Eyes of Crow (32 page)

But it was too late.

Rhia and Marek stood outside her door early that evening. The others—Elora, Tereus and Alanka—stayed inside to give them privacy. Koli waited near the stables on a fresh pony to take Marek as far as it was safe to ride without being discovered.

Rhia placed the long clay bottle of potion in Marek’s palm. “My mother used to put five drops in each trough to calm the horses. Elora said twenty should be enough to put them in a lasting stupor but not harm them.”

He nodded.

“And the horses can catch your scent,” she added, “so be sure to stay downwind.”

He nodded again.

She shook a finger at him. “Only do as much as you can safely. Skip a few troughs if you have to.”

He nodded a third time. “Rhia?”

“Yes?”

“I’ll be fine.”

She dropped his hand. “Don’t say that like it’s a given. You could be killed.”

“Or worse—captured and kept from your advice forever.” He smiled as if it were a joke, but his eyes remained sober.

Rhia looked toward the setting sun, berry-red on the horizon, a portent of a hot, muggy day to follow. “It’s getting late. You should go.”

“I should. Summer nights are short—I’ll need every moment I can get to complete this mission.”

“And then come home.”

His lips twitched. “Home? Here?”

“Back to me.”

“Same thing.”

He put out his hand, and they entwined their fingers, palms meeting, for a long moment.

Then he was gone.

Rhia returned to the house. Alanka, Tereus and Elora watched as she slumped to sit at the table.

“If Marek succeeds,” Tereus said, “we may have the advantage. The Descendant riders’ weapons and armor are all suited for horseback. On foot, they’ll be much less effective.” Rhia nodded and picked at the unrecognizable meat her father had prepared. He gently broke the silence again, “We should sleep. Torin’s men will be here well before dawn for the horses, and I expect we’ll all go with them then.”

The Asermon horses would not be used to fight, but to deliver messages, carry supplies and transport the wounded. Nevertheless, they could be hurt or killed, and Tereus was offering an enormous sacrifice by donating most of his herd of ponies to the war effort.

“Yes,” Rhia said. “Let’s go to sleep.”

They all sat, unmoving, for at least another hour.

When the sky was empty of light, she retreated to the stable to sleep in the hayloft. After unrolling the blankets from last night, she made a pillow from a new clump of hay. Yet her head did not long for it.

She sat near the small loft window and stared out at the field where she had first seen Marek the night before, in full control of his power. Pressing the blanket to her face, she inhaled his scent and prayed to Wolf for his safety. The words clunked together in her mind, unable to carry the feelings they wanted to bear to the Spirit. She could only clutch the cloth and whisper Marek’s name until she fell into a fitful sleep.

Protect from what?
she wondered as she stared out at the field from the open flap of the hospital tent. If the Descendants won, what then? Would the Asermons be allowed to vacate their lands unhindered, or would they become slaves, forced to burgeon the Descendants’ strength and dominance? What would happen to the surrounding villages if Asermos fell?

And the Spirits? The Descendants had driven them from their own city with derision and scorn, if they had been there to begin with. Would the Spirits remain here if no one revered them, or would they take all the magic back to their own realm and lock it away forever? Worse yet, what if Marek were right, and the Spirits themselves would die if no one lived to believe in them?

She curled her arms around her own waist and shivered, despite the warm night that was coming to an end. Her eyes strained to pick out the archers behind a stone wall, downhill to her right. In contrast to her brothers’ stony countenances, Alanka’s eyes had shown a gut-clenching fear as she approached the battlefield. Rhia knew it lay as much in the dread of killing as in the fear of dying.

Several sharp-eyed Eagles stood within the archers’ line. They would call out targets and determine weaknesses in the enemy armor or formations. Now they watched the trees at the other end of the field for any sign of movement.

Even in the darkness the golden oak shone forth, a reminder both of Arcas’s love and the death that awaited his uncle Dorius. Though Butterflies weren’t considered warriors, Dorius’s powers of transformation and rejuvenation meant that he could withstand many blows before being mortally wounded. Besides, in a situation as desperate as this one, the army needed any man strong enough to swing a poleax.

She had considered warning Dorius to avoid the battle, but knew that he would fight regardless. For all she knew, Crow was determined to take the man’s soul on this day. To stand in the way of His will felt wrong. But knowing that someone she had cared about since childhood was about to see his last sunrise made her own insides feel dead.

“You should eat.”

Elora stood next to her, holding out a plate of bread and cheese, along with a flask.

“I’m not hungry.” Rhia actually meant it.

