by Edun, Terah
A male voice shouted a command over her shoulder as she made the turn. “Ciardis, down!”
It wasn’t a request, and she didn’t hesitate. She threw herself to the ground and felt the burn of fire on her spine as she went. By the time she looked up, the charred remains of a spidersilk lay less than a foot away and General Barnaren was running toward her. As he reached her he pulled her up against him roughly and she felt the back of her dress split.
Blushing, she realized that the lightning he had thrown had done more than singe the back of her dress. It had cut it in half like a fiery scythe. She clutched the dress to her front hastily, but it wasn’t like she could hunch over and hide. They were in the middle of a battle, after all. Fortunately Barnaren hadn’t noticed. He stood so close to her that she was practically underneath his arm—his mage arm, she realized. Some mages were able to build power more quickly in battle, because they favored the use of one arm over the other. Barnaren’s mage arm was his right. It was the one he always threw lightning from, or so she’d been told. In his left he gripped a sword.
She stayed where she was. Her opinion of Barnaren hadn’t changed but her desire to stay alive had certainly shot up. Together they could combine their powers on the offensive. It was a good place to be. Especially for a Weathervane.
“Let’s you and I set fire to a couple of spidersilks.” He didn’t look down her. He might have been commenting on the wind for all the emotion in his tone. But she heard the fierce satisfaction and she relished it. She could finally do something.
“Let’s,” she said, not bothering to keep the happiness from her voice.
He laughed. “Little mage. Not many a woman could be this calm in the midst of a battle.”
“My lord, I think you’re surrounded by women who are calmer, more methodical, and quite ferocious fighters. You just have to recognize them.”
Without prompting she gripped his upper arm, sought out his mage shields, and poured power and magic in the opening in his shields that he had left for her. As she did so she noticed that Barnaren’s soldiers had formed an honor guard around them. They fought the spidersilks and kept them away from their commander.
And then the world split asunder.
General Barnaren called upon his power. Unlike the time she had enhanced the Weather Mage’s gifts with water, which had felt like being drawn into a maelstrom of high winds, cool rains, and turbulent rapids, this felt like being lit up with a hundred blazing fires and ferocious lightning strikes. The general’s magic was alive, sentient, and barely contained. And he delighted in it—the destructive power and the untamable nature of the gift that came with harnessing fire and lightning. He raised up his arm and crafted a huge lightning bolt that was almost godlike. Throwing it was easy. But, to Ciardis’s surprise, he wasn’t interested in throwing it like a javelin. He began to build on his power, forcing a tie between the bolt of fiery lightning and his power. When it launched from his hand a line went straight back from the thunderous bolt to his mage core. He pumped all of his magic into the bolt and it spread like a multipronged spear to coordinate a ring of attacks of fire and lightning that targeted the spidersilks. The bolts twisted in midair to become layers of crab nets that landed neatly on top of the spidersilks they targeted. The creatures went up in flames until nothing but charred remains lay in lumps across the fields.
Ciardis smiled in satisfaction.
General Barnaren surveyed the area around them. He said, mostly to himself, “There are more. There are always more.”
“More in the camp?”
He startled as if he had forgotten about the young woman who leaned against his chest under his arm. He didn’t take his gaze away from the surrounding area, but he did answer her.
“Yes, hiding. But more than that...these creatures have become brazen, but none have dared to wage a direct assault on our camp before.”
Ciardis wondered how they’d managed to pull this attack off. After a pause he looked down and noticed that she was clutching the front of her dress to her closely. With a muttered curse, he said “Why didn’t you mention the dress?”
She blushed, “Didn’t seem important when you’re about die.”
He coughed and took off his cloak to quickly to place the blood-stained fabric around her shoulders. She took it gratefully as she asked, “Are the spidersilks mages themselves?”
“No,” he said as he turned his attention to the men around him.
Brusquely Barnaren ordered his soldiers to search and clear the area of lingering combatants. Inga and a group of her women warriors walked up to intercept them.
“General,” said Inga, the dark blood of the creatures dripping down her face. “You should keep some alive.”
