A Paladin's War Ch. 12

The cold wind bit at his face, the only part of him that wasn't covered, though he barely felt it. If he was right, and he was sure he was, there would be arohim with that force. That was why he had no scouts any closer than three miles, and they were all trained in how to sense an arohim's power, detect that subtle shift in oneself that fooled a man into thinking he was safe and at peace. All trickery, of course.

A messenger came hurrying up the path to the outcrop, a skinny lad with an arrow clutched in his fist. Torm took it, then pulled a small roll of paper free of the shaft before handing it to Eames, who exchanged the paper for the looking glass. The messenger took a few steps back and waited patiently for orders. Eames' cold-numbed lips compressed as he read the few words therein.

"Lord Captain?" Torm said uncertainly as the paper crumpled in Eames' fist. Impossible! He wanted to shout with anger. Today was supposed to have been a glorious victory! Aloud, he answered Torm. "I have just been informed there are no fewer than a hundred-thousand soldiers not five miles from Ironshire." Torm's face did not change, though his dark eyes reflected doubt. "Dwarves, Elves, and men. Five times the force down there." He pointed a gloved finger at the distant town. "Do you believe this, Captain Torm?" He already knew Torm's opinion before the man's head swung.

"I do not, sir," he replied firmly. "Our best scouts have assessed the force at Ironshire and found no evidence of more. There will surely be reserves hidden on the plain, but those numbers are ridiculous."

"Quite," Eames said flatly. Despite Torm's conviction, a small worm of doubt wriggled in his belly. If there were even half that many fighters out there in reserve, Eames would have trouble keeping them at bay once the trap had been sprung. He squashed the worm ruthlessly. His Nameless in the Emerin had not misreported, certainly not by such a margin. "Find the one responsible for this message and bring them to me." He dashed the crumpled paper to the snowy ground. "Now."

With a stiff bow, Torm departed, leaving Eames alone but for the messenger. He turned to the boy, who stiffened nervously at the direct attention of one as high as Eames. Upon hearing Eames' order, he raced off down the snowy slope as fast as his legs could carry him, yellow cloak billowing behind him.

There was no need to wait for Torm to return with the fool who couldn't count. Nor was there time to do so. Pulling his cloak around him and holding it closed with one hand, he raised the looking glass to his eye once more. The display was about to begin.

*

Elaina was moving as fast as she could, drawing on every last ounce of energy she had left. Houses and shops and inns blurred as she ran down cobblestoned streets, leaping over piles of the dead, dodging around parties of soldiers searching for remaining darkspawn or survivors of the invasion. Her throat was burning from shouting. "EVACUATE THE TOWN! FLEE FOR YOUR LIVES!"

Wherever she passed, soldiers turned and ran for the gates. For those who didn't run immediately, or tried to ask why, she stopped only long enough to get them moving with a sharp shove. Those who saw the look in her eyes didn't wait for the shove. She reached the huge, iron-strapped log gates to find madness as bodies pressed forward, frantically trying to get out, but there were far too many to squeeze through. She yelled at them to go easy, to not trample each other, even as she was jostled by more people trying to get past. It was futile; she knew it would start a panic, but what was coming would be much worse, of that she was sure.

On the other side of town, she could feel Henley. He had gone that way with the same intention as her; alerting as many as he could before it was too late. Darting through the panic, she pulled an Eryn'elda to her feet before she could get trampled to death, and got a grateful nod before the woman threw herself back toward the gate, still forty paces away. Some of the Elves were scaling the wall, their nimble fingers finding holds that Dwarf or Human could not. Others were trying to climb up the wall from the roof of the squat stone gatehouse just inside the main gate.

Oh, Aros! Please let them get free! She could feel all the souls in Ironshire pushing for exits. The town would soon be empty but for the bottlenecks at the gates. It had to be enough. It had to be! Refusing to flee before they were all out, she set about picking up the fallen soldiers and getting them back to their feet. Where was Amina? Elaina couldn't sense her. Had she gone back to the main force?

