by Ben Hale
Soon after dawn Thacker roused him, and he groaned as he sat up. “What’s our status?”
“The line has not broken, Commander Braon,” Thacker said, handing him a small breakfast of fruit and bread. “But we have lost many of our sweepers.”
Braon nodded and mechanically began to eat. The sweepers were war machines that he had commissioned the dwarves to build along the cliff. Comprised of a small hut that leaned out over the drop off, it carried a heavy spiked weight at the end of a long, barbed chain. Built to launch the weight sideways, the unusual weapon sent the ‘ball’ and chain out until it reached the end of its ‘rope’. Then it sunk downward, close enough to the cliff that the spikes scratched its surface. Like a large pendulum, it could ‘sweep’ any climbing enemies off the cliff, sending them falling to their deaths below.
They had been strategically placed to make it difficult for the fiends to climb past, and were the first line of defense. Braon sighed; he’d hoped they would last longer.
“How many men have we lost?” He asked, forcing himself to keep eating as he steeled himself for the answer.
Thacker had prepared for this report, as he’d been instructed to, but he still hesitated to give the answer. “ . . . Approximately sixty-two thousand are presumed dead, and almost three times that are injured.”
Sixty thousand dead in a single day, Braon thought, his heart sinking. Even if we survive, what will be the cost? Woodenly he forced the bread down his dry throat. “How many of the injured are critical?”
“Roughly twenty thousand,” Thacker answered. “As per your orders, the critically injured have been moved to Azertorn by the women. The healers stationed in the city are working on them now.”
Braon took a slow breath, accepting the steep losses because he could not afford to dwell on them. “Send a runner to check on them. I want to know how many will be able to fight, and how soon.”
The telepath nodded and continued with the morning report.
***
Aléthya sat at the bar of her small tavern, The Drunken Elf, taking the first break she’d had in nearly fourteen hours. Due to its location on the third level of Azertorn, directly behind the fierce battle, it had been appropriated as one of the places to hold the injured. In place of tables and chairs, the room had been crammed with beds holding some of the worst of the wounded.
The dead were removed every hour to make room for more.
A tremor shook the ground, causing dust to settle from the ceiling and the glasses to clink, but she hardly noticed. At first she had wondered what had caused the shakes, but no one in her healers station had known the answer. Perhaps the millions of gathered races made the entire cliff tremble, or the thousands of falling fiends striking the ground like heavy rain. It didn’t matter. Whatever caused it just reminded those behind the lines that the battle still raged, that good people were dying.
Lifting her tired gaze to the mirror behind her bar, she felt a flash of irritation at her unkempt hair. Brown and straight, the coloring was decidedly human, but the sky blue eyes staring back at her, along with the point to her ears, exposed her elven side. Dirt and dried blood dotted her clothing and skin, causing her to look away with a frown. If she paused to clean herself, how many would perish because she didn't heal them? The thought reminded her that her short break carried the same price.
Blinking at her exhaustion, Aléthya drained her mug and resisted the impulse to put her head down. Turning instead to the nearest bed, she knelt by its side and looked at the unconscious elf. A skorpian spear had nearly torn his shoulder clean from his body, leaving a ragged hole. Bending close, she examined the shattered pieces of bone and threadbare flesh that kept the blood tubes from leaking. The healer on the front line had done this job well, and his work had kept the young elf alive long enough for her to finish the job.
Satisfied, she placed both her hands on the white and clammy skin, and braced herself for the pain. Seconds later, white light gathered where she touched him, spreading to the open wound. At the same moment she felt her own shoulder begin to sting. Her breathe sucked in as she pointedly watched the shards of bone begin to slide together, causing the elf to twitch. At the same time she felt her own flesh split. Blood darkened her arm, and muscle snapped and tore. Still she held her gaze on the soldier’s wound, holding back the scream by sheer will. Then her bone shattered.
Her cry of agony mingled with several moans around the room, and only the other healers glanced her way. By now her gasps were hoarse as she finished the transference of the wound. Close to blacking out, she focused her dim vision on the pink skin of the elf, watching it come together and seal itself, leaving just a faint scar.
She allowed herself to collapse, and finally her own unique magic surged through her. The sweet relief of numbness seeped into her shredded shoulder, leeching the pain away. Tasting bile, she felt the slivers of bone slide into place, and then the muscle began to reattach. At last the skin started to join, sealing until it was as smooth as before. What seemed like hours passed in minutes before she wearily rose to her feet beside the bewildered elf.
“What happened?” he asked, sitting up and massaging his shoulder.
“Nothing,” she said bitterly “Get a drink of ale and return to your post.”
Without waiting for a response she returned to the bar and poured herself another glass, wondering why in the name of Skorn she had chosen to break her vow. She took a rag and absently wiped blood from her arm.
“You look at the worst wound with no problem,” a voice said and she turned to see Taneel striding towards her. “—unless it is on yourself.”
