Smoke and Rain (28 page)

Crouching behind her was one of the largest men she had ever encountered. His fuzzy brown hair and bright hazel eyes made him more comical than intimidating, as did the healers’ apron stretched across his girth. “You did well, but a smooth pull hurts less. Stitch him up, then keep going.” His smile was gentle as he handed her an apron and a packet of thread and needles. Old joints groaned as he rose. “Your help is welcome, Dhoah’.”

She was threading the needle when she realized her patient was silent. She glanced up and found him staring.

“Dhoah’ Laen?”

She did not answer. She was beginning to envy the anonymity Arman had when he was not with her.
No wonder he and Bren avoid titles where they can. With titles come expectations and I only know half the legends I’m supposed to become.
“Hold still.”

“You’re younger than I thought you’d be.”

She sewed his wounds quickly, pressing an icy fingertip to them when she was done, willing them to heal. She wiped her hands clean as she rose. “It won’t have an infection.”

“In this rain, how can anything not?” He fell silent at her pointed gaze. He grabbed a makeshift crutch and bowed his head to her. “Thank you, then.”

Alea worked her way through the tent, attending lesser wounds and stitching the men who bled for her. The rain began that afternoon, slow fat drops that drenched everything in moments. She sank gratefully into a chair in the supply tent at midafternoon. The remains of her breakfast were cold and slimy.

The large healer joined her a few minutes later. He offered his hand with a smile. “Captain Guffe. You do good work. Fates know we need help.” He handed her his water skin. “You’re welcome as often as you like.”

She took a few gulps and handed it back. “I’d like that. I feel useless elsewhere. I’m surprised how well they receive me.”

“Some are in enough pain not to care, but I think they respect you for holding your weight in camp duties—especially one so inglorious. You were raised noble and perhaps they expect you to act as such.”

She leaned back with a shrug, eyes lidding.

“Most are patched enough—you should rest. These days are longer than many are used to.”

“There are a few more I’d like to visit. I’ll rest when my brother and guard return.”

He eyed her. “Why did you follow us out here?”

“I need to learn more about battle before I know how I can help.” When she looked up, she realized how weak her words made her sound.

“You’re still learning.” He laughed kindly at her expression. “We all are.”

Φ

The 37th Day of Vurgmord, 1251

The City of Ceir Athrolan

Elle paused at the gates. One cracked hand shaded her eyes as she peered up at the jagged towers. It had been years since she dared enter a city, longer since she had seen Athrolan proper. “Do you think she’s here?”

An’thor glanced over. His dirt-darkened face was somber. His head-wrap was carefully tucked around his shoulders. The southern clothing was clearly uncomfortable for him, but the last thing they needed was recognition. “It should be easy to find out.” When they stopped at a market stall for food, An’thor leaned forward. “I heard tell the Dhoah’ Laen is here, in this city.”

The shopkeeper nodded as he folded oilcloth around their bread. “Was until three days past. She marched to Shadow with the outguard. Tell you though, my cousin Leni said she didn’t look much like Laen to her—just a girl-child.”

Elle ignored An’thor’s speculative response to the man and turned to look up at the palace’s dome. She had been here. In three days hundreds of leagues separated them once again. She shot An’thor a pointed look as they headed farther down into the city.

“Don’t turn those eyes on me like that. We made the best time we could. You’d be useless to her dead, and then you’d never see her.”

Elle frowned. “Forgive a mother’s desperation, but I only saw her sleeping.”

“You could have woken her.”

“I doubt either of us are ready for that conversation. Besides, a dirty way house was not safe for such things.”

“I still can’t believe we’re going to Mirik. This is the worst of all your idiotic plans—including bedding a Laen-killer. Twice. At least.”

“You’ve had as many poor plans as I.” She hoisted her pack higher. “And you agreed to go with me.” She stepped to the left as a wagon laden with weapons clattered past. Leaving her daughter had been agony. It hurt worse than leaving Bren, because it had been a choice. Bren had a father—even if he was a madman. The prospect of seeing Alea, holding her, was surreal.

