by Jayne Castel
He met Lilia’s eye and grimaced. “No sign of him.”
47
Aftermath
They left The Caverns of the Lost, taking Saul’s body with them. Ryana managed on her own, using her quarter-staff as a walking stick—while Dain and Lilia lifted Saul up under the arms and dragged him away from the Ice Door. Lilia stifled a groan at his weight. It would be an exhausting task, to pull him all the way down the mountain, but they would not leave him behind. Brand, however, they would leave to the crows.
It was a slow journey down the mountainside—but with The King Breaker gone, there was no urgency. Even so, they were forced to halt often. Ryana couldn’t walk far without resting, and Dain’s face was now taut with pain. Like Ryana, he needed to see a healer.
The sun had risen well above the hills to the east when they reached the vale below. A carpet of twisted, bloodied and broken bodies covered the valley floor. Standards stuck up at odd angles, and the carcasses of dead horses littered the ground like boulders. The charnel stench of blood and guts, metallic and foul, reached them, and Lilia choked back the urge to retch.
The three companions stopped and surveyed the battlefield. Lilia’s sensitive belly roiled. She couldn’t imagine how anyone could have survived this; and yet, she saw there were survivors.
A ragged group of soldiers, their armor encrusted with blood, their faces haggard with exhaustion, lingered around the perimeter. Enchanters stood amongst them, in tattered robes of slate and smoke grey. Their numbers were few—Rithmar’s force looked to have been decimated—but there was no sign of survivors from The Shadow Army.
Still dragging Saul’s body with them, Lilia and Dain picked their way through the dead. Lilia forced herself to cross the battlefield; she didn’t want to see all those butchered bodies up close.
Dark blood stained the dry earth, and the sunlight bathed the sea of twisted corpses. Black-clad men of The Shade Brotherhood lay amongst Rithmar soldiers in chainmail and boiled leather armor. The ravaged corpses of Nightgengas, Dusk Imps, and many other shadow creatures sprawled upon the trampled earth, although Lilia spied none of the ethereal sprites, such as the Hiriel, amongst them.
There were many robed corpses on the battlefield—too many. Lilia’s throat constricted. Would they find Asher amongst the dead?
“Wait,” Ryana croaked behind them.
Lilia and Dain turned, their gaze following Ryana’s to where a huge, bald man lay on his back, an axe embedded in his chest. He snarled up at the heavens, defiant even in death.
“Who’s he?” Dain asked.
“Trond, the commander of The Shade Brotherhood. Brand’s father.”
Lilia studied the commander’s face, searching for a likeness but failing to find any.
Wordlessly, they turned from Trond and continued on their way. As they travelled, their gazes scanned the tangle of bodies either side for any sign of survivors. There were none.
Then, on the far side of the battlefield, Lilia spied a familiar figure limping toward them.
Blood encrusted, his smoke-grey robes tattered and filthy, Asher looked near to collapse. Blood and gore splattered his face, and dirt matted his pale-blond hair; yet his silver eyes gleamed at the sight of the three individuals who crossed the vale, dragging a body behind them.
Irana followed Asher. Like him, she was injured and filthy—still her emerald gaze was sharp, her face resolute.
The two enchanters approached them, halting when they were around four feet apart.
Asher managed a strained, exhausted smile. “I never thought to set eyes on the three of you again—yet here you are.”
Ryana met his eye. “We stopped Gael at the door, and then Lilia threw the stone into The Chasm.” Her gaze shifted beyond the two enchanters. “Is King Nathan alive?”
Asher nodded. “The man’s a true warrior. He’s injured, but nothing I can’t heal.”
Lilia’s breathing eased at this news. With all the unrest to the south, it was vital that King Nathan survived this. “Where’s Thrindul?”
“He fell,” Irana replied. “Like many others.”
A tense silence descended before Dain eventually broke it. “After Lilia cast the stone into The Chasm, there was a great boom, as if a drum under the earth had been struck. What happened down here?”
“The last of our army was surrounded and they were moving in to finish us,” Asher replied. “Then the shadow creatures lost their wits. Some began to howl and tear at themselves, some ran, while still others melted like tallow into the ground.”
