Healer's Ruin

by O'Mara, Chris

  A chorus of screams and a gout of black smoke rewarded the effort of her magery and the Tarukaveri staggered back. Then, Jolm's block of warriors began steadily moving southwards, attempting to close the gap with the Tarukaveri even with hundreds of Riln still at the detachment's heels.

  We could win this, Chalos dared to think. Against all odds, and against all sense, we could win this!

  Then more strangeness. The beam of violet light which was scorching the Krune to charcoal, armour and all, suddenly bent like light in a glass of water, arcing sharply eastward across the gently sloping plain. Squinting, Chalos could see a small group of Krune, distant from the main Tarukaveri force, gathered around a single rider who was recognisable by his armour as one of the Duke's elite guard. In his hands was a small urn-like object and although at that distance Chalos could not make out any specific details he knew instantly that it was the ancient relic he had seen on the Duke's desk back in the shadow of Hulker's Crag so many moons ago.

  The beam was being drawn to the urn-like object which sucked it up with such greed that Samine was pulled along with it. She was dragged from the saddle, her magery cutting off instantly as she vanished over the side of the shadamar. The beast skipped awkwardly as it wheeled away from the Tarukaveri lines, trying not to trample its fallen rider.

  'Samine!' Chalos screamed raggedly, clambering over the rock. 'Samine!'

  It was not a cry meant for her ears, not entirely. He wanted someone, anyone from Jolm's host to see her plight and rush to her aid. The riderless shadamar was now peeling westward, a diminishing slender shape. The Dread Spear herself was invisible, lying prone somewhere in the muddy field.

  Suddenly without care for his own safety Chalos bolted from the pit and plunged into the battle. He was now surrounded by grunting, shouting Tarukataru, the spine of the easternmost detachment. Calling out the Dread Spear's name like a battlecry, Chalos forced himself through the detachment, the Krune stepping aside for him with irritated grimaces and muttered curses. One of them tramped on his foot, sending pain lancing up his leg. Gasping, Chalos forced himself to continue and then emerged into the vortex between the two detachments, the gap where the Riln were still pouring through in their hundreds

  'A slinger!' one of the Riln cried as he emerged from amongst the ranks of Krune. 'A slinger!'

  A path parted for him as the Riln backed away, trepidation in their eyes. Gritting his teeth, Chalos made claws of his pale, thin-fingered hands, mimicking the movements he had seen Samine make prior to unleashing volcanic death on her enemies. It worked. The Riln mistook him for a master of offensive magery and he saw them recoil from him, providing him a path into the space between Jolm's host and the western end of Agryce's line.

  Here Chalos discovered an odd calm with noise to the left and right and chaos in the periphery of his vision. Ahead of him, the western mountains loomed and a lone shadamar receded into near invisibility. And there, in the mud ahead, a body lay wreathed in black robes, auburn hair matted with dirt.

  'Samine!' he called again, but only a dry croak emerged from his throat. Dropping to his knees, he cradled her, wiping mud from her face. She seemed younger, more frail. Blood was soaked into her hair and the healer realised that Samine had been struck in the skull by a hoof. Tears ran down his cheeks. He pulled her close, turning his ear to her mouth.

  A breath! A breath! She lives!

  Chalos placed a hand on her head and found his mirror, not caring for the two tribes of Krune threatening to converge on his position. As he closed his eyes, concentrating his magery, a black shape circled above.

  'Move, you fool!' Mysa called, her voice small but insistent behind his eyes.

  As he began to channel his energy, a terrible undertow rose to envelop the healer. He felt as if his entire body, his soul too, was being brutally dredged. His hand, which he had pressed to Samine's fractured skull, was whipped away as if caught on a line. The pain was immense as magical energy flowed through him in an uncontrolled torrent only to be dragged away before he could use it.

  The urn!

  He could not scream. There was no shutting off the link he had to the world of magic. Ironically, the hoof to the skull had saved Samine, as it had cut off her connection to the world of magic and thus freed her from the terrible thirst of the urn. Chalos could only hope that he was crushed between Jolm's Tarukataru and Agryce's Tarukaveribefore the accursed ancient object devoured him utterly.

