A Time of War and Demons

by S E Wendel

  As they rode, he heard the rhythmic twang of Ennis’s bow. Her thighs pressed into his hips whenever she leaned back to shoot.

  Oren splattered mud in every direction as they raced into the square. Manek caught a glimpse of Taryn planted in front of his door, fending off three men. Guiding Oren with his legs, Manek brandished his sword.

  He heard Taryn call out his name.

  “Turn us!” Ennis cried.

  It took him a moment, but within a breath, Ennis fired at one of the warriors bearing down on Taryn. She had a second arrow notched before the other two could pivot around. She hit the next one square in the chest.

  Taryn and Manek nodded at one another before he rallied his two dozen men in the square, forming a circle to meet the coming Oltaraani. With raised spears, they dealt with the first unorganized wave easily, driving them back, out of the square. Along the eastern path, their leader cried out, and some semblance of a line was formed. They marched forward again.

  “I’m down to one arrow,” said Ennis.

  Smoke burning his nostrils, Manek said, “Hang onto me.”

  They charged when he felt her arms come around him.

  Bringing his sword down in an arc, he and the men around him punched through their line. As they turned about to make another run, Ennis released her arrow, which thunked into the shield of the Oltaraan leader.

  Now closer, Manek recognized him, even through the paint.

  Manek turned his warhorse to face Vaal, Rick’s eldest son. His blue eyes shone in vibrant contrast to the bleeding black paint staining his head. All at once Manek knew why he was there. A wolf hunt. All Oltaraan young men had to prove themselves, usually going on hunting or raiding parties, called wolf hunts. Vaal had come to Rising to prove himself a man.

  Baring his teeth at Vaal, Manek kicked Oren’s sides.

  Vaal let out a cry, arched his sword behind him, and charged. He dodged just out of the way of the warhorse, beating his sword against his shield. Oren flicked his head, irritated, and Manek gripped his reins in one hand tighter.

  They met again, their swords clashing, and Manek just kicked him away before he could stab at Oren’s haunches. Oren danced between them, reacting to Manek’s tensed tendons as their swords sang through the air until clashing, making sparks fly.

  He felt his sword slicing through leather then flesh. The Oltaraan glared up at him, his lip twitching. Another of his warriors ran up, pushed Vaal away, and Oren lurched back. Manek got them repositioned only to see Vaal and several warriors running away between houses.

  “Dea take them,” he growled.

  Pursuing, Manek weaved between houses, but he didn’t find Vaal again. The fighting, almost done, had spilled out of alleyways and back into the main paths. Oltaraani buckled under Manek’s men, and Rising was littered with their bodies.

  Though his eyes searched everywhere, Manek couldn’t find Vaal.

  The men nearest him walked over, their chests heaving. They had a sort of dazed look about them, and Manek felt the battle fury begin to drain from him, the trickle after a flood. For the first time, he noticed his pulse hammering in his ears.

  There was a soft beating against his chest, and for a moment he thought he had a wound. Looking down, he found Ennis’s hand gripping his shirtfront, hanging on as he’d told her. There was a splatter of blood on two of her knuckles and between her thumb and finger. A surge of something warm and fierce panged in the center of his chest, and he covered her hand with his.

  He’d done it at first to ease her, to relax the clenched fist, but he the touch comforted him too. Her knuckles fit perfectly in the small spaces between his fingers.

  “You should let someone look at that,” she murmured.

  He felt her touch his outer thigh, just above the knee. A clean slice had ripped through his breeches. The more he looked at the red line, the more it stung in the cold air.

  “Are you offering?” he asked.

  She made a rueful sound, and he imagined she grinned. “You might lose the leg if I do.”

  His smile quickly faded when Taryn came up beside them, putting his large hand on Oren’s glistening neck.

  “That was damn brave of them to come in winter,” said Taryn, his look grave.

  “Or foolish.”

  “A wolf hunt.”

  Manek nodded. “I hope he feels himself a man when he meets Tamea.”

