaten?”

Helpless to answer, Rephanin merely shook his head, the slight movement seeming to require a great effort. Ehranan's frown deepened. He turned away and strode to the tent door again, and for a moment Rephanin feared he would be abandoned.

“Bring some hot liquid. Tea, or broth, and bread. Quickly!”

The cold breeze came again, setting Rephanin shaking this time. Ehranan returned and knelt beside him, pulling Rephanin's dark gold cloak up over him, taking his hand. Khi flooded through his hand into Rephanin's flesh, breathtaking in its brilliance.

“Forgive me.” Ehranan's voice was low and pleading. “This is my doing. I should have—”

No blame. You had one or two other concerns.