Smoke and Rain (27 page)

This was familiar to him—gruff men and mud had raised him from boy to man. The Athrolani soldiers were no different from Azirik’s, but for the grudging respect they afforded him. The outguard was one of Athrolan’s fifteen cavalry battalions, numbering 900 men. Instead of riding with the usual wagon for every two patrols, the outguard traveled lightly, each man carrying everything he would need besides a tent and larger weaponry in his own kit.

Bren watched the activity before him with a contented smile.

“Comparing us to your own?” The gravely voice belonged to a broad, heavy man. His thick hair and short beard were gray. Bren recognized him from the counsel and squinted at the white-ringed insignia on the man’s breast, trying to remember the symbols for Athrolan’s officers. “Indred, right?”

“Yes. Two marks in white means a gallant.” The man offered with a wry smile, indicating the dots beneath the encircled white tower.

Bren smiled back and offered his arm. “Gallants are like our knights.”

The gallant took the arm. “Sir Indred of Ceir Bodian. You’ve met my middle son, Vinden, Captain of the company at Fort Stone.”

“I look forward to riding with you.

“And I will appreciate your input on the enemy.”

Bren glanced over, “Your comment, about comparing your men to Azirik's—”

“It was not out of distrust,” Indred assured. “I fought in several troops and commanded others before this guard. One cannot help but compare.”

“For one, I’ve never seen this many soldiers for a single city.”

“Our cities to the south have their own battalions as well, though they are smaller than Ceir Athrolan’s three.” Seeing two men carrying a bundle of arrows, he shouted across the courtyard. “Those are made of wood, not lead, Yarren. For fate’s sake, lift them!” He turned back to Bren. "You were a lieutenant?”

Bren nodded. “I commanded a score of men.”

Indred straightened. “I look forward to riding with you. I should make sure the wagoneers are squared away.” After a few paces he turned. “Lieutenant to king is a mighty leap,” he said with a grin. “I will see you at dawn.”

Bren trudged over to help cover the wagons, trying to ignore the weight in his stomach at the gallant’s words.

Φ

Arman rested his head on the table with a groan. The surface was littered with supper, strategy and maps. “I will go mad if I stare at another piece of parchment. Fancy a walk in the gardens?”

Alea sighed and raised her head from its own pillow of maps. “Arman, we are going to war. Real war. The gardens can wait.”

"Milady, you need to have a few moments peace or you’ll never survive this.”

“I did, at the ball.”

“If you enjoyed being paraded around and jostled by a hundred strangers then I don’t know you as well as I thought.”

She laughed. “It was enjoyable.” Finally she relented. “Very well, we can walk. I’ll clean up here if you get my cloak.”

His smile proved much of his fuss had been an act. As he was leaving his room, he collided with Bren.

“The men are almost ready.” Alea’s brother said by way of greeting. “Where are you off to?”

“Milady and I are taking in the gardens. We’ve been staring at tomes for too long.”

Bren’s face lit up. “I was hoping to see the memorials before we left.”

A pained expression crossed Arman’s face. “As entertaining as your company is, perhaps you could visit another time?”

Understanding dawned on Bren’s face. “You’re trying to court her!”

Arman glared at him. “Don’t be ridiculous. I’m trying to convince her not to go to war. It would be mighty hard to do that with your warmongering arse following us about and negating my every word!” He ducked Bren’s playful punch. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” He met Alea in her doorway as he exited with her cloak in hand.

“What was the shouting about?”

“Bren and I had a friendly disagreement.” He gestured to the hall, “Shall we?”

She took his arm as they walked slowly up the stairway to the monuments. The sun was almost gone, but the glow lit the white stone of the tombs. Alea ran a finger along the writing of a headstone. “It’s odd—all they put on these are surnames and dates.”

“Some have phrases.”

“Epitaphs. In Cehn we called them
hrjali.
They were written by loved ones. No man or woman was entombed without one. There were dates of birth and how long they lived, but none of death.” She looked down. “I wish I had been able to give my family that.”

Arman put a hand on her shoulder. “When this is all over, you can.”

Alea paused at the newly turned earth of a soldier’s grave to murmur a prayer before following Arman to the cliffs. There was no wall between the monument-dotted hills and the cliffs, so Arman plopped down on the grass at the edge. “Why do you say prayers, even if you never knew them? Even when the gods don’t listen?”

Alea frowned. “In Vielrona I read a philosophical book. It said that people are made of two things—a spirit, made of their experiences—and a soul. The soul is the purest form. The spirit is locked in mortality and fades when they die. The soul passes through the Laen’s power into the wellspring of energy in Le’yan.”