“Why?” he said without pause.
“They could tell us something—why they attacked us in broad daylight, for starters.”
The major from before stepped forward. He had a tourniquet tied around his upper arm but was otherwise unharmed. “We’ll get nothing from them even if we keep some alive. They’re ignorant beasts that we can’t communicate with.”
“That you can’t communicate with,” Inga said pointedly.
The general stared at her and stroked his bearded chin. “You’re right.”
He turned to the major. “Order the men to clear the camp and save at least one of the lingering bastards if found.”
The major saluted and left with one last lingering look of distaste at Inga.
Inga didn’t deign to acknowledge his presence once she got her way. She looked around the area, with a displeased look and her body covered in blood from head to toe. It looked like a bucket of the red fluid had been dropped on her, but Ciardis knew it was a testament to how many she had killed that day.
“How many did you lose?”
Inga’s gaze cut to Ciardis from where she surveyed the area in turmoil around them. “Four.”
Four was enough. Four was more than Inga had expected to lose today. Now her group of women numbered only twenty-two, and Ciardis knew it pained her deeply.
“I will bury my warriors,” Inga said shortly. She turned to leave without dismissal.
General Barnaren said, “We will bury our warriors.”
Inga let out of a bark of bitter laughter. “How many have you lost today, General?”
“Thirty-seven,” he said. Ciardis wondered how he knew. He hadn’t spoken to any about his losses yet. And yet he knew.
“Thirty-seven men who—”
“Thirty-two men and four women.” There was a note of challenge in the general’s voice.
Inga lifted her head and turned around to face him fully. Her face was proud and full of scorn. She watched him as if daring him to expound on what he had said.
He didn’t back down. “I was wrong. I was wrong to not give you the supplies you needed. Without your warriors, the losses taken today would have been so much more.”
Her gaze was still haughty. Her mouth closed in displeasure.
“Then we will bury our dead together, General. This changes nothing.”
His gaze sharpened with steel but he held back his temper. “And then we will strike. Not in the crags of the mountains or the dark pass. But a full-on assault at the gates. We cannot let this pass.”
Her face showed approval, but still hesitation reigned. “And my warriors?”
“With my knights at the crest of the full assault. Supplied with all needed to defeat this horde.”
“Then blood shall be shed.”
Ciardis watched both Barnaren and Inga warily. It was nice to see some unity among the forces fighting this war in the North, but quite frankly they looked more like ravenous wolves circling each other than two commanders unified in their desire to strike back. She sighed and brought her attention back to the fallen men and women around her, the screams rending the air and stomp of soldiers rushing their fallen comrades to the healing center.
Barnaren had sent a soldier to grab some clothes from Ciardis’s te
nt. He preferred to keep her in sight while they still scoured the area for enemy spidersilks. She hurriedly changed in a hastily arranged shelter of cloaks propped on sticks and emerged to see healers racing across the fields to attend to the wounded.
As she watched blue- and white-robed healers rush by with their charges, she spotted the man who had given his life to give her one more moment to get to freedom. Titus lay on his stomach in the melting snow on the frozen ground. As she knelt beside him, she felt a tear slip down her cheek. Another friend, another savior gone. He joined Damias, her Tutorials instructor, and Maree Amber, Head of the Companions’ Guild and Council, in the beyond. She felt bitter bile rise up in her throat as she fought to hold back her tears and keep a check on her emotions.
She traced a gentle finger on the large man’s cheek. She’d known him less than a day, and what a day it had been. But that didn’t mean she didn’t regret the way his life had ended. Once more evil had won and regret filled her that it had taken another kindred spirit from her.
Kneeling beside him, she wanted to do something. Cover him with a shroud. Remove him from the dirt and grime.
“Lass,” said a gruff voice behind her.
“Lass,” the male voice said more urgently.
Frowning, Ciardis looked up at the shadowed figure of a man with a cane. When she didn’t acknowledge him fast enough, he cracked the cane against her shin.