“Do you think she’ll hate me?”

“I’m not the man to ask about familiar relations, my dear.” He pointed to a small warehouse on the eastern edge of the harbor, dodging the question deftly. “We’ll find our ship there.”

Elle followed him, not really listening to the practical litany the warrior kept up. “Why would she go to Fort Shadow? It’s the worst place she could be.”

“You stayed in Azirik’s court for years, knowing he planned the genocide of your people. She comes by stubbornness justly.”

Φ

The 39th Day of Vurgmord, 1251

The Athrolani Camp at Fort Shadow

Two hours before dawn, Bren shook Alea awake. “Messenger just arrived from the city. Call went out a few moments ago for the officers.” He handed her a jerkin “Get dressed and bring your cloak.”

“It’s still raining?” She tugged an extra shirt on under the jerkin and followed him out.

“The way the soldiers tell, it’ll last days.” His words grumbled. “Mirik had fog during this season, but outright rains were rare. This is asinine.” Most campfires they passed barely smoked.

“Arman?” Alea shrugged into her cloak until just her eyes were exposed.

“He relieved some men building the blockades. Man has the energy of a god.”

“More like a Rakos.” Alea ducked under the tent flap Bren held open for her. The gathered officers fell quiet at her entrance, eying Bren when he followed her in. A few more officers trickled in, bringing cold and wet with each opening of the tent flap. Arman settled beside Alea a few minutes later. When all were assembled, Indred leaned forward, “I received a message from General Aneral. Her scouts sent word that reinforcements are arriving for the Berrin in two days. She planned on sending another battalion to get this business done quickly, but she cannot. Two raiding parties were sighted near the capital and larger forces. They seem to mass towards the northern coast. The rest of the men stay in the city in case of attack.”

The soldiers groaned. One gallant leaned forward. Her face looked as tired as Alea felt. “What is our course?”

“We stay.”

“Excuse me, Sir Indred, I don’t understand.” Alea stood to better see the man. “Why can’t we attack before the reinforcements come? Or retreat until we can gather a proper force?”

Muttered retorts followed her words, but Arman’s glare silenced them.

Patience was tempered with condescension in Indred’s eyes. “They attack in small forces, biting our flanks while we erect barricades. In the time it would take to rally an attack now, they would overrun the camp. If we retreat, they would attack as we fled. We are the barrier between them and Ceir Athrolan. There is no retreat. We are taking the only course left to us—laying siege to Fort Shadow.”

Alea’s stomach dropped. She barely heard the plans. Noting her expression, Bren excused himself and led her from the tent. He found a miraculously dry spot under an awning several paces away and pulled her aside, “Alea, they don’t expect you to know tactics.”

“But I made a fool out of myself. My people were right, we have no place here!” Her gesture took in the entire camp.

“The Laen warned you away from this?”

Alea shook her head wearily. “The Sunamen. My foster-father taught that we do not use weapons. We do not show emotion. We do not kill. These things are disgraceful and cowardly.” She rested her head in her hands with a groan. “I have done all.”

“Alea those rules are not upheld in Athrolan, for one, possibly anywhere else. They were certainly not meant for the Dhoah’ Laen.” He put an arm around her. “You are not a disgrace or coward.”

“But surely I am useless. Arman enjoys being a soldier. Without me, he’s simply a man and he likes that. I can’t even blame him for it. Everything happens so quickly and I feel as if I can do nothing. I’ve not learned enough. I should be training myself or studying.”

Bren arranged the mud into little ridges with his toe. His fidgeting betrayed his confusion as to how to comfort her. “Alea, sometimes the only way to learn is by doing. You are valuable in the infirmary and I know more men would be dead without your hands.” He looked down at his boots, huge in comparison to hers. “Before I mastered the sword—before I was even allowed to pick it up—I had to clean the armor of every soldier in the army.” He ignored her frown. “And I cursed it, swore up and down, and thought I’d never be a fighter. When I finally picked up a weapon I understood why I had to clean the armor. I had learned how every style fit. I know where straps held pieces together and where gaps appeared when the wearer moved. With a sword in my hand I was deadly because of the knowledge I gained cleaning that armor.”

