“You promised to wait a month before making the decision to turn shandy,” Lance scolded. Then he rubbed the huge shandy’s furry head. “But your rescue is greatly appreciated. Let’s get out of here.”
* * *
“That’s far enough!” Lance leaned forward around Sara, putting his face into the wind to shout at Edvard.
The cat shandy flicked a black-tufted ear back, but kept trotting through the towering trees. “Arrre you surrre?”
Under other circumstances Lance would’ve wanted to put as much distance between them and the Legion stockade as possible, but from Sara’s hunched shoulders and grimace she was having another contraction. They needed a safe, sheltered place for her to give birth, not the easiest thing to find in a forest.
He thought quickly. “Go back to that hollow log we saw earlier.” The fallen giant cedar was easily big enough to provide shelter from the wind and hide them from any legionnaires Nir sent to retrieve Sara.
Edvard quickened his pace. “I think therrre might be a hollow log overrr herrre.” He sounded uncomfortable. As if he were lying.
Suspicious, Lance looked around. He didn’t see any hollow tree trunks, but he suddenly realized he could hear the faint sounds of battle ahead: clashing metal, shouting and the screams of dying men. With his greater shandy senses, Edvard had probably been hearing the din for several minutes now.
“Stop!” He pounded the heel of his palm on Edvard’s spine, and when he felt the shandy’s muscles bunch to spring forward, Lance deliberately slid off, pulling Sara with him. He turned so his body hit the ground first, protecting her. Agony jolted through his own bruised ribs.
Sara gave a small shriek of surprise, and her elbow dug into his throat as she struggled to sit up. “Lance! Why did you do that?”
The stabbing pain in his chest stole his breath and kept him from answering.
Edvard trotted back to them. Lance glared at him, and the cat shandy ducked his head in shame. “Edvard was taking us too close to the battle,” he gritted out
“Rrrelena asked for you. We need a healerrr,” Edvard growled.
“Sara is in labour. A battlefield is no place for a baby,” Lance said sternly, covering up his guilt with anger. He could not give in on this. He’d made his choice already: Sara and the babe’s life came before those of the rebels. He wasn’t Kandrith; no one should expect him to choose the good of the country over the woman he loved.
Edvard flattened his ears. “But you must help! People are dying.”
Lance stood up. “I’m sorry.” It was true. Sorrow weighed on his chest. He could hear thuds and cries coming from deeper in the forest, and he knew the human suffering that accompanied those noises. He’d shared food with many of the rebels, had developed a friendship with Willem, but he couldn’t fail Sara. Not again.
“Cowarrrd!” Edvard accused. His claws dug rhythmically into the earth.
Lance turned his back, not deigning to answer. “Can you walk, Sara? The hollow log isn’t far.”
“I can walk.” But she didn’t pull herself to her feet with his offered hand. Her face was haggard with exhaustion from the long night’s labour, eyes hollow, but full of compassion. “There’s still some time between my contractions. Last time you examined me you said I was only halfway there, that it would probably be several hours yet before I give birth.”
Lance shook his head in quick denial. “Births are unpredictable. It might be several hours still, or it could be a much shorter time.” He didn’t have much experience with premature births. “Or you could start to hemorrhage.” Just the thought of it made his hands cold and knotted his stomach.
“The Goddess of Mercy will tell you if I’m in danger,” Sara said calmly. “You should go. This is what you’re here for, why Wenda sent you. Edvard will take me to the hollow log. Battles don’t last long. I’ll be fine for a short time. Go save Willem and the others.”
The Goddess would tell him. No matter how angry he might be, he trusted Her that far. He would gladly help the rebels if he could do so without endangering Sara. Still, he hesitated.
“Go,” Sara said calmly. “You’re wasting time.”
Lance knelt by Sara and kissed her hand. He couldn’t find the words to tell her how much he loved her, how proud he was of her selflessness, so he concentrated on practicalities. “Rest when you can. Breathe through the pain. Pray to Loma if anything seems wrong or you start bleeding.”