  'Mysa!' he hissed in a hoarse whisper. 'Mysa!'

  Could she hear him?

  He couldn't open his eyes to see but he hoped and prayed that the bird was wheeling her way towards the elite guardsman to the west, her claws reaching out for the urn, ready to snatch it from the Krune soldier's hands and dash it against a rock. He pictured the scene in his mind, willing the crow to see the images, to do his bidding.

  The sound of his heart thundering in his chest alarmed him. Was this the approach of death? Then, he realised that the drumming was out of sync with his heartbeat, which was slowing as his life ebbed away. With a groan, he managed to open his eyes, letting in a crack of light.

  Not my heart... but boots... huge boots...

  The massive creature grabbed him, stowed him under one arm and then grabbed Samine before doubling back towards Jolm's detachment. Chalos felt the grip of the urn's mysterious power diminish until the cord was finally snapped. His eyes opened and he drew a deep, desperate breath.

  'Bad sorcery, eh, little Rovann?' Dolga chuckled. 'I've seen nothing like it in all my campaigns!'

  'You saved us,' Chalos muttered, still weak. His head was throbbing. Sweat poured from him.

  'My men owe you a debt for the work of your healing hands,' the Dauwark replied as they were swallowed up by Jolm's detachment. All around them were bustling bodies, some clad in black Baldaw mesh, others in the curving, golden armour of the Gilt Plates. All reeked of toil and shone with blood.

  'I can't work my magic,' Chalos said sadly. 'That urn thing, it consumes energy.' His headache was subsiding, but he now felt nauseous. His shoulder and foot pulsed with pain. They were now in the centre of the detachment which had become a hollow square, the sides three ranks deep. In the middle were the wounded and there were more than Chalos had expected. Some Dauwarks, many Krune. They looked to him imploringly, their eyes roving, lips pale. He averted his gaze.

  A shout went up behind them, in the south-facing ranks.

  'We're moving!' Dolga said. 'Help the wounded manoeuvre.'

  As the detachment started to trudge westward, away from the Tarukaveri and the bulk of the Riln horde, Chalos joined with those wounded that could stand on their own and helped move the other injured soldiers. A Krune beside him cradled Samine, holding her as one might hold a newborn. They kept pace with the ranks somehow and the healer was impressed by the way the Black Talon kept their shape as they shifted away from the heart of the battle. More Riln poured through the widening gap between the two detachments of Tarukataru and as the ranks moved, Chalos stole a glance southward, and could see nothing but the backs of hundreds of Riln, all facing the direction of the Dallian Woodland. Beyond them would be Agryce.

  The Riln think we're routed, he realised. They've completely lost coherence. They can either see us, or the Corporal's detachment, but never both. So half of them think we're all that's left, and the other think the same of the Corporal's force.

  This was Jolm's desperate tactical masterstroke. Splitting the line had cost lives, and weakened the Tarukataru as an offensive machine, but had also saved them from utter annihilation in the press between the Riln and the Tarukaveri.

  Now it was Agryce who bore the brunt of the Riln assault as the two Tarukataru forces slowly but surely spread eastward and westward, moving apart stride by stride, allowing the Riln to storm southwards.

  'Hold!' Jolm's voice cried, and the movement stopped.

  Now, only the ranks that faced east were taking a beating, as Riln continued to drive into them. Grunting and growling,
the ranks adjusted to allow the Gilt Plates to focus their might in that direction and soon the Riln were driven back. But the Black Talon detachment did not follow them, instead allowing the fleeing Riln to rejoin the mob that was now crashing against Agryce's lines like a surging wave.

  In the centre of the hollow square, Chalos crouched next to the Krune that was holding Samine. The purple-skinned warrior had suffered a blow to the torso, and the glint of a broken blade caught the healer's eye. Instinctively he reached out but then he remembered the urn and lowered his hand. The Krune glanced at him and curled his lip.

  'I'm sorry,' Chalos shouted over the noise of war, which all seemed to be coming from one direction now, as the Riln and the Tarukaveri clashed to the immediate south. 'My magic's not working.'

  The Krune looked away as if he hadn't heard, or didn't care.