With a roar, the gatehouse exploded, shards of stone and roof tiles cutting down bodies like stalks of grass. The blast struck her like a massive hammer, knocking her off her feet. Her vision swam as she pushed herself up groggily. There was something wrong with her hearing, as if sound was coming down a long tunnel before reaching her ears. All around her, blurry shapes lay on the cobblestones of the main avenue, many of them missing limbs, or heads. She opened her mouth to scream, but another bomb went off somewhere behind her, knocking her down again. Her last thought was how glad she was she'd sent Noah back to the main camp on an errand. Everything went black.

*

It was a clever device, made from a clock of all things, a fine contraption of springs and delicate metalwork that struck a spark at the appointed time. A small thing indeed to create such chaos. Eames' eyes glimmered as the eruptions floated up the mountain like distant thunder, adding to the blanket of smoke over the town. It was the Dwarves that had come up with the strange black powder. Fitting that it was their undoing on this day. The powder sizzled harmlessly if you set fire to it while loose, but if you compressed it into a container of some kind, packed it in hard, the result was quite different. Thirty-six barrels of the stuff stashed in cellars and basements and sewers was causing quite the commotion down there in the town. Good Heralds had died rigging the bombs while the darkspawn cavorted above them, and their sacrifice would not soon be forgotten.

He wanted to laugh aloud for the first time in years! He counted thirty-three booms before they came to an end. Thirty-three of thirty-six. A very good result when he had hoped for half that many at best. He took his eyes off the distant town for the first time in long minutes. He was still alone on the ridge. Where was Torm? He should have been back by now with that fool scout. Right then, a messenger rounded the path, bursting into view at a full sprint. A different boy than last time. Pale faced and gasping for breath, he slid to a stop and saluted, chest heaving.

"What?" Eames snapped testily. The boy was interrupting his moment of satisfaction.

"Sir!" the lad exclaimed nervously, keeping his eyes straight ahead, not meeting Eames' glare. "Scouts report a very large force moving just south of Ironshire. Elves, Dwarves and men, sir." He stopped for a breath. Eames felt his face darkening. This again? He was growing too lax in his discipline if his men thought such sloppy scouting was acceptable.

The messenger boy opened his mouth to continue, but Eames cut him off with a raised finger. "Where is Captain Torm, boy?"

The boy swallowed. "He is dead, sir."

"Dead!? How?"

"He went with the other scouts to see this force for himself, sir. He ordered me to go with him, and if anything happened, to run back and report to you right away." He took another deep, shaky breath. "It was Elves, sir. Popped right out of the ground, they did."

"And how," Eames began threateningly as he stepped toward the lad, "did you escape with your life?" Silently, the boy pulled back one side of his cloak to reveal a snapped-off arrow shaft embedded in his side, just below the ribs. Suddenly, the paleness of his youthful face took on another meaning. Dark stains down his tunic and breeches suggested the lad's boot was probably full of blood. He had run all the way here with an arrow in him; such a feat was something you might read about in a story.

Eames turned his back on the boy for a moment and stared out toward Ironshire. There either was a great army out there, waiting to obliterate him, or somehow several of his scouts had been fooled. At times like this, wild chances were not wise to take. So close. So very very close. At least most of those in the town would now be dead, if not all of them. What about the arohim, though? Their ability to escape predicaments could not be ignored.

A dull thud behind him made him look around. The boy had collapsed, face-down in the snow. Perhaps he would survive, perhaps not. Either way, he would not be remembered, for greater things had transpired here today.

*

Elaina woke slowly, wincing against light coming from nearby. She tried to sit up, but someone's hand gently pushed her back down. She was lying on a bed, covered by a thick sheet. Dark canvas above said she was in a tent somewhere. "Not yet, my love." It was Noah's voice. Her heart soared to hear him alive and well.

"What... happened?" she croaked. Her throat felt like she'd been eating sand. "I remember... the gates... and then... nothing." She kept trying to focus, but her eyes didn't want to. Noah's face was a fuzzy blur above her.

"Some kind of explosive device," he replied, his voice hardening. "Many of them. Clever. Devious. Planted there to destroy us. The Heralds did it. The town is lost."

Her heart sank as fast as it had risen. She muttered a prayer. "Losses?" She hated to ask, but she had to know.

"Ten, maybe fifteen thousand," he answered grimly.

"Oh, Aros," she breathed. She had known it might be bad, but that many?