She cursed, fists balled. “What?” She didn’t know him. She barely knew anyone in this camp. What could he want with her?
“The time to mourn our dead has not yet come,” he said flatly. “There are still living people that still need to be saved.”
She rubbed her shin and said, “I can give my gift—”
“No, we need hands and bodies from those without the healing gift,” he said.
He continued while placing a hand on the shoulder of the skinny boy beside him, “Follow the boy. Gather as many rolls of bandages and thread as you can and he will follow behind to carry the ointment.”
Ciardis wanted to protest. In the face of this grisly veteran, she didn’t dare.
“Go!”
Hurrying, she followed the boy, who introduced himself as Simon, as they ran across the mud-strewn and wet battlefield. It was wet with more than just melting snow, and she couldn’t avoid the pools of blood no matter how hard she tried. The bottoms of her new pants and her legs were soaked with sticky red by the time they made it to the tent. It matched the splashes of blood on her face as she’d yet had time to fully clean herself up.
As she and Simon rushed into the tent, she was able to catch her breath as she grabbed the rolls of pre-soaked linens and thread. Finally she spoke. “How did he know I didn’t have the healing gift?”
Simon gave her an irritated glance, as if she’d asked a very stupid question, and said, “Your aura. You don’t have the color.”
“Different people have different auras,” Ciardis pointed out reasonably.
“Not healers. Not since the Initiate Wars.”
As they raced out of the tent and once more across the battlefield, this time uphill to the healing center, she had time to ponder that. She kept her mouth shut because there was nothing to say anyway. What she knew about healers was limited to legends. Vaneis was too poor to have its own healer and had shared the only healer it had for five years with six other villages. When that same healer had died there had been no one to tend the sick. Only those wealthy enough to travel to the next largest town, with two healers in residence, could be assured a cure for their ailments.
Ciardis had made the trip once. Not for her own illness, but for the village chief’s daughter. The girl had come down with the pox and the only salve was a half a day’s walk away. The village chief had paid her to walk to the next village over and buy some of their treatment stock. She’d done it because she was poor, hungry, and needed winter clothes. Her feet had ached for days and blisters had developed after, but she’d made it.
She hadn’t actually met the healer, so she didn’t know if he’d been gifted in the magical arts or was an apothecary. She barely remembered meeting her first healer during the Blood Hunt when Barnaren’s healer had come to his aid. She had no recollection of the healers who’d attended to Terris’s grievous wound in the Ameles Forest—she’d been too focused on her dying friend to take stock of their auras.
She just hoped that there were enough healers here to treat the wounded and the dying.
As they crested the hill she saw a swarm of activity outside of two tents. In front of the two closest to her were rows and rows of cots laid out for triage. She assumed other patients were inside the tents. A third tent stood slightly off in the distance with the mark of death on it. The embalmer’s tent, she assumed. Walking forward, she followed closely behind Simon, who seemed to know where he was going. She dumped her bandages on top of a rapidly diminishing pile of the same and knew they would need more soon.
But she also knew they needed her more. Her gifts would help in this situation. She had no doubts. Ciardis walked off from the bandage station, ignoring Simon’s protests, and went outside to the emergency response area. She latched on to the first blue-robed healer she saw. Ciardis steeled her gut and spoke to the healer as she watched him place his hand deep in a man’s entrails that spilled out into the sunlight.
“Let me help,” she commanded.
The healer spared her a glance from his concentration on the wounded man before him and said, “Stay out of my way, woman. Don’t you see—”
“You don’t understand, I’m—”
“Can’t you see I’m busy?”
“I’m not a healer, but—”
“Yes, I can see that.” The tone of his voice left no room for anything less than derision.
“Damn you, man, I’m the—”
“Weathervane,” said the same voice of the man from before. She turned away from the stubborn healer to face him, this time surprised to see a glowing orb in his hands.
“Yes,” Ciardis said.
“You see, Miss Weathervane, we know what you are, but we don’t need your gifts.”
Ciardis was flustered. “I can assure you, I can help by enhancing your powers. Ask General Barnaren.”