  Chalos stared down at Samine, sadness welling within him. This is grief. She is going to die in the midst of this, and already I am grieving. Ahead of time, yes, but the heart is often the surest clairvoyant. He brushed a lock of auburn hair from her face. In the fall, the fastenings of her severe bun had been knocked loose.

  'Get ready,' the Krune soldier said, suddenly tensing. 'We're about to charge.'

  'What?' asked Chalos, certain he had misheard.

  The soldier placed Samine down gently, motioned to two of the wounded Krune to watch over her, and drew a wide-bladed sword from his belt, which he hefted in two hands.

  'Keep your head down, Rovann,' he said.

  With alarming speed the whole square transformed. Chalos had not even seen dancers move with such economy and precision. The whole formation now became a rank four-deep, facing southwards, the wounded abandoned in the crook of a hillock. Chalos could not see any Riln. The northerners were all gathered in the space between the Tarukataru and the Tarukaveri.

  In the killing zone, where we had once been...

  Looking to the east, he saw a black block of armoured men bristling with swords. The Corporal's detachment was doing the same as Jolm's, forming into a line in order to charge the back of the Riln.

  The Riln have never fought warriors like this, Chalos knew. They've never encountered men who fight with the expertise with which a surgeon cuts, or an artist paints. They came here with sheer numbers, but it will be experience – an experience bred through centuries of internecine tribal warfare – that determines who shall be victor, or who shall be slain.

  Then the call to attack sounded and every Krune in the ranks bellowed with all his might. The Dauwarks joined in too, their cries loud enough to split the air. Then the thundering of boots began, churning up the mud even further. Beyond the wall of sound could be heard a keening wail as the Riln realised that they were trapped.

  'We've won,' said one of the injured Krune, a man who held on to his lower leg with both hands, the limb all but severed clean. 'But once the northerners are gone, we will have to face Agryce.'

  Unable to heal the others, and unable to look any more at the face of the unconscious Dread Spear, Chalos slunk away, climbing stiffly to the top of the hillock to watch the two blocks of Tarukataru converge on the Riln. They herded them masterfully, creating a hollow triangular cell of Black Talon – one side led by Jolm, one side by the Corporal, and the other by Agryce – that contained the Riln. The walls crept closer together. The Riln were compressed, crushed, panicked. They died by the hundred as Chalos watched. The carnage was so methodical and bloody that, as the final Riln were slaughtered, he turned away and doubled up, retching drily as his already emptied stomach convulsed. Then he collapsed into a sitting position, groaning.

  'What a warm-up exercise, eh, Rovann?' the maimed Krune called up to him. 'Now you get to see the real fight!'

  'You want to come up and watch?'

  The Krune grinned gleefully.

  Getting the wounded man up the hill without losing his leg was a difficult project but at least it took the healer's mind off his own pain. After a few minutes they were seated together on the hillock with the rest of the wounded beneath them, watching two lines of warriors differentiate and form opposite one another.

  Agryce's Black Talon had no Gilt Plates but they had more shadamars. And the damn Elite was still on the hill to the south-west, holding the ancient urn on his lap. Also, Agryce had more numbers. Perhaps she had started the march north with the same contingent as Jolm, but the battle with the Riln had softened the Tarukataru considerably. With sad eyes, Chalos saw the trail of dead and dying the Krune had left. There were whole mounds of Riln, all pale skin and red exposed guts, but there were Krune too in the debris, and a few Dauwarks. At a distance the Gilt Plates looked like gold boulders streaked with crimson. One was inching his way towards the ranks, but with every movement life seemed to ebb from him. As Chalos watched, the Dauwark went still.

  'I don't think I can watch much more,' Chalos said.

  'You're about to miss the best part,' the maimed Krune replied with genuine anticipation. 'A duel!'

  Chalos could see now that at the head of each opposing line of soldiers stood a lieutenant, each mounted on a shadamar.

  'And then what?' the healer asked with grim fascination, wanting to look away but unable to do so.

  'The champions will fight, as the armies fight,' the maimed Kryne replied. 'It will be like two battles, each depending on the outcome of the other.'

  'I'm not sure I understand.'

  'I'm sure you don't, Rovann.'

