Heart of the Exiled (32 page)

Dirovon had seen him, then. How careless of him to stand in a visible place. Turisan let the note curl back into itself.

“Thank you.”

The guardian nodded and handed Turisan his bow and quiver. Turisan glanced at the arrows, wondering if he should send them back to the warriors, who might have greater need of them.

“Do you return to High Holding?”

“Yes, my lord. Do you wish to send a message there?”

He gazed at the guardian. Younger than himself, Turisan was fairly certain. So many very young folk had joined the Guard in response to Jharan’s call.

The guardian had braided a falcon’s feather into his hair. Turisan suddenly remembered him, remembered a morning not long ago when he had stood on the practice ground before Glenhallow with a hundred others who knew nothing of a guardian’s duties or of what they would face at High Holding.

“Dahlaran.”

The guardian brightened, a smile flicking across his face. “Yes, my lord.”

“Spirits guard you all. That is my message.”

“Thank you, my lord.”

“If I could, I would stand with you.”

Dahlaran’s face went grave, but he nodded. “We know that. You walk a higher path.”

Turisan shook his head. “Not higher. Only different. No path can be higher than that you walk today.”

A horn blew in the distance. Turisan’s head turned toward the west, though as yet there was nothing to see save the black stain that had poured down the mountain. He glanced at Dahlaran, whose cheeks paled as he also looked westward. The young guardian met his gaze, and Turisan offered his arm.

As they touched, he felt the jitter of fear in the
other’s khi. He gripped Dahlaran’s arm tightly until it steadied.

“Help is coming. Ehranan marches from Glenhallow, and Eastfæld is riding hither. You need only stand your ground a little while.”

Dahlaran smiled. “We will stand.”

Turisan watched him lead his horse back to the river and across it. When the guardian was gone, he hefted his packs and strapped them to his saddle. His heart was heavy, and though he knew he must leave, he looped the mare’s reins over a tree branch and hurried up the footpath that climbed the bluff to where the watchers had stood. He wanted a last look at High Holding.

By the time he reached the top, the first flush of dawn had cast a blue light over the mountains. Their hulk was still dark, but Turisan could see the distant glint of metal at High Holding and beyond it the black mass that had spread over the foot of the pass.

Nearer by he saw Dahlaran, mounted, climbing the trail to the work. His flesh tingled with fear for that young soul and for all the others who stood defiant against the kobalen.

He should go. Dirovon was right; he could be no more use here. He should ride, but he could not move. He stood rooted to the watch post as the dawn grew.

High Holding seemed so small, a slender barrier at the foot of the pass. A horn rang out again, its clear note rising with the sun. The sound pierced Turisan’s heart, for it was a warning.

He watched as the throng of kobalen twitched like a waking beast, then with a roar surged forward in the growing light. A black wave swept forward, breaking against High Holding, surging and swelling at its foot.

Heart pounding, Turisan scrambled down from the bluff. The mare greeted him with an unhappy whinny. As he freed the reins from the branch, he glanced toward the river and saw a kobalen floating down it, the broken shaft of an arrow protruding from its chest.

He mounted and saw another kobalen drift by, then two more. Looking upstream, he saw the river filled with bobbing black shapes. His gaze rose to the waterfall beside High Holding. The kobalen must be throwing their dead over it.

It made him angry to see the Silverwash so fouled. He wanted to send warning to Glenhallow not to take water from the river, but that would have to wait until he saw Rephanin.

The trade road ran along the west bank of the Silverwash, too close to the fighting for safety. He looked again toward High Holding and saw the flicker of a green and silver pennant atop the work, bright against the sea of blackness.

Swallowing, he turned his mount eastward, making for open plains. As he faced the rising sun, he saw a low-lying cloud of dust, as if a storm were blowing up.

He reined the mare to a halt. No clouds heralded a storm; the sky was clear and windless. He stared at the dust, then let out a sudden whoop of joy.

Riders from the east! More than a hundred, perhaps many more. He did not pause to guess their numbers but started toward them at a gallop.

The mare needed no prodding. Whether it sensed Turisan’s urgency or merely wished to flee the grisly sight and smell of the river, it ran with all its heart.