She snorted, unconsciously moving her hair behind her ear and fixing her dark blue eyes on the other healer. “I don’t like to see my work.” Her voice held more harshness then she intended, so she laughed sourly. “It’s unpleasant enough to feel.”
Tan, as most called him, took a seat next to her, reaching for a glass and a bottle. After he filled it, he turned a soft gaze on her. “I don’t know how you do it, Thia.” He took a sip. “I know I couldn’t.”
“You’d be surprised what you would do when you see someone in need.”
His expression turned dubious at her voice, prompting her to frown. “You know I vowed to never heal another person.”
“—and no one could blame you for that.”
She swept her arm at the room and let the silence hang. Then she said, “They suffer pain to protect us, and I suffer pain to heal them. War means pain for everyone.” She turned back to her mug. “Does it matter the cause?”
Tan drained his glass. “Probably not—” he quirked an eyebrow at her, “—but most in a war are injured once, or perhaps twice. I only see one taking on the wounds of many.” He tilted his glass towards her before turning away as another group of wounded were carried in, filling the bloody beds of those recently healed.
It had been a long time since she had felt the joy of healing, and as she watched him work his way to the door, the ache of its loss clenched on her heart. The conversation with Tan had reminded her of her wonder when she had begun healing others, back when she’d been able to use her healing magic the way every other healer could. Taking the pain from others by using the sufferer’s own strength had seemed such a blessing. The healer's guild of magic had thought her a prodigy—and then they learned of her ability to heal herself. That’s when they began to experiment.
The pain of those months had been the worst of her life, and she had lost respect for her craft. Soon after her escape she had tried to heal the queen of the elves of a brutal disease. Aléthya's desire to heal her had been great, and something within her had snapped. Somehow, she had taken the queen’s sickness into herself. The agony had been excruciating, but the queen had been cured. The change in Aléthya had been permanent. Since that day, she could no longer see the energy in a person’s body. Without that sight, she could not heal as she had before.
That is when she had vowed never to heal again.
>
But things change. Looking around the room caused her to give a slow sigh. No matter the cost, she could not allow the elven people to suffer such loss. Then she caught Tan’s soft smile in her direction, and she found herself smiling in turn. She had to admit, he was good looking, and tall for an elf. Maybe after the war . . .
Shaking her head, she gathered her willpower and searched the room for the worst injury. Lives were in need of saving. Not for the first time she heard her mind argue that she would heal from anything she absorbed. Not for the last time did her body complain that it still hurt.
***
Wallen sank onto his bed, causing the small frame to complain at the sudden weight.
“You need to lose a few pounds, Wall,” Derek said from beside him, mirroring his movements, right down to the protesting bed.
Wall grinned despite his fatigue. “I will when you do.” The needling about their excessive weight was not new, and the reminder of better times brought a brief moment of levity into the squalid tent, temporarily overcoming the stink of sweat, dirt, and blood.
“You would think the guys from the other shifts would clean it for us,” Derek said, not realizing they were thinking the same thing. Wall grinned again. As sons of one of the largest men in the south, the two had been close for as far back as he could remember, all the way back to when they were ‘the two fat kids’. After that they had been the ‘fat boys’, and then ‘the fat men’, although no one actually voiced that in front of them.
“I don’t know how you talked me into this,” Derek was saying, taking a swig of ale without moving from his prone position. “I have never been so sore.”
“Talked you into it?” Wall retorted, grabbing the jug from his brother. “You were the one that said we had to come. As I recall it went something like . . . we have to go, people need us. If you remember, I was all for fleeing south with the rest of our village.”
“You know they are probably dead, right?” Derek said, his tone quiet.
“I know,” Wall said, taking a swig of the bitter drink and examining the top of the tent. His mind lingered on the image of a trim young woman he’d always fancied. Her father had forced their family to flee south.
“We should have done more to stop them. We should have convinced them to join the gathering with the rest of the southern kingdom.”
Curse him, Derek always was the responsible one. Or should Wall say bless him? Derek's integrity had gotten them out of sticky predicaments in the past. This had been especially true when they were younger, and Wall’s larger bulk had made him slower, more likely to get caught and whipped. As they’d grown, the difference in size had become even more pronounced, meaning between themselves they called Derek the ‘quick one’. Of course, calling someone as wide as two grown men ‘quick’ was a stretch, but compared to Wall it was true.
“Either way we are all dead,” Wall said cheerfully, electing for an attempt at humor.
He felt the bottle pull out of his hand in response and after a moment heard several large swallows. The silence stretched until Derek whispered, “You are probably right.”
Wall opened his mouth to protest and turned his head to look at his brother, but Derek was already in the process of rolling away. The sheer quantity of squeaks and groans from the reinforced cot prevented conversation. Any other time he would have brought back the joke about their weight, but this time it didn’t feel right.
Sighing, Wall returned his gaze to the canvas and the corner lacing that was coming undone. He missed the days when the two of them had practiced a combination of swordplay and wrestling. True, their fun had made them at least mediocre soldiers, and their bulk made them intimidating, but to him it had always been a game. Derek had taken it more seriously. Despite his brother's training, Wall had always been a little better.