Sara touched his check. “I will. Now, go.”
Lance helped her up onto Edvard’s furry back, then hurried toward the sound of dying men.
* * *
Rhiain wished she could be in two places at once. Or maybe three—she spared a thought for Edvard and Lance.
The battle had begun a quarter hour ago. Fitch’s small force of rebels had been swiftly overwhelmed, and Fitch was, even now, leading a dangerous retreat, luring Primus Pallax’s Legions into the forest.
Rhiain burned to be part of the main fight, but Fitch had asked her to conceal herself in the unused pasture bordering the forest where the Legion cavalry waited in shining ranks, standard snapping in the breeze.
Pallax will keep both his companies of cavalry in reserve, ready to swoop down and reinforce him. I need you and my Grasslanders to provoke them into splitting their forces.
So here Rhiain was, crouched in the sweet-smelling grass. She crept as close to the mounted troops as she could get and still remain unseen. The wind took her scent to the horses. They shifted restively, snorting and pricking their ears. Good. If they sensed a predator, they’d be more likely to bolt in the direction she wanted them to go: forward.
Rhiain paused in her task to watch as Spring Colt rode up to the forest’s edge. Several Grasslander warriors had volunteered to “dance with Mek,” but Spring Colt had won the privilege in a wrestling match.
His roan mare wove in and out of sight behind the line of younger trees while he yelled taunts at the legionnaires. “Here be I, come get me, cowards!” He held both hands in the air, controlling his mount only with his knees.
The ranks of cavalry ignored him.
In response, Spring Colt began to do tricks, first balancing on his knees, then standing on his horse’s back as it galloped down the line of trees. He beat his hairless chest. “You right to fear me! I battle Mek and win!”
An angry mutter went through the line of legionnaires like leaves whipped by a storm.
“Ignore the fool,” a tall, thin man ordered. Two gold pins held his red cloak at the shoulders, and his helmet had large red plumes. Their commander? He stood near the standard.
Turning her back on Spring Colt’s performance, Rhiain swung wide around the rear of the massed cavalry, avoiding two scouts. She reached the right flank and crept closer to the horses. She positioned herself only fifty feet away, but the horses remained unaware of her, the wind now blowing her scent away.
Spring Colt had ridden closer, fifty feet away from the forest, though still triple that distance from the cavalry. He skirted the edge of crossbow range.
He went through the whole routine again: calling the legionniares cowards and insulting their god. Daring them to attack him.
They ignored him, sitting on their horses and chatting. The nearest horse flicked a tail, dislodging a fly.
Rhiain growled in frustration. She was only forty feet away now and still the horses hadn’t sensed her. If she’d been hunting, she could’ve take one down easily.
A sudden angry quiver went through the front ranks, half the horses taking a step forward in response to their riders’ body language.
Spring Colt had pulled down his buckskin pants and, while hanging over the side of his horse, was shaking his bare buttocks at them.
A young legionnaire lifted his crossbow, but his older officer barked, “Stand down!”
&n
bsp; Rhiain didn’t understand why they were so angry. Did they think Spring Colt meant to piss on them? He wasn’t even facing the right way.
But that gave her an idea. Soon a more pungent scent floated in the air, and the horses nearest her snorted and crowded closer together.
That’s right, be afraid. A predator is close by.
Spring Colt pulled up his pants and smoothly stood up again on his moving horse’s back. Then his eyes widened comically, and he threw out his arms, struggling to regain his balance.
Rhiain flinched when he fell.
Spring Colt quickly rolled to his feet. He stared after the vanishing rump of his horse with an exaggerated expression of dismay, took two steps backward, then turned and sprinted for the woods.
“You three. Chase him down,” the plumed commander ordered.
Three legionnaires willingly kneed their horses into a run, hefting their spears.