Soon he discerned riders with ribbons of gold and white flowing from bands on their upper arms. They wore no other clan markings and carried no pennants that he could see. Their black hair was bound back
from pale faces. Among the foremost Turisan spied the green cloak and fair hair of the Southfæld guardian he had sent to find them.

There were at least three hundred, perhaps four or five. Turisan’s heart surged with painful hope. He reined in as he reached them, turning his mount to join them, searching the faces of those near the Greenglen rider. A male whose long black hair was braided with beads of gold and white raised an arm to hail him.

“I am Avhlorin. What news from Midrange?”

“High Holding is under attack. Make haste! If it falls, we must hold the ford and the south road to prevent the enemy’s advance.”

“Where is the ford?”

“I will lead you there.”

“Onward, then!”

Avhlorin waved his arm, and the riders surged forward. Turisan fell in beside the Greenglen rider. Her mount was lathered and laboring, her face set in an expression of grim endurance.

“Rest your horse. No sense in killing it.”

She cast him an anguished glance. She had friends at High Holding, no doubt. She eased up and fell back, her mount dropping to a walk.

They rode westward, slowing only as they neared the outpost. Turisan caught his breath as he saw a pillar of smoke rising south of the bluff where High Holding stood. Fire at the foot of the cliff!

He saw fire atop the bluff also, at either end of High Holding. A barrier to the kobalen, to block them from coming around the crumbling ends of the work? But now they had pushed it off the cliff, and the forest was burning.

He saw a line of wagons descending the bluff. Wounded, retreating from the battle.

The trade road out of Alpinon loomed ahead. Turisan led the Eastfælders onto it, following it through the woods to the ford. At the riverbank they halted, and Avhlorin sat gazing in dismay toward High Holding.

“Spirits walking!”

Turisan looked at him. “How many are you?”

A swallow moved Avhlorin’s throat. “Five hundred. There are seven hundred more on foot, a day’s journey behind us. When your messenger came, we rode ahead.”

“There are some three hundred in High Holding. If you can hold this valley for a day or even until nightfall—”

“Yes.” Avhlorin nodded, then scowled slightly as he looked at the ford choked with kobalen bodies. “Is this the best crossing?”

“It is. There is another farther down. See where the river curves eastward?”

Avhlorin nodded. “Yes. How deep is it?”

“Deeper than this but passable. This is the better.”

Avhlorin met his gaze, steady blue eyes in the fine, chiseled face. Turisan was reminded strongly of Ehranan, somewhat less so of Rephanin.

“Thank you, Avhlorin. I had thought Midrange lost, but you can save it.”

He offered his arm, and Avhlorin clasped it. The Ælvanen’s khi was clear and steady, and Turisan sensed that he was much older than he had first thought. A look of faint surprise crossed Avhlorin’s face as they let go.

“You come with us, yes?”

“N-no. I must ride south, to Glenhallow. Captain Dirovon commands at High Holding. He will welcome you.”

“I do not know your name.”

“It is Turisan.”

Avhlorin’s eyes lit with understanding. “Ah.” He made a small bow. “I am honored, my lord, but forgive me—you should not ride alone.”

Turisan forbore to argue, submitting to the escort of the two riders Avhlorin assigned to him. He led them back through the woods and southward, skirting the band of forest that followed the river.

The forest thinned and the pines faded away, leaving only greenleaf trees, bare-branched and less reliable as cover. The Silverwash narrowed, growing swifter and deeper. Across it the woods diminished, leaving a clear view of the road. A short way up a small ravine, Turisan saw a small mass of kobalen, fifty or more.

“Kobalen!”

He halted, watching in alarm as the kobalen attacked a small line of wagons that were drawn up against a tumble of rock in the foothills. They were the wagons he had seen earlier, bearing wounded from High Holding.

Turisan jumped down from the saddle, going to the river’s edge to get a clearer view, ignoring the protests of the two Eastfælders. How had kobalen come so far south? Had High Holding already fallen? He peered northward, but a pall of smoke hung over the valley, obscuring his view of the earthwork.