Arman looked over. “Milady, when I bound myself to you, was that truly my soul, or was it just a nice name?”

“Your soul.” She looked down. “Arman I wish you had not been forced to bind yourself so. This would be terribly difficult to do without you, but I am still sorry.”

Arman gazed at her in silence for a long time. He picked up a small rock from the cliff and threw it far into the ocean. The splash was too soft and distant to be heard. "I brought you out here to ask you not to go to Shadow.”

She looked over. “Arman, you know that’s not possible.”

“It is, though, Alea. The world has been without you for decades. It can survive another few months while you learn in safety.”

“It’s been without me too long already! I must make up for that time. You know how important this alliance is. You stood beside me in that throne room and swore their battles would be ours. How can you tell me to stay home and mind my knitting? You told me to use weapons. You told me to fight.”

“I also told you to be practical.” He sighed, tearing at the grass beside him. After a moment he tugged a tattered piece of parchment from his pocket. “I’ve been trying to write home, trying to explain everything that’s happened. I want to tell them I’m safe, you’re safe. I want to share all we’ve seen. I can’t seem to find the words.”

“And how does that relate to the cost of Banis silk?”

“Because if you go to this damned battlefield I have to follow you!”

She stared at him. “You want to go home. You want me to stay safe so you can run back and tell your tales? Boast to your friends? Impress Veredy?” She rose, careful of the cliff’s edge. “Then go. Dammit, whatever it takes to release you from your bond.” Her voice shook through forced calm. “I need to sleep before tomorrow. I’m sorry if taking promises seriously is inconvenient to you, but I’m going to Shadow, with or without you.”

“Lyne’alea!” Arman watched her stalk into the darkness without answering him. Heat erupted over his skin and he watched his flesh twist and dissolve into smoke. A snarl brimmed on his fangs and he glared out at the ocean. As much as Alea thought the bond had been forced upon him, he knew it was not true.
I chose this.
He just wished he knew why.

The 34th Day of Vurgmord, 1251

The Northern Coast of Athrolan

BREN TURNED HIS BAY cob in a lazy circle. “Welcome to campaign life!” He grinned, gesturing to four horses tethered by his remount. “Yours and Arman's.”

Alea secured her personal pack to the frame on one of her liver chestnuts. Her eyes were somber as they took in the light buckboards filled with fletchers and smiths.

“Never seen an army before, eh, sistermine?” Bren was in his element.

“Not like this. Aren't the soldiers nervous?”

“We’re raised on army-life. This is like going home. Grief for fallen comrades will fuel rage against the enemy and deepen the bond among survivors.” He widened the loose circle his mount paced around her.

“You miss it.”

“It was simpler.” He watched a wagon loaded with all manner of peddler’s goods trundle up the road to the south.

Alea jutted her chin towards it as she checked a buckle on her main mount. “What’s that?”

“An army cannot survive without its trail dogs. Better food than we can cook, with alcohol and women or men to forget the days. They’re non conscripts, with enough right to ride where they may, but they gain protection from us.”

Alea watched as more wagons joined the trail army.
Marches aren’t the glorious shining endeavors they are in tales.

Soon, Sir Indred called for order and the line of buckboards moved out, flanked by soldiers. The march wound through the narrow trail that served as a pass through the hills. The weather was warming, tinged with the scent of approaching spring. Alea fell in alongside what she learned was the tenth patrol. The pace was brisk but not urgent.

“I thought you were the commander’s guard,” Alea noted when Narier drew up beside them.

“Perhaps I took an interest in your safety.” He smiled good-naturedly and jerked his head at the front of the column. “I’m Indred’s officially. He just loaned me to Commander Dorcal for the journey to get you.”

“Speaking of your safety, where’s Arman?” Bren glanced across at her curiously.

Alea’s face darkened. “I’ve not seen him this morning. He could be halfway to Vielrona by now and I’d not know.”

Bren’s brow shot up. It was obviously a tender subject, but curiosity obviously won. “He said he wanted to convince you to stay in the safety of the city.”

“Safety was certainly not foremost among his reasons.” The anger ebbed from her tone, replaced by sadness. She had thought he might be one constant she could rely upon. Bren shot her a worried look, but turned to Narier to swap tales of the road. Though only two days from the city, the ride to Fort Shadow was long, and what comfort Alea had gained in the saddle was vigorously tested. The outguard moved quickly for such a large group, and while the first hours had been filled with jokes and laughter, the afternoon wore on in quiet. Only the occasional captain riding back or forward cut the monotony of thudding hooves and other horse noises.