“And The Brotherhood?” Dain asked, glancing around him. “Did any survive?”
Irana’s mouth pursed. “Some fled while others fought till the end. However, we managed to capture a few alive.”
“Come.” Asher gestured to the south. “We’re making camp. There’s a lot to be done—injured to tend to and the dead to burn.” His gaze rested on the body slung between Lilia and Dain. “Is that Saul?”
Lilia nodded. Despite that she knew Dain bore most of the dead-weight, her arms ached from carrying him. “It’s a long story.”
“One that can wait till later,” Ryana added.
“Why not leave him to rot where he fell?” Irana asked, her gaze narrowed. “Reoul of Anthor’s son deserves no funeral.”
“He saved Lily’s life,” Dain replied. “And he’s the reason we’re all standing here.”
The day stretched out, long and warm, the earth baking under cloudless blue skies and a friendly sun. Dain could hardly remember such glorious weather. Still, there was no time to appreciate it.
Like many other survivors he spent the day helping to clean up the battlefield. The bodies of The Shade Brotherhood and the shadow creatures, they carried to a great pyre on the northern edge of the battlefield, which would be lit at dusk. Their own dead, they transported south and laid them out on a collection of ceremonial pyres, amongst the stone barrows, a furlong west of the camp.
He discovered Captain Garick amongst the dead, as well as Balt—that soldier he’d sparred with to earn the right to join the army. Both men had suffered horrendous injuries, and Dain wrapped them in their cloaks before helping lift them onto biers.
He didn’t see Lilia much during the day. She was busy helping Asher tend to the wounded. Dain’s own injuries pained him as he worked. His right leg was bruised and strained, his head hurt from where he’d cracked it against the cavern wall, and his chest ached with every breath. Still, he labored out in the hot sun till dusk with the other men who’d lived to see the dawn. It helped to keep busy, to distract himself from the death surrounding him.
As the day came to an end, and ribbons of pink and gold streaked across the western horizon, they lit the giant pyre to the south. Oily black smoke stained the sky.
Dain returned to the camp, so exhausted he could no longer walk in a straight line. They would burn the Rithmar dead after dark, so he had time to rest before then. Someone passed him a skin of water and a hunk of stale bread and cheese. Mumbling his thanks, Dain staggered through the camp. Around him, soldiers were lighting fires and skinning rabbits for supper. At the heart of the camp, he reached a cluster of tents. Asher emerged from the biggest, his face haggard.
“Where’s Lily?” Dain asked him, his voice slurring slightly.
Asher gave him a hard look. “She’s inside, finishing up. Someone should take a look at you.”
“I’m fine.”
“No, you’re not. Inside.”
Too exhausted and aching to argue, Dain followed Asher into the tent. The injured carpeted the ground, in two rows up the length of the space, leaving a narrow aisle in the center. Lilia sat a couple of yards away. She had just bandaged a female enchanter’s arm, and looked up, her gaze widening. “Dain—where have you been?”
Dain favored her with a wan smile, and was about to reply when Asher, placed a hand on his shoulder and steered him toward the corner of the tent. “Sit.”
He did as bid.
“Unb
uckle your armor, let’s take a look at your ribs.”
It took an effort to remove the leather and chainmail covering his torso, and each movement caused white-hot agony to lance across his right side. He sat hunched, cold sweat beading his skin as Asher examined him.
Dain glanced down and saw a dark purple bruise covered his flank, stretching from under his armpit to his waist. The sight of it made him feel queasy.
“You should have come to the healing tent immediately.” Asher knelt next to him and placed a flickering candle on the floor beside them. “Your internal organs are bruised.”
“Can you heal him?” Lilia appeared at Dain’s side, pale and anxious.
Asher gave a brusque nod, before he began to gather the Light. The tender candlelight flickered a moment and then burst into a small sphere of light, which bounced into the air and landed on Asher’s outstretched palm.
Murmuring a healing charm, Asher lifted his hand to Dain’s bruised ribcage and, cupping the light with both hands now, drew it down his side. The heat of it on his skin caused Dain to stifle a gasp.