"Baelin wants to follow the Heralds north, chase them down and destroy them. Andil and Elessir are the same. Amina is keeping them calm, for now."

Her vision was returning, albeit slowly. Noah's bushy-bearded face was taking more shape, his brown eyes intense. He held out a warm bowl of something, and she lifted her head to sip. Pain stabbed her behind the eyes, but the soup was hot and tasty. Chicken and leek, she thought. She tried reaching out with her vala to see if anyone else was near, but she was too weak.

"The Dwarf healer-woman was here earlier," Noah said as she took more soup. "She said your brain got pushed against your skull from the blasts, and that you'd feel poorly for a while."

Her brain got pushed against her skull? Wasn't that where the brain always was? With an effort, she sat up, brushing away Noah's hand when he tried to stop her. The sheet fell down, baring her to the waist. Someone had washed her, dressed her wounds, most of which had already healed, except for her headache. "Nonsense, I'm right as rainwater."

Noah made a doubtful sound and offered her more soup. It was nice to have something warm in her belly. She gladly accepted, taking the bowl. "I know better than to try and keep you in bed when you want out," he said sternly. "So it's your decision. I don't have to like it, however."

"I think," she said slowly, in between gulps of soup. It really was quite good. When was the last time she'd eaten? "That I liked you better when you were afraid of me, Noah Stoneman. Can I get some more of this?" She held out the bowl and he chuckled.

"Perhaps you really are feeling better," he remarked as he took the bowl and stood up. "Though I do worry about your head. If I can feel it this badly, you must be in agony."

She shrugged. "No worse than the morning after a big night on cheap wine."

Noah snorted and left the tent, but not before saying, "Perhaps your head is not so hard as you think it is."

She chuckled, then wished she hadn't. Gods, her head really did hurt. She closed her eyes for a moment, wishing the tent was dark. That one lantern hanging from a post nearby was like a shard of glass digging at her brain. Noah returned a few minutes later with a fresh bowl and some bread. She set to eagerly as he settled himself back on the stool beside the bed.

"I can't sense much," she told him around mouthfuls. "Where are we?" Every swallow seemed to make her feel stronger.

"The main camp," he replied. "The others aren't far away, but I had you brought here so you could rest peacefully."

She gave him a grateful smile and reached out to touch his arm. "Thank you. What of the others? You said Amina was with the other commanders?"

He nodded. "Yes, she is well, and she was not near when the bombs went off, though she did help many get to safety. She also got to you in time, which is likely how you survived."

Food suddenly lost all taste, the bowl held forgotten in her hands. "And Henley?" She felt Noah's heart as his eyes dropped.

"He lives, but barely. He may not make it."

Elaina pushed the bowl at Noah and shoved the sheet aside. "My clothes, where are they?" Oh, please, not Henley. She didn't know if she could bear it. She got to her feet and wobbled uncertainly, her legs not yet strong enough. Noah hurriedly stood and supported her with an arm around her waist. He pointed at a small, neatly folded pile at the foot of the bed.

"There. Let me get them for you." He knew better than to argue. She wished she didn't require so much of his help as he assisted her with dressing, but whatever got her to Henley fastest would do. Her gut was in knots as they exited the tent into the cool early evening, the air already thick with the smoke of cook fires. Her legs got better on the walk through the camp, strengthening as the food took hold. She ignored calls from some of the some of the soldiers as they hailed her efforts on the battlefield; she only had room in her mind for one thing. Please live, Henley.

Her vala was restoring slowly, and she felt Henley in the tent before Noah could point to it, a squat, white shape in the darkness, no different to any simple soldier's. Smart to keep him somewhere nondescript in case of attack. Command tents would be targeted first. She could sense something very wrong with him but couldn't place what it was. Gently pushing herself free of Noah's supporting arm, she entered the tent, her eyes first falling on Elsa, Henley's meldin. The pretty woman knelt beside the bed, patting his forehead with a damp cloth. She turned to Elaina and smiled sadly before returning to her task. "He hasn't moved," she whispered as she gently dabbed at his face. "Or spoken. He's barely breathing." Elaina could sense life in him, but it was weak, feeble.