Mid-afternoon brought a dusty looking Indred into their midst, calling for the men to change mounts. “How goes the road, milady? Lieutenant?” With no specific title by which to call him, the Athrolani soldiers chose his Miriken rank and gave him the respect due a captain.

Bren grinned, road dust darkening his teeth. “I missed the marching, sir. Your outguard is an ingenious adaptation.”

Indred nodded his thanks. “Dhoah’ Lyne’alea, I’m sure you could take a turn on the seat of a buckboard.” The two squires afforded to the tenth patrol as drivers eyed her.

“I’ve grown used to the saddle, but thank you.”

“We’ll camp at dusk and ride out early, but easy. We must save our strength if the Berrin choose to surprise us.” He continued down the line, passing the word along.

Reka jogged up beside Alea as the gallant rode off. She had lasted only an hour in the saddle before joining the other Bordermen on foot. “You should take his advice. Even I would rather brave the seat of a wagon than ride on meat.”

Φ

It was closer to night than dusk when they finally pulled up at a copse of trees. A patrol had been sent ahead with the tent wagon and the camp waited for them. The clusters of fires were quiet as they cooked amongst themselves. Tomorrow they would pass within sight of the large town of Marl Orna, but would not stop. They would not have a true supper until they made final camp at Fort Shadow. Bren stayed awake long after Alea retreated to her bedroll. He stared at the firelight, twirling the amulet around his neck and singing under his breath.

“I am a soldier and bled have I

For country and king I will fight.

At last we stand 'neath

the gods’ light

I am a soldier now, bleed will I.”

“What is that?” Arman crouched at the edge of the firelight. He looked as travel worn as the others, though Bren had not seen him at all that day.

“Kind of you to join us, Wardyn.” Fatigue stole any sting from the barb. “It’s the symbol of Toar.” He waited for the younger man to attack him for wearing a gods’ amulet, or laugh at his devotion. Arman did neither, only nodding for him to continue. “Many Miriken soldiers wear something of the like. It means peace, in case we die without our blessings said.”

“You really believed in them.” Arman’s tone was not mocking, simply curious.

“I saw the power they gave Azirik and that they had over him.” He shook his head. “But it was always indirect. I never saw
them.
Only heard their voices. Not like seeing Alea.”

Arman cleared his throat. “I told her I wanted to go home.”

“Toar, why?”

Arman shrugged and unrolled his bedroll beside the fire. “Because it’s the truth. I don’t want to guard her any less, I simply thought this respite would allow me to go back for a time.”

Bren shook his head. “I doubt any real respite will come. If it does, we’ll be too wrapped in war to realize it until it’s over.” He crawled under his own coverlet and stared at the firelight on the tree trunks. His bedroll was a welcome reprieve after the day’s ride, but sleep would not come.

Φ

Dawn sunlight pierced through the bare branches moments after the call to rise. Alea groaned softly, but crawled out of her bedroll and began to pack. Her movements stilled when Arman appeared from the center of camp. She met his eyes for a second, but said nothing. She buckled her belt and clipped on a dagger and quiver. The movements were practiced.

“You’re getting used to the road.”

“It’s more familiar than a fine palace. It’s the only familiarity I have left.” She gestured to her saddle-frame with her elbow as she tied up her hair. “Mind handing me that?”

Arman did as she asked before lifting his own pack, already tied up. “We ride out in a quarter of an hour. The boys will be by soon to wrap up camp.” He left without another word.

She closed her eyes against the ache of disappointment and anger. The outguard left the cover of the sparsely wooded hills and entered the northern Felds within an hour. The grassland was brown and waving, unlike the scrubby gray of its southern counterpart by Vielrona. At noon they passed within shouting distance of Marl Orna, but continued towards the ominous smudge of smoke on the western horizon.

“At least the road makes it feel like progress is being made.” Arman nudged his mount over to hers. “I wrote them, you know. Before we left. You could send a letter too.”

“I wouldn’t know what to say, Arman. They aren’t my family. You seem to have forgotten that
I
can’t go home.” She was saddle-sore, her shoulder ached, and her head pounded. She was in no mood to talk.

Indred called for a halt close to evening. The ground sloped gently down to a vast plain. The broad ribbon of a river was tucked close to the expanse of the Hartland that reached north and south. For Shadow stood between the forest and the water. The Berrin camped around the fort, guarding themselves with rushing water. The entire scene was hazy with smoke. Pyres still burned, though it was unclear if they were sending the Berrin’s dead to peace or the Athrolani to damnation.