Three legionnaires wouldn’t be enough. Rhiain gnashed her teeth. Spring Colt’s bravery was just going to earn him an early grave. They had to break the cavalry’s discipline. Maybe she should—
A yipping war cry split the air, and Winter Grass broke out of the trees on her spotted mare. She leaned far out, catching her brother’s hand. He used her foot to boost himself onto her horse’s back, just as two spears thudded to earth in the space where he’d been.
The two Grasslanders bent low and raced for the sheltering trees. Looking back over his shoulder, Spring Colt voiced one more laughing taunt.
The three pursuing legionniares charged into the trees—and were promptly cut down by half a dozen Grasslanders who emerged from the underbrush. They savagely hacked off the legionnaires’ heads and held them up, howling and yipping in triumph.
“Barbarians.” Stiffening, the plumed cavalry commander turned to his second in command. “You stay here with the Fourth, while I show those savages the might of Temboria’s Legions.” He raised his arm. “First company charge!”
Three hundred men and horses thundered across the field. Rhiain was thankful to be on the sidelines; anything trying to stand against that beautiful massed charge would surely have been pounded to pieces. But their unity faltered as they hit the woods. Some riders were forced to pull up to let others past as they broke through the line of smaller trees.
Eagerly Rhiain kept pace alongside. Within thirty feet, the scraggly underbrush and younger trees thinned out, giving way to tall firs and cedars with plenty of space between for game and horses alike.
The Grasslanders braided in and out of the trees ahead, riding hard with only a few scattered taunts. Rhiain ran in silence, paws indenting the damp earth. A few paces more... Now.
The Legion entered the killing ground. Gotian archers in tree platforms loosed their arrows from above, longbows firing faster than a crossbow could. Thrum, thrum, thrum.
Since the legionnaires wore armour, the rebels targeted their mounts. Horses screamed and neighed and died, thrashing and rolling. Men fell, then were trampled by those running behind, red meat underfoot.
A dozen horsemen steered around the disaster, coming toward her. Rhiain reared up on her back paws and roared loud enough to shake the tree branches. The terrified horses veered away from her, back on the correct path, but she could do nothing about the ones flowing around the left side, escaping the trap.
Even though the ambush had succeeded, there were too many cavalry and not enough archers. Enough of the horses kept their feet, either unscathed or with minor wounds, to still outnumber the Grasslanders two hundred to one hundred.
The pursuit turned deadly. Legionniares fired crossbows and hurled their spears into Grasslander backs, seeking revenge for their fallen brothers.
Two dozen Grasslanders fell and were trampled in turn.
Rhiain forced her gaze away from the grisly sight. She disliked the Grasslanders’ treatment of slaves, but she had to admire their fearlessness.
Another cried out and slumped in the saddle as she watched; his companion edged his horse over and pulled the unconscious body onto his own horse.
Rhiain stretched out her gait, trying to reach them in time to help, but a cavalry officer caught them first. His shortsword flashed and both Grasslanders fell.
The decimated rebel force jumped their sturdy spotted horses over a scraggly line of fallen tree branches that formed a fence of sorts.
Rhiain grinned savagely as she watched the cavalry gallop up, too caught up in vengefully running down their prey to notice that all the Grasslanders had cleared the tree branches by an extra four feet.
The cavalry horses hurdled the barrier, then crunched down into ground mined with holes. Delicate leg bones broke, horses screamed, and riders pitched forward. Rhiain saw the commander lose his plumed helmet as he was thrown to the ground.
During the chaos, the Grasslanders wheeled their horses and rode back at the enemy with sabers swinging. “Mek! Mek!” they shouted.
Roaring, Rhiain joined the fight, pouncing on the stragglers who tried to turn from the ambush.
“Rally!” The second in command held up his sword. The bloodied, unhorsed legionnaires banded together and formed a shieldwall. Fighting off Grasslander attacks, they began a slow retreat.
Rhiain could have smashed down their wall, but the far-off clash and shriek of battle distracted her. Fitch. Her heart leapt. He was still alive, still fighting, but for how long?
Desperate to reach his side, Rhiain began to run through the forest as fast as her abused muscles would allow.