"Oh, Elsa," Elaina said as she knelt beside her. "I am sorry." She put an arm around her comfortingly, and one hand on Henley's knee beneath the sheet. That was when she felt what was wrong. Her breath caught in her throat and a hot tear ran down her cheek. His right leg was missing from the knee down. Just gone. An arohim could heal almost miraculously from many things, but growing a limb back was not one of those things. Henley would never walk freely again. Never run, never fight. Putting her forehead down on the bed next to him, she began to cry.

The next few days were a blur for Elaina. Her strength returned, her head healed, but her heart was torn. She performed her duties as she should while the army marched north; attending war council with Baelin and Andil and Amina when required, giving the par'vala their lessons when the day's march ended. That should have buoyed her spirits, having five young arohim to train, but all she could think about was Henley, no matter how hard she tried to pull herself out of it. Still, she did pay enough attention during the lessons to notice how the par'vala were coming along.

Ayla was furthest, having been given a significant leg up from Sara, but close behind her was Kedron, who had been in training longer. Tavish was pushing hard, not wanting any of the others to outstrip him too far, in particular his sister. Ostin was applying himself, too, though he was the youngest, and uncertainty plagued him. Once he conquered that, he would learn much faster. Mikel was somewhere in the middle; he had received Sara's gift also, but he slipped between a cocksure attitude and a deferential, something Elaina was sure would work itself out over time. A big part of Paladin training was discovering who you were, independent of anyone else's expectations.

As for Henley, she knew worrying was not going to make him heal any faster, and it certainly was not going to bring his leg back, yet still he occupied much of her thoughts. When she wasn't busy with her duties, she was with him, tending to him when Elsa needed a break. He opened his eyes on the morning of the fourth day, weakly turning his head and smiling when he saw her.

"How are ye, lass?" his voice was shockingly frail, so different to his usual gravelly bass tone.

"I am well," she replied gently, brushing fingers against his forehead. "About time you woke up."

"Been a while since I took a good nap," he said with some of his usual bluff. "What the bloody hell happened out there?" Elaina didn't know where to start. She was unable to stop her eyes floating to his missing leg. "Oh," he said after a moment. He seemed to be searching for what to say, his dark eyes pensive. The sheet lifted, bulging where his leg ended. "That's... sure to be a real nuisance." His tone was dry - an obvious attempt to lighten the mood - but she felt sadness in him, and anger. She would not pity him though. She would not. He deserved better.

"You're lucky to be alive," she told him seriously, finding his hand and squeezing it. "It was the Heralds. They planted bombs."

He nodded grimly. "I'll bet they bloody did. I should have seen it coming. I knew Berrigan for years before he showed me who he really was. Second time I've been fooled by them." He seemed about to spit. "Lucky to be alive?" He lifted his stump again. "Lucky this is all I got, I reckon. I deserved more."

"This was not your fault," she said firmly. "It wasn't." He appeared not to have heard her. He was staring inwardly, probably reliving the last moments before the explosions. "The Heralds are as cunning as goblins, and with less honour. We missed it because we would never think to do something this terrible, not even to our worst enemies."

When his eyes found her face again, she saw something in them that frightened her. The first time she had ever felt such in his presence. Not frightened for herself, but for him. "Elaina," he started to say, but she cut him off sharply.

"I will not! Do not even think about it!" She was angry. Furious. How dare he!

He shot back, his gaze hot. "What bloody use am I now? How-" he cut off suddenly as Elsa flew into the tent. Elaina slid back to make room as she threw her arms around him and peppered him with kisses. Henley endured it good-naturedly, but Elaina could feel his heart. He was not going to let his foolish idea go easily. Elsa would feel it, too, once her joy at him being awake faded a little. She half-thought the woman was going to tear her dress off and climb into bed with him, but she stopped short of that, instead pulling back to ask him what he needed.

"Food, please," he said, staring up into her pretty face and tucking a strand of her sandy-brown hair back behind her ear. It had become a little dishevelled from the kissing.

"Lots of it, Elsa," Elaina added warmly, hiding her mood from the meldin. "He's going to need to build back his strength quickly."

Elsa shot Elaina a wink. "Oh, he's going to need it, alright. And plenty of it for what I have planned for him." Chuckling, she kissed him once more before rising and exiting the tent, grinning from ear to ear.