“We camp on this side of the river. Squires will set up sleeping tents, men you erect guard posts and barricades.” He thrust his hand in the air, signaling to ride out.

Alea stared at the remains of battle. Spears pierced the ground at intervals along the near side of the river. Each bore something on its tip. “Are those wards against us?” She peered closer before Arman could stop her. They were the heads of Athrolani soldiers, disfigured and holding parts of their own bodies in their mouths. “Fates.” Her mouth tightened as she fought the urge to vomit. Alea squeezed her eyes shut.

Arman put himself between her and the sight. “Let’s find where we’ll be sleeping.”

For once she was inclined to agree. The camp came together quickly, soldiers’ tents arranged in a loose horseshoe facing the enemy camp, well out of bow range. The center of the camp held officers’ tents and makeshift strategy halls with the infirmary tents forming the arch of the horseshoe. The entire camp was subdued and Alea crawled into bed before supper, too tired and shaken to eat.

Φ

The 36th Day of Vurgmord, 1251

The shrieking of Athrolani horns pierced the damp air. Alea’s eyes flew open and she flattened herself farther to the ground. She peered under her tent flap at where Bren had slept. His bedroll was empty and cold when she pressed her palm to it.

A moment later Arman crouched beside her. “Berrin, trying to take the banks.” He tugged her to her feet. “Come on.” He led her along the east side of camp, furthest from the Berrin. “We settled almost everything this morning.” Bordering the southeast edge were scores of picket lines.

“They were unloading wagons when I went to sleep last night and now it’s a small city.”

“They know their work.” Arman pointed to the northeast. “The trail-army set up along there and the mess fires too.”

Alea glanced up as a long roll of thunder followed his words. “What about the attack?”

Arman shrugged. “They’re skirmishes, not more than a dozen men to each side. It’s been happening all morning. We erected barricades, but the work is slow. The first two times I woke, panicking like you did. Now it’s routine, I guess.” He kicked at a rut with his boot. “Care for breakfast?”

Hunger roared to life in her stomach at his words. “I could eat three.” She followed him across the camp. The soldiers moved in practiced chaos. Some attended their kit, groups of others rushed past to follow orders. The change was drastic. Men who seemed somber the day before were boyish, even in the face of bloodshed. The mess fires were low, most soldiers having eaten close to dawn. Arman found a mostly-edible meat-and-pepper mixture layered on toasted bread.

Alea crouched beside him at the cook fire. The silence was still awkward.
At least we’re speaking now.

“Arman!” Bren hurried up, barely waving at Alea. “We’re banking the river. Wagons, anything that can be spared is going into the barricades. We need hands.”

Alea looked up at him. “We’re making new banks?”

“The river’s too open. If any cross, we need to be close enough to shoot them down without putting ourselves in range.”

Arman rose and shoved the rest of his second breakfast into his mouth.

“What of me?” She could not sit on her hands until someone relieved her boredom. “What can I do?”

Arman waved his hand at the infirmary as he followed Bren. “The healers could use help. It's safe there. Help the wounded and dying.”

She stared as he and Bren jogged out of sight along the makeshift road between the tents.
Dying? Already?
Loneliness returned and she wrapped the rest of her meal for later. She smelled the infirmary tents before she saw them and was glad she had not finished breakfast. The sickly sweet scent of blood and sick hovered about the place like a wet cloak. She began breathing through her mouth before pushing through the tent flap.

Camp chairs were padded with cloaks, shirts and whatever else could be found. Cots filled the rear. She had learned rudimentary healing in Cehn, but never practiced. Nor had she ever seen the aftermath of battle. It was a loud mess. There were enough wounded to make her heart falter. A man’s sudden groan as he shifted his seat caught her attention. His stance was awkward due to the arrow that passed through his thigh. It stuck fast at the fletching. The more seriously wounded men meant he had to wait. He offered her a smile that was closer to a grimace.

Her nerves disappeared. “May I help?”

“You think I’d say ‘no’?” He turned and winced as his muscle tightened around the wood.

“Stay still.” She pushed up her sleeves and looked closer. Her fingers were gentle as she probed the skin around the wound. “Might you have a knife?”

He handed it to her wordlessly. She cut his already ruined breeches away from the wound. “You’re lucky it missed the vessels.” She gripped the arrow just below the fletching. “This will hurt.” Her words were apologetic.

“Obviously. Just do it.”

She snapped the fletching off then gripped the arrow at its head and tugged. The soldier gasped and she faltered. Suddenly a large steady hand wrapped around hers and helped guide the bolt free.