“I don’t care.” She nudged the plate into Rhia’s shoulder. “If you pass out today, it’ll be one more body for me to step over. Now eat.”

Rhia took the plate with a guilty look of thanks. Elora sat and twisted her long ash-blonde hair into a tight braid.

As Rhia sipped from the flask, Elora said, “I put a restorative in the water.”

Rhia lowered the container from her mouth. “What kind of restorative?”

“To keep us all awake and full of energy.” She turned to Rhia. “If we win, our work will go on long after the battle is over. If we lose—” she shook her head “—maybe we’ll wish for a more permanent sleep.”

Rhia shuddered. “I wish I were out there with the soldiers. So many of them will die alone.”

Elora’s shoulders sagged. “My older son wanted to fight, but he’s only sixteen.” She held up a hand to ward off Rhia’s nonexistent protest. “I know, he’s old enough. It was selfish to make him stay, but he reminds me so much of his father. I can’t lose him, too.”

“Your sons will be safe in Kalindos.”

She turned a wary eye on Rhia. “But for how long?”

The sky was turning from black to darkest indigo. “What if they don’t invade today?” she asked Elora. “What if they decide to wait until the horses have recovered?”

“Then we attack them in their camp tonight.”

“Why not just attack them now?”

“It’s always easier to defend, to fight in a place of one’s choosing. This ground is good.”

“Will they know we’re waiting for them? Won’t the horses’ sluggishness tell them we know they’re coming?”

“They might think it a sickness, unless—” Elora hesitated. “Unless they captured Marek.”

Rhia turned away. He should have returned by now. His bow waited for him next to Alanka. He had taken only a hunting knife on his mission; it would prove a poor defense against a sword—or several dozen swords—but for stealth purposes he wanted to remain unencumbered.

She rubbed her hands together, full of nervous energy now after the tonic. Elora reached over and grasped them in her own. “Be still,” she said. “He’ll be all right.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I’ve known him his whole life. He’ll survive anything.”

Rhia looked into Elora’s vivid green eyes, full of Otter kindness like her own mother’s, and tried to believe.

The twang of a hundred bows snapped the silence.

Rhia and Elora moved outside the hospital tent, joined by Coranna, Pirrik and the three other Asermon healers. The arrows whistled over the field, far above the heads of the soldiers huddled within the wheat.

“Are they there?” Rhia stood on her tiptoes, straining to gather a glimpse of the approaching enemy. “Can anyone see?”

“I should go out now.” Pirrik grabbed his healer’s kit and a short sword.

“Wait.” Elora held him back with a hand. “Wait for our soldiers to charge, and stay far back.”

The arrows sang again, and this time a distant chorus of rage and pain reached Rhia’s ears. She shrank back into the shadows.

War had begun.

The sky turned a pale purple, light enough that she could see across the field where the enemy was marching.

Marching. Not riding.

“He did it!” She clapped her hands like a child. “Marek got to the horses before the battle.”

“Then where is he?” Pirrik asked.

A great cry rose up from the clearing beyond the wheat field. The enemy charged, straight for the field, swords glittering even in the faint light of dawn. Perhaps they thought the archers were the Asermons’ only defense and they were oblivious to what awaited them among the swaying grasses.

Lights bobbed among the charging soldiers. “Why are they carrying torches?” Rhia asked. “It’s easier for the archers to see them.”

Coranna gasped. “They’re going to burn the field.”

“No!” Rhia strained to see. “My brothers are in there.”

The Descendants had reached the edge of the wheat now. Torches dipped into the grain, and the dry grasses began to burn, just as the Asermons leaped from their hiding places to swarm the oncoming enemy soldiers.

“They’ll all be trapped.” Rhia heard the panic in her own voice. “Why would they burn the field?”

“To create a smokescreen. They didn’t know our soldiers were there,” Elora said. “Now they can’t get out, either.”

Without a word, Pirrik shouldered his healer’s kit and dashed toward the fray.

Smoke rose from the far end of the field, along with the clash of metal on metal. She gaped at the strength of the Wolverine attack—each one battled three Descendants, whirling and jabbing, occasionally hurling a heavy-bladed dagger into the throat or chest of an oncoming opponent. The Wolverines’ knives should have been no match for the longer Descendant swords, but they had the training and courage to swoop close enough to the enemy soldier to stab between the plates of his armor and feel his last rattling breath. When their blows struck home, they roared with what could only be described as glee. The longer they fought, the more energy they seemed to possess.