“Keep still,” Asher muttered. In the dim light inside the tent, the enchanter’s skin looked grey.
Dain closed his eyes, the heat spreading across his ribs as if he’d just immersed himself into a tub of steaming water. He felt it penetrate deep into his chest cavity, easing the agony that made every breath difficult.
Eventually the heat faded, taking the pain with it. Dain’s eyes flickered open and he saw that the bruise had receded slightly, and was now a sickly yellow and mauve, rather than angry purple and red. He met Asher’s gaze and smiled. “Thank you.”
The enchanter sank back on his heels and regarded him. “I’ve begun the healing process, but you’ll need to rest over the next few days and let your body mend.” He glanced over at Lilia. “Can you bandage his ribs?”
Lilia nodded and moved across to retrieve some fresh bandages.
Asher swayed then, and Dain thought he’d collapse. He reached out to steady him, but Asher brushed his hand aside. “I’m well, just exhausted. I need to lie down.”
“Rest then.” Lilia pushed in next to them and began to wind a bandage around Dain’s chest. She motioned to the fur that had been laid out behind them, against the wall of the tent. “Go on, I’ll finish up here.”
The evening was cool and clear, the sky a vast black cavern sprinkled with clusters of bright stars. It was a moonless night; the stars stood out in sharp relief against the dark. Lilia craned her neck and gazed up at the night. She’d once taken its majesty for granted, but she would never do so again.
She stood on the edge of a crowd gathered around a line of funeral pyres. A sea of stone mounds surrounded them, stretching away into the darkness on all sides. The faint light of their camp glowed to the east, and the glowing embers of the great pyre to the south still burned; but here it was quiet and dark, save for the handful of folk carrying pitch torches.
Lilia was one of them.
A few yards away, King Nathan of Rithmar stepped forward. Like Lilia, he carried a torch aloft; the light illuminating the planes of his strong face. Lilia watched him. Even battle-weary and recovering from lacerations to his arms and chest, Nathan exuded calm determination.
The king approached the biggest of the pyres. Upon it lay rows of bodies, Thrindul among them. The High Enchanter lay upon his back, hands clasped over his ornate staff. His face was stern, even in death.
Lilia thought the king would light the pyre, and then step back to watch it burn; but instead he turned and faced the crowd of soldiers and enchanters that formed a semi-circle before him.
“I would say that this is a great day for Rithmar,” he said, his deep voice carrying across the stillness, “yet we paid in blood for it.” He paused here, his gaze sweeping across the faces watching him. It rested on three of the onlookers, standing quietly to one side. He dipped his head to them. “There would have been no victory without the valor of Lilia, daughter of Shale; Dain, son of Ailin; and Ryana of Ridder Vale. Rithmar will ever be in your debt, as will Serran.”
Lilia dropped her eyes as the crowd shifted its attention to her. Likewise, she sensed Dain and Ryana tense. None of them were comfortable being the center of attention.
Fortunately, the king’s gaze didn’t remain on them long. Instead it shifted upward and he stared out into the night. Watching Nathan, Lilia saw the weight of responsibility that burdened him. It was not an easy thing to rule. When he spoke once more, his voice was grave.
“A goshawk arrived this afternoon. While we’ve been here, ensuring the safety of all Serran, our friend, Reoul of Anthor, has declared Thûn his territory. He’s started amassing troops along its northern border—our border.” His gaze raked across the crowd, his face fierce. “The Shadow King no longer poses a threat, yet Reoul of Anthor does. He will learn of this battle, of all the men who fell here, and he will press his advantage thinking us weakened. We must be ready for him.”
Nathan of Rithmar raised his torch to the heavens. “To the dead.”
“To the dead.” The crowd echoed.
The king turned, his blood-stained ermine cloak billowing behind him, and lit the pyre.
Lilia watched it catch alight, smoking at first as the tender tongues of flame grew, and then it went up with a whoosh.
Dain stepped close to Lilia. “Ready? It’s your turn.”
She tore her gaze from the roaring pyre and looked at him. Next to Dain, Ryana was watching the flames; her cheeks were wet. A few yards away, Asher stood with the handful of enchanters who had survived the battle. Like, Ryana, his attention was on the burning pyre. His eyes glittered as he stared at the devouring flames.
