Foretellers (The Ydron Saga Book 3) (23 page)

After four days of fighting, the last of Dar’s soldiers had been vanquished and the endaths gave no indication they sensed any others remaining. Ortok, Tahmen and the rest of the leaders had posted lookouts throughout the eastern Expanse. But when cross-country forays turned up no further traces and Bedistai reminded them of Harad’s pending threat, they ordered their pods home.

Bedistai studied the returning procession and thought they made a sorry lot, deciding he had fared better than most. Although his freshly healed wounds had pained him often during combat, they had nevertheless remained closed. While many of his tribesmen had suffered physical wounds, he studied the others as they made their way home and noticed how all who survived had been changed in less obvious, but certainly significant ways. Four straight days of unrelenting slaughter had transformed these men from vigorous hunters into ravaged souls haunted by ghosts. Their countenances had lost their vitality, appearing as hollow masks devoid of humor, so much so that Bedistai wondered how his own must appear. The hunters who had gone out to defend their homes had never been soldiers, certainly not killers. The animals each one had slain had been killed for the sake of their tribe’s survival. None but Bedistai had ever taken another man’s life until the past few days had forced each to lay down dozens.

He considered those earlier occasions when he had been forced to kill and saw how even those few acts, while justified, had robbed his soul of some of its levity. These past few days, he knew, had cut him deeper.

Glancing back, he spotted Dorman. A youth no longer, Dorman had transitioned into manhood as he fought and killed soldiers hand-to-hand and face-to-face. It was still a year before he would have passed through the traditional rites, and he had done so without any of the joy that would have commemorated what should have been a momentous celebration. Ignorant of what killing really involved, Dorman had pled for the pod to allow him to join them in combat, believing that being a warrior was somehow glorious. When circumstances had swept him into battle, he had fought alongside their best and Bedistai wondered how many dozens of men the youth had felled since. Like the rest of his brothers, Dorman was covered in blood, some not yet dried upon his person. His customary smile had long since vanished, now replaced by a mouth set hard against whatever new horror might now rise against him. How did he sleep, wondered Bedistai, with the taste of other men’s blood in his mouth? What kind of dreams filled his sleep after days spent hacking limbs and disemboweling the men into whose faces he had stared? The youth’s eyes no longer darted between the others, eager to share some new jest or planned piece of mischief. Now dark and hollow, Bedistai wondered if they even noticed the terrain through which the pod traveled, or if, instead, the mind behind them passed the hours revisiting recent horrors.

The endaths also seemed changed. Once vigorous and alert, these creatures, more than any others in the world, usually cavorted. Now, their eyes no longer scanned the horizon or noticed birds overhead. These beasts, who had lived through more carnage than they would have otherwise—certainly more than they had deserved to see—appeared weighted down by the past days’ tragedies. Their necks sagged and they held their tails low, not yet dragging, but no longer extended in their customary display of vitality.

Even the sky seemed bloodied, thought Bedistai. Mahaz, in attempting to pierce the thin veil of clouds, tinged the stratus a deep reddish orange. Only the sporadic songs from winging flocks of chur offered evidence the entire world had not yet gone into mourning.

A clarion call snapped Bedistai’s head erect. He rose in the saddle and stared toward the west as the long keening wail of the Horn, Mostoon’s alarm, pierced the valleys to the place where the hunters were riding. The intervening miles and uneven terrain did little to mute its plaintive sound.

This tocsin had only ever sounded when Mostoon had come under attack. Now it brought the entire pod to acute attention. Ortok, who was riding in the lead, turned in the saddle and held his arm high until all eyes fastened onto him. When all were watching, he brought it down in a grand sweeping arc that ended pointing westward. He had issued no verbal command, yet all of the endaths came alert, and in that instant transitioned from their desultory amble to a heart-stopping gallop. All riders fell prone and secured themselves in anticipation of the mandatory twists and turns the land’s convolutions would require.