Other warriors were holding their own against the Descendants. The Wasp women, armed with light, whiplike flails, fought with less strength than the Wolverines, but with twice the speed and evasive capability. Several times Rhia thought one of the women would fall under an enemy attack, only to see her roll or leap away at the last moment. Sword-wielding Bears roamed the outskirts of the field, shouting orders and picking off Descendants who tried to escape to the surrounding woods. Then the wind shifted, and smoke obscured her view.

The wounded came. A young Wolverine arrived first, supported on either side by his comrades. His right leg left a trail of blood. They passed her as they brought him under the tent, and she stilled herself with a deep breath and a quick prayer to Crow.

“Over there,” Elora said to the soldiers, who carefully placed the wounded man on a raised platform, then dashed back into the battle. The healer beckoned to Rhia as she slit the side of the soldier’s trousers to uncover his wound. Rhia approached the man—scarcely more than a boy, younger than she was by at least a year. She had seen him around the village but didn’t know his name or family.

The boy recoiled at the sight of her, which seemed to cause him more pain than the wound itself. She reached for his hand. He squeezed her wrist so hard she feared it would break in his grip. She smoothed dark hair from his soot-and paint-smeared face, enough to gaze into his eyes, pale blue orbs that shone under the dirt and sweat.

Beneath the distant shouts and clangs of the battlefield, she heard…

Nothing. No wings.

“What’s your name?” she asked the soldier.

“Sirin.”

“Sirin, you’re going to be fine.”

He leaned his head back in relief, then cried out as Elora flushed the wound. Rhia looked down at his leg, which was sliced nearly in two above the knee, and realized that “fine” was a relative term when it came to battle wounds.

Another Otter gave the wounded boy a drink infused with a painkiller, and he relaxed, his eyes unfocusing. She left him to the healers and rejoined Coranna.

“I heard nothing,” Rhia told her. “Felt nothing. He’s nowhere near death.”

“Savor the silence while it lasts,” Coranna said, “for Crow flies low over this battlefield.”

They stood side by side and watched the flames devour the wheat field, leaving nothing behind but blackened earth. The fire propelled the fighters to the outskirts of the field as well as back toward the hospital and the wall of archers. It spread too quickly for some to escape, and soldiers on both sides fell, choking and flailing. Rhia’s own eyes burned, though the wind now blew the smoke away from her.

A hand gripped her shoulder.

“Distance, Rhia,” Coranna murmured. “Each man and woman who falls must be a stranger to you. Though they are within arm’s reach, they must seem as if they are standing on the other end of this field. Tell yourself you don’t know them.”

“I can’t do that.”

“If you are to do your duty—”

“Doesn’t my duty include compassion? Understanding?”

“You must learn to understand their pain without sharing it. Otherwise you will be useless.”

Useless.
The word burned Rhia’s mind like a brand that wouldn’t fade.

“They’re coming,” Coranna said.

Three ponies trotted from the smoke, dragging skids piled with bodies, some writhing in pain, others as still as logs.

Crow’s wings rushed through Rhia’s mind, louder than she’d ever heard them, blotting out the screams of agony and the pleas for help. Her father led the first pony, coughing, his face already darkened with smoke. She had no time to acknowledge him, but went straight to the skid.

The man on top was already dead, disemboweled to the point where it appeared that more of him was outside than in. When she looked at him, the roar of wings came to a crescendo, then hushed abruptly. With her hand on the dead man’s forehead, she quickly murmured the prayer of passage and signaled for Tereus to remove the body. He rolled it to the ground with a thud.

The man who had lain half-under the corpse gasped for breath and clawed at the air in relief. Rhia gripped his hand and stared into dark green eyes, one of which was flooded red with blood from a gash in his head. It was Bolan, one of Arcas’s friends, a Horse—no great warrior, just a loyal Asermon willing to give his life.

No, she told herself. He is no one. He has no name, no Animal, no friends. He is pure spirit, either staying or leaving. She looked in his eyes and cleared her mind.

Wings flapped, then faded, leaving only a lingering sound that indicated they might return.

Rhia signaled to the healer who stood nearby. “He can be saved. Quickly now.”

Tereus and another man lifted Bolan and carried him under the tent. She turned to the third man on the skid.

He was a Descendant. A dying Descendant.

Crow sounded a thunder of wings, and before Rhia could wonder why the Spirit would take someone who didn’t believe in Him, she found herself kneeling beside the man. His mouth opened and closed like that of a fish on dry land.

No blood coated his uniform or armor, and his head looked clear of contusions. What was killing him? she wondered.

He clawed at the front of his shirt, and she pushed it open. A hideous black and purple bruise spread across his chest, which appeared caved in. One of her people must have smashed him with the blunt end of a pole or the hilt of a sword.