  Taryn’s grin was ferocious. “If he hasn’t already.” He glanced over his shoulder at the other men, more pouring onto the pathway from all corners of Rising. “What do you want us to do?”

  Sitting straight in the saddle, Manek looked at his blood-spattered men. “Get the fires out. Collect the dead. Find every last whoreson and bring them to the river.”

  “You heard him, lads!” Taryn barked. He gave Ennis a wink over Manek’s shoulder before following a group back into the square.

  The gruesome work took the whole afternoon. Rising’s loss of life wasn’t what it could have been. When Rick raided in spring and summer, while the men were gone, casualties were much higher than fifteen. Seven homes had been lost, however, and Manek went to these first, promising all the aid he could from the great house.

  As the thirteen men and two women were laid in a line in the square, waiting for family to claim them before being sent back to Mithria in a bed of flames, the Oltaraani were dragged from Rising out into the plain. Manek supervised the work, encouraging where it was needed, organizing able bodies, and even went to the Haven to tell the Sisters their services were needed. All this he did while Oren labored beneath him and Ennis rode silently behind him. He didn’t realize until dusk that he still had her hand clutched in his.

  The sky was streaked with red and orange as Oren trotted south to the Morroley, the Oltaraani ships still moored against the shore. They wouldn’t be using them again.

  After dismounting, he glanced up at Ennis. She looked downright tired, the fading light casting long shadows over her face.

  “Stay here,” he said.

  She nodded, a frown starting to crease her brow.

  Manek ignored his sore legs as he walked towards Taryn and the others gathered around the last three Oltaraani still alive. His lip curled to see Vaal sitting on his knees, his blue eyes proud and defiant.

  “Thought we’d leave you the pleasure,” said Beon, a smith and Taryn’s neighbor.

  Manek gazed down at Vaal and his hate threatened to overwhelm him. The only times he’d met the young man was in battle. He could see Rick in his son; same visage, same mouth. It made Manek hate him even more. He took the knife Beon offered him, content to leave Rick with only one son. He’d show them what good sport the Lowlands was.

  Squatting before Vaal, Manek nodded. Beon and Taryn grabbed Vaal’s shoulders, and the young warrior struggled. Taryn held him fast as Beon kept his head back.

  Manek made a clean slice across Vaal’s collarbone, severing his one tattoo into two pieces.

  Vaal’s nostrils flared. “Fire take you and sea consume you!” he said in his coarse accent.

  Manek rested the blade against his other collarbone, the tip just biting into the tensed flesh of his neck. “Are you a man now?”

  Vaal stilled in Taryn’s arms. “I die a man. You will die a dog.”

  Manek’s hand tightened around the knife.

  “Wait.”

  Manek’s heart stuttered in his chest before he looked over his shoulder. Still sitting in the saddle, Ennis had moved the warhorse closer to them.

  “I told you to—”

  “You shouldn’t do that.”

  “Watch your tongue,” growled Beon.

  “This isn’t your concern,” Manek snapped.

  “If he is who you say he is,” she said, “then he’s too important to kill.”

  “He attacked our home,” he said through clenched teeth. He pointed the knife at Vaal again. “He deserves to die.”

  Her face hardened into something awful, something emotionless and cold. “Ind
eed,” she said, brows lifted in a devastating arch.

  He held her gaze even though it hurt to. “If he lives, he’ll come again.”

  “If he dies, then his father will come, and not just for raiding. And when do you think he’ll come? Spring isn’t far away. If you do this, you’ll leave us to face him alone.”

  Manek’s temper flared, but not at Ennis. He looked down at the knife in his hand. She was right; he knew she was. Rick would come for revenge, but he wouldn’t face Manek’s horde. Rising would burn to the ground while he and his men were north fighting Larn’s war.

  “She’s right,” Taryn murmured behind him.

  Closing his eyes, Manek took a breath. He knew better than to let his temper flare, but Themin knew it felt good to punish someone, to make someone pay for the Lowlands’ suffering.

  When he turned around, he found Vaal leering at Ennis. He struck him across the face. “She’s saved your life, whoreson. Don’t look at her like that.”