Now it just seemed to be a waste.
Wall sighed again and cautiously rolled to his side. This wouldn’t be the first bed to shatter under him, but he didn’t want it to happen today. In spite of his efforts, he felt one of the supports crack, causing him to frown and berate himself for eating double at breakfast. He knew he couldn’t voice his thoughts because it was the one thing they disagreed on. Derek accepted his size. Wall did not. Maybe if he was like the other soldiers he could help more in this battle.
Maybe he could fly.
Who was he kidding?
When does a fat man ever make a difference?
***
Gaze awoke queasy and in pain, struggling to remember where he was. Through bleary eyes, he peered upward, wincing at the light.
“Wha . .” he croaked.
A blurry face appeared in front of him, and when it resolved into clarity he recognized the elf warrior Lexi.
“How are you?” she asked, her voice full of concern as she wiped a damp cloth across his forehead.
“What happened?” he managed to ask, trying to sit up.
A wave of nausea struck him, making it easy for her to force him back down.
“You are magesick. You need to rest.”
Clearing his throat, he asked, “What is magesick?”
“I forgot you were never formally trained by a guild,” she said, reaching for a cup next to him. “Magesick is when a mage gets sick from using too much magic in too short a time. You nearly died.”
Gaze took a sip of the offered liquid, and found the cool water refreshing. “How long have I been out?”
“Almost four days.”
He shot to a sitting position but was once gain forced down by his stomach. Gagging, he breathed deep to steady the rising vomit, but the scent of urine and sweat didn’t help. When he had control he asked, “Where are we?”
She swept a hand the sparsely furnished room. Boasting several cots, and little else, it looked to be a storage room that had been converted into a recovery room. All the beds were filled except one. “We are in Azertorn, in one of the tunnels behind the city. After the forest burned,”—she shuddered and looked away—“the fiends attacked the cliff. For two days we have been able to hold them off.”
For the first time, Gaze focused on her. Dirt and spots of blood smudged her cheeks and clothing. She sat hunched next to him, looking at him with eyes full of fatigue. Behind her, a bow hung next to an empty quiver of arrows.
“How long have you been fighting?” he asked, feeling a rush of concern.
She rubbed her eyes and looked away. “I just got off my second shift in the gardens. Now is my scheduled time to rest.”
A door opened down the corridor, allowing the sounds of distant battle to drift in. Cries of agony and anger accompanied blasts of magical energy. Then the door closed and silence returned.
“Are we winning?”
Her look said it all, and his heart sank.
“How long can we last?”
She shrugged and winced, rubbing her shoulder. “I doubt more than a day or two, but we’ve been told we have to last seven.”
Fighting his stomach, he eased himself to a sitting position. “When do I get to fight?”
Her features shifted to soft and she flashed him a small smile. “You don’t. Magesickness lasts a few days. If you try to use magic in your current condition it would probably kill you.”
He growled and looked away, surprised how painful the helplessness felt. Confined to a bed felt like being shackled. Then an idea sparked in his head and he caught her eye. “What about Prince Graden? I am sure he would let me fight with his men.”
She chuckled and pointed to the empty bed. “No he wouldn’t. He slept here for a few hours last night while I was fighting. He told me to make sure you were healed before you were allowed into battle.”
He frowned and opened his mouth but she put a finger on his lips, her eyes turning serious. “The war is not for someone as sick as you. But if you heal in time, I will make sure you are posted next to me.”
The determination that seeped into her eyes made him smile. “Where are the rest of your riverguard?”<
br />
She broke eye contact and stood, moving to the table of healing balms. She stopped when she neared it, but didn’t reach for anything. With her back to him, she said, “Loken was killed a couple of hours ago. A quare tore him from the cliff. Most of the rest are dead too. Even Arzai was struck by a skorpian spear. It almost took his arm off, but Aléthya managed to heal him in time. ”
She turned around. “I am the only one not dead or injured.”
Gaze wanted to reach out and hug her, but didn’t know if their relationship was such that he could. Reverting to a slow smile, he said, “So they don’t hurt the pretty ones huh?”
She snorted and shook her head, but at least some of the despair seemed to leave her face. “How can we do this Gaze?” she asked, returning to sit next to him. “So many have died already, and we still have five days to go.”
An image of Ander's death flashed to the forefront of his thoughts, followed by the death of King Drayson. Their loss felt like a physical blow, causing him to flinch. Shying away from the piercing grief he forced himself to focus on Lexi.
He reached out and clasped her hand. “I don’t know Lexi. All I know is that we refuse to lie down and die. Every one of the races gathered on this cliff is here because they do not possess the ability to quit. Whatever our differences, we carry a kindred spirit. We will fight for what we believe in. The question is, what do you believe in?”
Her eyebrows knit together as she considered his words. Then she said, “I used to believe in the Riverguard, but we are almost all dead now. I am not sure what to believe now.”
He tightened his hand on hers, “Why don’t you believe in me, and I will believe in you.”