Lilia glanced back at Dain and nodded. Turning, she walked a few yards south, to where a single, small pyre had been built for Saul of Anthor. The king had almost forbidden it, for his hatred of Reoul of Anthor ran deep. But upon hearing of what Saul had done, he’d relented. It didn’t matter what Saul’s motivation had been, or whether he would have betrayed them again, if given the chance. All that mattered was his last act had been a noble one—and that he should be honored for it.
Saul lay on his back upon the pyre of straw and twigs, his hands folded over his chest. His face was peaceful, his eyes closed. He looked much younger in death.
Lilia stepped forward and lay the torch she carried upon the mattress of straw and twigs. This pyre caught light quicker than the bigger one had, the flames wreathing around Saul’s tall, lean body in moments.
Lilia walked a few yards back to where Dain stood waiting for her.
“To the dead,” she said.
Dain put an arm around her shoulders, drawing her close. “To the living,” he murmured.
Together, they watched Saul’s funeral pyre burn, while around them the rest of the fires were lit. Grief settled over the Vale of Barrows in a chill mantle, and Lilia drew her cloak close, shivering.
They’d done it—tracked The King Breaker north, retrieved it, and disposed of it. And somewhere along the way, she’d left that frightened girl behind and discovered her courage, her strength. Yet tonight she felt drained. The king was right, their victory was a bittersweet one.
She averted her gaze from the fire and buried her face in the hollow of Dain’s neck, breathing him in. Like this morning, when she’d stood at the edge of The Chasm and fought the desire to run off with the stone, Dain was her anchor. Life could be dark, senseless and cruel, but his touch reassured her that there was also beauty, happiness and love to be found—all you had to do was open your eyes to it.
Lilia leaned into him and closed her eyes.
“Lily?” he asked, his voice tinged with concern. “Are you well?”
“Aye,” she whispered. “Just tired—let’s go home.”
Four months later …
Epilogue
Home
The Isle of Orin
The snow fell, drifting down from the dark sky in large, silent flakes. They settled on
Lilia’s fur mantle and hair, frosting her eye-lashes as she crunched along the ermine-crusted quay.
Around her, the celebrations of Winter Blood were in full-swing. The chill weather hadn’t kept folk indoors. Children darted about, dressed as black-clad sprites, throwing snowballs at each other, their squeals lifting high into the raw, smoke scented air. Men and women hurried by, bundled up in furs, their cheeks ruddy with cold.
Rows of glowing orange lanterns illuminated the docks this evening, and the rhythmic tattoo of drums mingled with the laughter and cries of revelers up ahead in Port Square.
Lilia smiled; to think that this night had once frightened her. This evening, she was in good spirits, and looking forward to a cup of spiced wine while she watched the dancers. She passed The Barnacle. Icicles hung from the eaves outside the tavern, and indoors she could hear cheering and laughter. She and Dain sometimes visited the tavern for a meal, but Dain no longer spent his evenings fighting for coin there—he now worked in the Port Guard.
Many things had changed since their return to Port Needle. They hadn’t gone back to live at The Grey Anchor, nor had Lilia taken up her old job as cook there. These days, they shared a tiny home above the bakery at the eastern end of the pier, where Lilia worked in the mornings, helping to bake pies for the market. Unlike her job at The Grey Anchor, this one gave her afternoons off, giving her time to go for walks and to enjoy the day.
Dain’s parents—his mother especially—hadn’t been pleased by their decision. Yet there had been little she could do to prevent it. Her son was a grown man, and had a right to choose his own path.
Lilia reached the crowd thronging Port Square. The snow was now falling thick and fast, floating down like ash after a great bonfire. Two men dressed as Nightgengas lurched past, half-naked and shivering in their loin-clothes and wigs. Lilia suppressed a laugh at the sight of them. It was a far cry from her reaction the year before. At that time, the sight of someone parodying one of the shadow creatures brought back frightening memories of her past, of when those boys had tied her to a tree outside Shingle Ford, and offered her up to the darkness.