Bedistai cast aside all pain and dejection as his thoughts went to Darva, to Salmeh and the rest of Mostoon. Leaving the navigation entirely to Chawah, Bedistai glanced around and saw that the rest of the pod had likewise changed demeanor. Torn from their listlessness, rider and steed alike came alive with renewed purpose. All signs of distress disappeared as each hunter readied himself against the coming battle, their fervor replacing despondency. As they rode, each hunter’s hands went reflexively to the bows and quivers on his person, then moved to the hafts of the knife or axe he carried at his waist as he insured he had forgotten nothing.

Moving at their greatest velocity, the endaths tore through the land startling unsuspecting game. Two umpalls, a bull and cow grazing peacefully, struggled to scale a hillock to avoid being trampled. Seconds later, a cluster of marmaths scurried to take shelter underneath a fallen log as a flock of koreths erupted from a willow grass thicket in a fusillade of winged chaos.

… … … … …

Less than an hour had passed since the Horn last sounded when, from around the dozens of hillocks surrounding Mostoon, the pods burst into the dell where the Haroun village stood. Bedistai halted Chawah in the center of Mostoon’s commons. Save for Darva, Salmeh and half a dozen others, the village seemed deserted. Each of these women was armed and most of them were bloodied. Bedistai dismounted and Darva ran to him, embracing him and kissing him hard on the mouth. When breathing became necessary, she drew back and appraised him while he regarded her. Like the men with whom he rode, her face was red with blood and the front of her clothing was spattered. Her eyes widened and her lips fell apart as she studied him.

“Are you alright?” she asked.

It was only when she ran her hands over both of his arms and his torso that he realized how bad he must look.

Although he assured her, “I’m fine,” Darva appeared unconvinced.

Setting aside her concern, she announced to the pod members, “Harad’s men are here. They’ve almost reached the gardens. We’ve been holding them off as best we could, but they’ve already slain several of the women and village elders. We were afraid they’d find the children and slaughter them all before you arrived.”

“Where are they?”

“It’s easier if we show you,” said Salmeh. “They’re coming at us from several directions. Each of us will take three of the pods with us.”

Bedistai nodded and looked to the others who dismounted and assembled on foot. Darva began instructing Bedistai’s pod and the ones who remained with them, while the rest of the women began leading the others away.

“Our group will head east of the garden to join Wyeth. I’m afraid he’ll be overwhelmed if we don’t arrive soon,” Darva told him.

He had started to remind her that Ortok was in charge and she should address her instructions to him when Ortok raised a hand and waived his comment aside. In that instant, command of the pod changed hands.

“You lead and we will follow,” Bedistai told her.

She gave a worried smile, then turned and ran off between the houses with the hunters following close on her heels. They had been running for hardly a minute when they found themselves in the thick of things. Women of all ages, along with gray-haired men, all armed with spears and hunting knives, were holding off lines of swordsmen clad in an odd array of bronze and leather armor.

Outsiders might have been startled to see how well Mostoon’s defenders were handling them, but Bedistai and those arriving with him knew how well and for how long each villager had trained against just such an event. Although the Haroun were not warriors, their historic past had been punctuated with attacks from outside, and their tradition of preparedness had saved them time and again. Bedistai understood full well the reason most had fallen today was due to the overwhelming number of invaders.

He and the rest of the pod arrived a few yards behind the line of battle. As he unsheathed his knife, he glanced around for Darva and saw she was already running to engage a swordsman. The elder with whom the soldier had been fighting had taken a step backward and had caught his heel on some sort of protrusion. Arriving a few feet from where the man lay with his hunting knife raised to ward off his attacker, she shouted to make herself heard.

“Coward!” she cried. “Kill an old man when he’s down? Try me, if you’re man enough.”