The man in front of her narrowed his eyes at her in affront. “Not all of us have direct access to the commanding general of this army.”
“I didn’t mean it like that.”
“I’m sure.”
Ciardis was hurt. Why couldn’t they just see that she was trying to help?
Suddenly a woman appeared and addressed the old man, “Madden, we need the orb moved to the central point of patient activity. We’re about to get more wounded...much more. Can you go?”
He nodded stiffly and left without a glance at the perplexed Weathervane behind him.
The woman lifted her chin pointedly and stepped aside as six soldiers struggled to bear a frost giant warrior to the closest cot of her size. The woman warrior’s teeth were clenched in pain as she clutched her left side, but she didn’t complain.
“My name is Beth and no offense was intended, Weathervane,” the healer said. “But we of the Fifth Healing Division have been working together for a long time, and introducing an unknown into our healing meld, particularly one that is untrained, could be catastrophic even with the best intentions.”
Ciardis nodded. “But surely extra power could do no harm?”
Beth had already turned away to give a group of healers instructions. She turned back upon hearing Ciardis speak, and said, “Walk with me.”
Ciardis obediently joined her side. “You saw the wound on that soldier.” It wasn’t a question.
“The entirety of his stomach cavity had been exposed to the elements,” Beth continued as they walked and dodged around urgently moving healers. “He was in danger of bleeding to death before we came. He is still in danger of contracting sepsis. But he is stable.”
Ciardis opened her mouth to protest.
Beth
had stopped and knelt next to a softly moaning man. He was unconscious but clearly in pain. She placed her hand on his hand and gave him enough of her own healing ability to still the pain.
Beth stood and turned to Ciardis, giving her a wry smile. “Yes, he didn’t look very stable, did he with his wound open like that?”
That was precisely what she had been thinking. Ciardis nodded in agreement.
“There was a healing net over his wound. Invisible to the naked eye and most mage sight.”
Surprise shown Ciardis’s eyes.
They arrived at the epicenter of the patients, where the craggy old man was waiting with his orb.
“This,” said Beth, holding out her hands to indicate the whole area, “is how we were able to stabilize that man. The orb you see in Madden’s hand is an impression orb—it emits and sustains a network of healing power, stored by us over the months. It allows us to contain a crisis and handle the most grievous of wounds while not draining every individual healer’s core.”
Ciardis’s mouth had fallen open by the end of the speech, and she closed it with a snap.
“The orb is me. My gifts. My powers.”
“With limitations,” said the healer.
Ciardis wasn’t sure how she felt about that. She would almost say she felt unwelcome, discarded, impotent. Any of those would do.
Reading her expression correctly, Healer Beth said, “Sometimes one solution works better than others. We’ve perfected the orb over the years in what you have learned to do in months, according to the rumors.”
Ciardis looked over at her, and the woman said, “Yes, Ciardis, I’ve heard of you. In fact, one of our own has worked with you.”
Ciardis looked in the direction the woman nodded her head, expecting to find Maris, but instead she saw the healer with whom she’d helped to heal Barnaren so many months ago. He was standing there conferring with a colleague.
"Barthis," Ciardis said as she remembered his name, "His name is Barthis."
“Yes. He has much praise to say for your quick efforts during the Blood Hunt. But Ciardis there’s so much more to our work than power – there’s unity in our meld,” said the healer beside her, “Let me show you what our orb does.” She held out a hand, palm upturned. With hesitation Ciardis took it, expecting the woman to lead them over to Madden. Instead Ciardis’s vision exploded with colors and lines. She gasped aloud and looked around in awe. A network of glowing golden lines that intersected and crisscrossed on a square grid system had appeared before her. Each patient lay underneath a grid point. The man close to her had a glowing golden line extending from the core of his body to a knot that lay in the center of the crossed grid lines just above him. She leaned forward to look more closely, careful not to get in his attendant’s way. The man was unconscious and fully bandaged. The line to his body situated on a focal point in his chest. Once it reached his chest, it flattened out and spread like a golden shield to surround his whole form.