  Vaal spat blood as Manek stood. Looking at his men, he saw just how weary they were. Their shoulders sagged, and any bloodlust they’d had faded with the sun.

  “Put them in the river,” he said. “Send them home.”

  “And him?” Beon gave Vaal’s shoulder a shove.

  “Take the war paint off and strip him. Tie him up, put him on a boat.” He leaned over Vaal. “I don’t want to see his face again.”

  Vaal glared up at him. “Your land will burn.”

  “If you or any of your men step foot in Rising again, I’ll make sure Tiernay and all of you Oltaraani sink back into the sea. Do you understand me?” He didn’t wait for an answer, turned on his heels and walked towards the nearest dead man to the sound of Taryn and Beon ripping the shirt off Vaal’s back.

  He nodded at a corpse’s head and one of his men picked up the shoulders as he lifted the legs. They started the slow work of tossing each body in the river. There was something sickening rather than satisfying about the splash the bodies made before bobbing back to the surface.

  They worked well into the night, not stopping until all the Oltaraani were floating downriver.

  He met Vaal’s gaze as he was pushed, naked and bound, onto the first ship. Once he was aboard, the lines were cut, and with a shove, the ship eased into the river. It soon disappeared into the darkness.

  The other nine ships they kept. He’d send three upriver to visit Kennick in Wheatfield. Hopefully he could barter for a dozen more warhorses before Larn’s messenger came. He swore to Themin that the others would be broken up and used for Rising’s wall.

  As his men passed him to trudge back to Rising, he clapped their shoulders. It made him sick to think soon they’d be leaving for the north again. Rising would be defenseless.

  He was too sore to speak to Ennis when he swung up in the saddle behind her. He knew he was angrier with himself than her, wishing she hadn’t had to speak out. But he knew what this looked like.

  A warprize had spoken against him, had questioned his judgement. And worse, she’d been right.

  It ate at him, that he could have almost made such a mistake, that it took Ennis to make him see reason, that the Oltaraani had made it inside Rising at all. Everything felt out of his control, and Manek hated it.

  He found himself staring at the back of Ennis’s head, wondering what he should do.

  He didn’t have an answer by the time they reached the Haven. Unlike the rest of Rising, which had fallen into an uneasy slumber, the Haven was all activity, candlelight burning bright in the windowsills.

  Sliding down Oren’s side, Ennis landed softly on her feet. She nodded at his leg. “You should have that tended.”

  Manek wanted nothing more than to fall into bed, but he knew she was right. Nodding wearily, he too dismounted and followed her into the Haven.

  Sisters hurried up and down the hall, into and out of rooms. They met Sister Renata almost the instant they walked in.

  “Oh, Ennis. I supposed you dead.”

  “He needs stiches,” Ennis replied, apparently too tired to quarrel.

  Renata’s gaze flicked to Manek, and by the way her lips pursed, he knew she hadn’t forgotten or forgiven their talk earlier.

  “Everyone’s occupied.” She turned on her heels and walked up the hallway.

  Ennis sighed and motioned for him to follow her into the large front room. There were two other men laid on the floor already with a Sister tending them. Ennis pulled up two stools in the far corner before asking the Sister for some candles.

  She left him to fetch supplies. She returned bearing a basin, a few clean rags, needle, and thin twine. The other Sister brought over spare candles as Ennis set to threading the needle.

  She touched his calf, and he extended his leg, resting his heel on the floor. He watched her work to clean the wound, washing away dry, caked blood.

  “We’re out of wrappings,” she said.

  “I can get some.”

  “I’m going to be awful at this.”

  “You heard the Lady Sister. Everyone else is occupied.”

  Her grin was tired but there. She nodded, beginning to stitch.

  He grimaced, clenching his jaw and fists. Tiredness didn’t numb the pain.

  Manek focused on the rhythm of her movements. Despite her warning, she seemed a decent nurse. At least, he didn’t think he’d lose the leg. She stopped now and again to push her hair, which had almost completely fallen out of its plait, away from her face. He found that same warm something tugging at his chest each time her hair threatened to spill from behind her ears.