The soldier halted, his weapon raised to deal a fatal blow, and grinned when he saw her. His sword arm relaxed and he leveled the blade to address this new combatant. That brief distraction was all the elder needed. Old in years, but far from feeble, he leapt to his feet and buried his knife inside the soldier’s belly. When it penetrated to its hilt, he gave the blade an eviscerating twist. The soldier shrieked and watched in horror as blood fountained from the wound. As the elder withdrew his knife, the soldier released his sword. His knees buckled and struck the ground as he collapsed onto them. The look of surprise was still on his face when the soldier fell forward. The elder cast Darva a thankful glance before turning to confront yet another.

Darva began parrying a larger man’s sword and Bedistai turned to grapple with an axman. Ortok was taking on two of Monhedeth’s infantry when Dorman jumped in beside to assist.

The rest of the day melded into the previous four as face-to-face, hand against fist, knife deflecting sword, the Haroun held off and gradually gained the upper hand against Harad’s better-armed but poorly trained soldiers. From time to time, as Bedistai felled one attacker then turned to take on another, he would catch glimpses of Salmeh or Wyeth, of Dorman or Ortok, climbing over bodies to drive the next wave of soldiers back.

Dusk was falling and the fighting had diminished to the point individual voices were becoming distinct. The sound of weapons clashing was no longer overwhelming. Bedistai was withdrawing his blade from one man and was turning to face another, when he realized this new opponent was a poor conscripted farm boy. Too young and unskilled to have any business wearing armor, too terrified to raise the sorry excuse for a weapon he had been given to protect himself, the lad stood stock still before Bedistai and waited to meet his death. It was then Darva screamed.

Fearing the worst, Bedistai shoved the young lad aside and was glancing about to see some trace of her, when another poor excuse for a soldier leapt toward him. Irritated by the interruption and only half aware of what he was doing, he dispatched the man quickly, grabbed him by the collar and hurled him to the ground.

This time, as his eyes sorted through the shapes of people fighting, he saw her. Perhaps five yards away, Darva stood motionless. Her sword arm hung limp while her other hand grasped the shaft of the arrow protruding from her breast. As if sensing his gaze, she turned to look at him. Her eyes were still wide with the surprise of having been shot as they locked onto his. Her lips began forming what he thought would become his name, when her face went blank, her body sagged, then collapsed onto the body of another.

“Darva!” he cried.

He could not tell if his mouth had actually uttered her name or if he had imagined it. He barely felt the knife tumble from his hand as he raced toward her. Dropping to his knees at the place she had fallen, taking care not to drive the arrow farther into her or put pressure against it, drew her into his arms and turned her to face him.

“Darva,” he whispered.

She did not react.

He reached out a hand to caress her cheek, but halted when he saw how bloody his hand had become. Not wishing to soil Darva’s face with the blood of another, angered by the lack of water with which he might wash, he wiped it against his vest. When it came away only partially clean, he attempted to rub away the rest on his legging, but found his clothes too bloody to help. Confused, needing to touch her, not wanting to sully her, he bit back his frustration over what he knew to be something negligible and touched her gently.

She did not respond.

He held his hand above her unmoving form, still desperate for something to do as it hovered over her with no place to alight that would serve any purpose. Darva’s unseeing eyes stared blindly past and her mouth gaped in the uncompleted syllable. There was no movement of her chest, no rise and fall, and only now did it come to him she was no longer with him.

He tilted back his head and opened his mouth in a long keening wail. Tears stung his eyes and flowed down his cheeks, then dripped, leaving clear, unsullied traces as they ran down Darva’s bloody face.

He had been sitting, gently rocking her on his lap for what could have been minutes when he thought he heard someone calling. Inhaling deeply, he was struggling to return his attention to the battlefield when the voice came again.

“She was yours, wasn’t she?”

Confused by the question, believing he should somehow recognize the voice, Bedistai raised his eyes and saw a man clad in black standing a few yards away.

“I never forget an enemy,” said the man. “And I never forget when someone has wronged me.”