* * *
The dead and dying littered the forest. The sickly sweet smell of blood tainted the air.
Other than a group of ten legionnaires taken in the throat by arrows, probably by ambush, the casualties were all pale-skinned Gotians. Lance recognized Cevan, the slave he’d healed—arms flung out, throat slashed—but many were strangers. New recruits, likely from Tolium, all slaughtered.
The Republicans were better trained, better equipped and possessed greater numbers...The rebellion had always been hopeless.
Yet the furious sound of battle still continued up ahead. Lance hesitated. From the stillness of the bodies he thought most here were already dead. Should he search for survivors, or might he do more good closer to the battle?
And then someone called his name. “Lance.” Turning his head, he saw Willem.
Loma’s mercy. Lance hurried toward him. A spear pinned Willem to the trunk of a fir tree. It had entered through his abdomen, below his rib cage. Lance winced at the sight of the grisly wound. He’d grown inured to gore, but seeing a good man who’d grown to be a friend like this turned his stomach.
Willem’s eyes were bright with pain. His bloodless lips moved, but Lance couldn’t hear him.
“I’ll have you down and healed in a trice,” Lance called out. He reached for the shaft holding his friend in place, then hesitated as doubt struck him.
Once he removed the spear, the wound would gush blood like a stream in flood. He would have only moments to heal Willem.
What if he failed?
Willem waved a weak hand. “My son. Tend Jenas first. I promised Glynis I’d bring us both back.”
Lance followed his pointing and saw Jenas lying among some tree roots a few feet away with a head wound and a long slash that had laid his leg open to the bone but missed the artery.
The boy looked pale, but Willem was in greater need. “You first,” he insisted. “If your feet slip and your full weight comes down on the spear, it will tear you open.”
Willem shook his head. “The Undying will keep me upright.”
Looking closer, Lance saw that the tree had extruded a bit of trunk into a seat for Willem to rest on. Lance let himself be convinced. Unspoken in the back of his mind was the thought that it might be best to test his healing ability on a lesser wound.
>
He was alarmed by Jenas’s lack of fresh blood. Had his heart stopped pumping? But the youth’s chest still rose and fell. Coming closer, Lance smelled sap. The sticky substance had oozed from the Undying’s roots and sealed Jenas’s cuts partly shut.
Lance knelt by the fuzzy-bearded youth and laid his hand on Jenas’s chest. Concentrating, he willed magic and healing into Willem’s son—and felt a response, but slow and sluggish.
And the Goddess did not step inside him.
Fear ate at him like acid. Something was wrong.
“Help my father,” Jenas said hoarsely, his eyes glazed with pain.
The boy’s bravery hurt. Why couldn’t Lance heal him? Lance tried again, with the same halfhearted results. The barrier between him and the Goddess terrified him. His guts squirmed with guilt. Had he done this with his anger toward Loma over the baby’s soul?
What if he couldn’t heal anymore? It would kill something inside him to be able to do nothing for the broken men on the battlefield. And then there was Sara...Please, no.
He bowed his head for long minutes, but only received a dim sense of warmth in response to his fervent prayer. Was the Goddess busy elsewhere in the world? Should he wait?
He concentrated on Her, hoping for reassurance, but after straining he received a faint impression of sorrow.
His stomach clenched. Have mercy. Tell me how I have offended You.
When was the last time he’d healed, easily and quickly? When had he last truly felt Her presence? He reviewed the previous day in his mind, hour by hour—and then wanted to bang his head against a rock.
Stupid. How could he have been so stupid?
Yesterday, he’d undertaken two of the tests to become a dedicant of Nir, the God of War. That was the barrier between himself and the Goddess, one he’d raised himself.
Have mercy on Your idiotic servant. Shame bloated his chest. He’d been feverish at the time, but he still ought to have known better. He’d taken the dedicant tests because the priest had annoyed him, and it had seemed an expedient way to stay in the camp.
Soul of Kandrith (The Kandrith Series) Page 43