  When it happened again, he reached out himself before she could and tucked it behind her ear. Her hair, while messy from the day’s fight, was just as he’d imagined, like silk. No, softer even, like holding water in his fingers. And perhaps it was tiredness, perhaps the weight of all that had happened and still needed to, but in the shadow of the fire, Manek couldn’t help tracing the shell of her ear.

  He couldn’t read her eyes, but she said nothing, and Manek eased back with the hair in place.

  She was almost finished when he finally said, “I would’ve killed him.”

  Ennis looked up at him. She was frustratingly silent for a long moment.

  “I know,” she murmured.

  “I wanted to kill him.”

  “I understand why.”

  He sucked in a breath. “Do you think I could forgive him, for attacking my home?”

  She met his gaze. “Perhaps.”

  Twenty-Four

  Blue-lipped Anona first went to Balan’s realm, but the water she stood upon froze, making her brother boil. Next, she went to Tamea’s domain, but the vines hardened and the roots withered, making her sister sad. Then she travelled to the crags and crevices of Ean’s barren land, but the sun beat down upon her head and her brother’s rage sizzled against her feet. Her heart knowing no solace, Anona looked about the world and determined no place was for her. “Go to Mithria’s head,” her Father said. Riding the wind, Anona came to a white land of ice, and in this desolation she found the succor she craved.

  —When They Were Sent to the Four Winds

  “You know, I don’t think I’ve seen a finer set of candles!” Essa laughed along with Elodie as she held up two of the most misshapen candles the world had ever seen. “Yes, I think I put your candle-maker to shame.”

  Elodie continued to chuckle as she stirred the hot wax. “Don’t let him hear that.”

  Despite the sad look of her candles, Essa added them to the rung to harden. She would use them herself in her little room; what did it matter to her what they looked like? All that counted was that they warded off the darkest hours of the night. She was slowly getting used to the crash of the waves against the rocky shores here, but even the smallest flicker of candlelight reassured her that she wouldn’t drown during the night.

  As she looked at the candles, she couldn’t help the swell of pride in her heart. She had made them. She would use something she herself had made. C
andle-making was only the latest in a string of skills Elodie was determined to teach her.

  There was something calming about working with her hands. The work lasted long in Carmetheon, though the days were short and often gray with rain. Her days were filled with work, and it distracted her sufficiently. She told herself that one day she would raise her head and Highcrest would be only a distant memory, one she could remember without feeling like she was indeed drowning.

  “After this we’ll have the sewing to do,” Elodie said, dipping a long wick into the wax.

  Essa kept her face composed though all she really wanted to do at the mention of sewing was roll her eyes. She hated sewing in Carmetheon. She hated sewing in Highcrest. Adena had had some talent at it, embroidering any hem she could get her hands on. But Essa could rarely sit still so long.

  “Yes, of course,” she said instead.

  Out of the corner of her eye she spied Elodie looking at her.

  “Sometimes I worry about you, Essa.”

  Elodie gazed at her, eyebrows drawn low, elbows resting on her knees. Waurin’s mother had taken to making these comments. She didn’t mean it maliciously, but Essa knew she expected her to become emotional. So she did, hoping it might make them stop bringing it up. Sometimes she wondered at the rigors of her patience.

  Essa wiped at the corner of her eye. “The further I get from the memories, the less they hurt. It will be a while yet, though.”

  Elodie nodded sympathetically. “Of course, dear. I couldn’t imagine it. You’re a brave young woman. I didn’t mean to make you unhappy, I was just thinking that, while I’m sad you had to go through what you did, I’m glad you’re here.”

  “I’m glad, too,” she said, grinning through her tears. The words were ashes in her mouth.

  “You must cling to the good memories,” Elodie said, returning to her work. “They’re all we have sometimes. Good memories keep you warm when the night is long and cold.”

  Essa peered at Elodie through this speech. She felt the woman was getting to something. Was she trying to open up? Essa’s eyebrows shot up at the thought.