He stopped behind a mature greenleaf, its trunk wide enough to conceal him. Peering around it, he saw that the wagons were defended by Southfæld guardians, some twenty that he could see, sheltering behind rocks.

The hillside was covered with fallen kobalen and more than a few guardians as well. As he watched, kobalen continued to fall, picked off by archers behind the wagons. The remaining kobalen screamed in rage
and hurled darts toward the defenders almost at random. Turisan hoped that few were finding their marks.

He turned to the two Eastfælders. “Those are wounded from High Holding. One of you ride to Avhlorin, tell him to send help!”

The riders exchanged a glance, and one turned her mount north. The other dismounted and joined Turisan.

He turned back to watch the fighting and saw a few kobalen confer and then break off, running down the slope toward him. With a start of fright he drew back behind the tree, then realized he had not been seen. They were making for the road, turning northward. Running to bring reinforcements.

Without further thought he fetched his bow from his saddle and set an arrow to it. The Eastfæld rider protested.

“My lord! You will be seen!”

A kobalen fell, pierced through the heart, and a second lay beside it before its scream faded. Muttering angrily, the Eastfælder took up his own bow. Between them he and Turisan felled kobalen after kobalen until only two remained. Those two turned toward their attackers with a cry of rage and raised their throwing sticks.

Turisan saw one kobalen fall to the Eastfælder’s arrow, then heard a grunt. The Eastfælder slumped to the ground, gurgling, a dart lodged in his throat.

Angered, Turisan loosed his arrow. A blow struck his right arm near the shoulder as he stepped behind the tree again.

He had a moment to realize what had happened, then the pain came. He dropped his bow and collapsed against the tree. Sparks of fire jolted down his arm. He
slid down the tree trunk to sit heavily on the ground, breathing fast.

Turisan!

He dared to look at his shoulder. The short feathered shaft of a kobalen dart protruded from his leathers, the head sunk deep into his arm. Blood began to seep from around the shaft. A throbbing started in his shoulder, spreading outward.

What happened?!

I—I was careless
.

Are you still under attack?

No. I took a dart. Do not worry; it is only in the arm
.

I know that!

Through his pain, Turisan smiled. Eliani’s annoyance was strangely comforting.

Whiteness filled his mind suddenly, warm and soothing. It was khi, but unlike any khi he had felt before.

Eliani?

Be still. Let it flow
.

He let out a long breath. The warmth flooded him, tingling down into the wound, making it hot. Pain ebbed beneath the brightness. His breathing steadied, slowed. His mind cleared somewhat, and he blinked, trying to think what he should do.

The Eastfælder lay still, though he breathed yet. Turisan doubted he could help him, but he pushed himself away from the tree.

Dizziness swept over him. He fell forward, catching himself on his uninjured arm.

Turisan!

He crawled to the Eastfælder’s side and sat fighting the resultant nausea. Leaning against a scrub oak, he put a hand on the guardian’s shoulder.

Eliani, can you help him?

Oh, love—

Will you try?

She was silent. He waited, and after a moment the whiteness came again. This time it poured through his good arm and into the Eastfælder’s shoulder where he touched it. He closed his eyes, not trying to understand, hoping only that it would help.

The whiteness and warmth faded. He opened his eyes, wishing he could see across the river from where he sat.

Tell me what happened. Kobalen?

Yes. They were attacking our wounded, I had to help
. He turned his head to peer at the dart.
I cannot pull it. I would break the head
.

No, leave it! Can you ride to Highstone?

The mare was nearby. Turisan thought he could get into the saddle but doubted he could stay in it for long. He swallowed.

Too far
.

Are you sure? Heléri could help you—

Let me think
.

His best hope was to get the attention of the guardians across the river if they were not still fighting kobalen. He wondered if he had killed the last kobalen or if it had escaped and gone for support. He cautiously rose to his knees and edged back toward the tree where he had sheltered. Dizziness threatened again, and he leaned his good arm against the trunk, gazing toward the river.

Dark shapes lay in the road, tumbled, unmoving. One lay where his attacker had stood. With a sigh of relief, he slumped against the tree.