  Shrieks from the plain caught their full attention. Jolm and Agryce were riding full-pelt towards each other, their forces half a stride behind. Out of some peculiar traditional etiquette, the two sides met but left a roughly circular gap in the centre of the battle for the two lieutenants to fight their duel. As men of each tribe died around them, Agryce lost her shadamar to a canny thrust from Jolm. Without missing a breath she rolled into a crouch before driving her halberd into the Tarukataru leader's mount.

  Both of Jolm's malformed legs were dangling over the right hand side of the saddle so he was able to easily slide from the animal as it went down, deftly rolling to dodge the crumpling steed's frantically flailing limbs. He then rushed Agryce, swinging his jagged blade. The Tarukaveri had a triangular shield furnished with a cruelly pointed boss and had now swapped her halberd for a finely made longsword. Jolm hacked his sword into Agryce's shield and with a skilful jink to the side he twisted the shield free of the woman's grasp. Shrieking with fury, the Tarukaveri lieutenant now grasped her sword in both gauntlets, adjusting her stance as the ruined shield tumbled away.

  Because of the Tarukataru leader's malformed lower limbs, Chalos had expected Jolm to fight awkwardly out of the saddle but now he could see – even at a distance – how exaggerated the muscle mass was on the lieutenant's legs. The healer pictured Jolm as a youth, cursed and disdained by all Krune for what they saw as a lack of physical perfection, working doubly hard to become fit and strong, and ending up healthier than all the rest. It became immediately clear that the lieutenant had learned to use his deformity to his advantage. He could jink to the side, leaning so severely that he seemed to defy gravity, before darting in the opposite direction with a surety and speed that baffled his opponent. Twice Chalos saw Agryce almost topple as she swung for Jolm only for him to duck her blow and skip around her to thrust at her armoured back. She was constantly turning, chasing him, tripping over her own boots.

  The battle raged round the two lieutenants. It was impossible to judge who was winning but one thing was certain – while they were fighting, the Dauwarks were causing mayhem. Dolga had directed them to focus their attention on the mounted Tarukaveri who greatly outnumbered the mounted Tarukataru and the Gilt Plates were executing their task with grim precision. With a perfect blend of brute force and skill they would parry the assault of the mounted Tarukaveri before using one tree trunk-like arm to batter the enemy soldier's shadamar into submission. The sound of snapping bones and hapless, whinnying beasts was almost drowned out by the continuous clash
ing of sword and armour, the bellowing of fighters and the howls of wounded. All these sounds bled together into the noise of war, a sound that Chalos was sick of hearing.

  'He's a clever one,' said the maimed Krune from his place at the healer's side. 'See how he toys with the foe?'

  The wounded warrior was right. Jolm spent most of the duel staring at his opponent's back but not making the killing blow. He was instead focusing his swings at the panels and links of Agryce's armour. With each blow the Tarukaveri lieutenant seemed to visibly buckle, her movements becoming sluggish.

  The fight, for Jolm, was getting easier with each attack he made with his restless blade.

  'But why?' Chalos said, shaking his head. 'Why not just end it? Isn't he tempting fate?'

  'Fate?' the Krune frowned. 'Fate is a word used by the powerful to mask their tyranny or by the weak to justify their lack of ambition. Fate is a word for fools not for warriors.' He shifted with grunt, still holding his leg in place, his knuckles white with effort. 'He's dragging it out to give his men time to put as many of the Tarukaveri in the ground as they can.'

  'But what if the Tarukaveri kill more Tarukataru?'

  'What?' the Krune snorted. 'There is a reason we Tarukataru sneer at Tarukaveri. They have spirits of ice. You either melt them with promises of imperial largesse, as the King did, or smash them with violence. They have always been a weasely tribe.'

  'But there are more of them than there are of you.'

  'So what? How many Riln did we kill today?'

  The man made a good point but Chalos could not help wondering where Jolm's expertise ended and his arrogance began. The enemy Krune may have been of a tribe considered less courageous but they were still Black Talon. And they had more numbers and more mounted. Would the Gilt Plates be enough to balance the fight? Perhaps, but could they tip it?

  Jolm is trusting his men to do as much damage as they can before he ends the duel... but he's not up here, he can't see the whole battle. The two lines are entrenched, neither is giving way. It's a dead heat.