She tilted her head back to look at him. “You’re saying this is my armor cleaning?”

“I guess. Often we learn the most when we’re uncomfortable. We just don’t see it until later.”

Talk spilled from the tent as the officers filed out. Arman followed them, pausing as he caught sight of Alea and her brother. Bren beckoned him over, but the man shook his head.

Alea looked up to see him disappear into the rows of tents. “I wish he understood that I want to be his friend. I want to laugh with him.”

“Let him see you as a person, under your titles and power. Stop trying to be perfect.” He sighed. “I need to see to the barricades, but we can talk more tonight, if you want.”

“Stay safe.” She flashed him a smile. She would be needed in the infirmary shortly, she was certain, but she could wait a minute. She rose, leaning on the awning’s pole and watched the rain.

Φ

The 45th Day of Vurgmord, 1251

The river ran red from Berrin sacrifices. It was the same every morning—a goat, chickens when supplies began to run low, and Athrolani soldiers when they were lucky. Arman never would have recognized their surroundings as the gentle river and rolling fields he had seen upon their arrival. The rain turned fields to mud and foot rot became as much of a danger as battle wounds. The bank eroded and the heavy sandbags reinforcing it were half-submerged in muck. Stacked four high, all but the topmost protected the camp from the rising water.

Pallets made from wagons and branches leaned outwards, guarding against enemy archers. The incessant damp had rotted them in places and with the constant barrage of arrows and water, they needed continuous repair. Arman headed to where two men worked at such repairs. They were covered in water as much as tar and greeted him wearily.

“Thank fates,” one groaned as he tugged off his oilcloth suit. “I thought the duty-change would never come.” He handed Arman the protective gear.

The Rakos pulled it on and tied it closed before clambering over the sandbags. Another man relieved the other worker and handed Arman what had once been the top of a barrel. Arman painted one side with tar before slapping it over a large leak spouting through the slats. He nailed it in place and coated the edges with more tar, then he and the other man shoved a support beam in place to hold the new repair. The work went on for much of the afternoon. What had at first been good, strong wood brought for such a duty, was now dismantled carts. Arman paused to peer through the gaps in the boards. The Berrin watch was changing, barely visible through the sheets of rain. He shook the wet from his hair and turned back to his work. Suddenly a horn sounded deafeningly close.

Arman flung himself behind the sandbags as he fumbled the laces of his oilskin suit open. He flattened himself in the mud, knives palmed. He glanced over at a soldier, pressed to the ground several paces away. “What is it?”

“Skirmish, just over the wall!”

Arman counted silently. At five, he rushed towards the sound of fighting. A hole had been punched through the pallets and he could see a seething mess of Athrolani and Berrin.
Damn!
If the walls were breeched, they were doomed. He jumped into the fray. Mud and blood and water slicked every surface. Most of the time he fought half-submerged from the ground. His skills at street brawls were invaluable in the confusing, tight quarters. The skirmish lasted only minutes, though it felt like eight times that. Arman groaned as he crawled back up the sandbags and through the barricade. They had won, barely, and could repair the new hole. He cleaned, dried and sheathed his knives. Men milled about, mania and giddy confusion still thick.

Arman pitched his voice over the drum of rain. “Get the wounded to the infirmary! Bring more wood and tar!” He bent over his work, ignoring the comments about his speed, his ceaseless energy. After a breath, others joined him and the gap in their defenses began to close.

A hot light filled Arman’s heart. It was small, but familiar. He had known it’s warmth in Vielrona, but it was only now, after its absence, that he recognized it. It was the glow of a hearthfire, the light on first day of spring. He smiled, the expression wolfish as he slammed nails home.
Belonging.