Into the Dark Lands (19 page)

Stop it, Erin,
she told herself firmly.

Twice the unit had been forced to retreat, and only due to Telvar's harsh and complete authority had the unit survived. It was only two battles, compared to any number won—but Telvar had the highest success rate of anyone fighting on the front.

She closed her eyes.

The field is not the place to grieve for the dead.

But all of the dead returned to her. Yesterday she alone had prepared fifteen bodies, and each of the fifteen had been comrades. Ten were newly ranked; sixths. But two had been experienced thirds; it had been a vicious, bloody fight. The bodies would return to the holdings now that the battle was over, and there the living could mourn and mark their passage into the beyond. Erin tried to think instead of the lives that she had managed to save with her healing skill—a skill that had been trained to its height, even if she couldn't touch the Bright Heart at will. But this didn't help, precisely because she
couldn't
touch the Bright Heart as her mother had done before her. Mortal wounds were mortal wounds, and she was a glorified field surgeon, no more.

Even wrapped up in the shadows of such musing, she still did not fail to hear a lone horse as it approached the encampment.

Her hand was on her sword before she found her feet. She rolled out of her tent lightly, as she had no time to armor up, and began to move toward Telvar's when she saw him emerge from it. He nodded at her, noting the readiness with which she approached him.

“I heard it as well,” he replied, his own blade readied.

In a matter of minutes, so did everyone else that was there.

Erin heard the challenge of the watch, as the horse stopped its frenzied pace a moment. She also heard the watch let the rider by, and she relaxed—as much as she ever did.

Only when she saw for herself the shining circle upon gray surcoat did she sheathe her weapon.

The man looked vaguely familiar, but he was not of Line Elliath; his markings were of Cormont, the line that had the troops to spare to send to the Elliath front.

When the horse came to a stop in front of Telvar's tent, the man nearly fell off. Erin stepped forward immediately to steady him, letting a hint of her power out to ease his exhaustion.

“First,” he said, inclining his head sharply—the salute of a near equal.

Telvar returned it. “What news?” he asked grimly, ignoring the formality of rank and name.

The man handed Telvar a sealed scroll.

Telvar didn't read it immediately; he didn't need to.

“Carla!”

His second in command came apparently out of nowhere.

“Ready the unit; we're to march south tonight.” He closed his eyes. “Have the initiates bury our dead before we leave; they won't be going home.”

She nodded briskly and left to carry out his orders.

“Erin, see to the horse; find water and food for the third.” He eyed the man's uniform and nodded. “Must you carry our reply ahead of the unit?”

“No.”

“Rest, then. We march in two hours.”

Erin nodded briskly and turned away shaking; no one in Elliath's force could fail to recognize the seal that she had just caught a glimpse of.

 

All told, there were sixty able-bodied people who could respond to the urgent request of the Sarillar of Elliath.

The third of Darek of Cormont, as he had named himself, did not seem surprised that the number was low; it was not, perhaps, the sixths, fifths, fourths, or thirds that he was counting on. The first was Telvar, and even among the other lines, Telvar was near-legendary. Of the three seconds, Carla and Marek were also well known.

Telvar did not address his warriors, but this was common; he was accustomed to leading, and they were accustomed to trust that lead. Their lives depended on it.

Unlike warriors outside of the circle, however, they had the freedom to speak about it if words didn't interrupt their duty.

And even Telvar's sixths had the uncanny ability to think on at least two levels.

“Which part of the front do we march to?” Belfas asked as he ducked below an overlying branch and narrowly missed tripping over a flat stone ledge. His fighting ability had kept him solidly in the fifth rank. Erin was certain he'd survived the four years at the front because he was seldom called upon to join battle. His ability to memory-walk was his true weapon against the Enemy, and no one risked it needlessly. Having fought in chaos, noise, and tumult, she knew how important it was to have someone who could be trusted to have clearly seen and heard all that took place.

Erin's own circle was underlined three times—a good showing for four years. But although her skill with a sword was respectable—admirable, really, given her relative strength and size—it was not for frontline combat that she had earned third.

It was for her sight and her hearing. All Lernari had, by nature
of blood, better hearing or sight than the nonblooded; it came from the parentage of Servants of the Bright Heart. Of all members of the unit, Telvar notwithstanding, Erin could see the farthest and with the best degree of certainty; and she could hear even the more subtle sounds that signaled something wrong.

Telvar always utilized these abilities to their full potential. In any battle that she had fought in after achieving fifth, she had been sent to scout. Sometimes with Dannen as backup, but more recently with Carla.

She was good at it.

She could move nearly silently; when she was at her best, Telvar swore that only a Servant could possibly detect her presence—and then, by blood-power alone. It wasn't true, and they both knew it, but Erin treasured the compliment. It was one of maybe three that she had received from the first.

“Erin?”

“I'm still thinking.”

She caught Belfas's nod out of the corner of one eye.

Where was the Sarillar?

If they hadn't been marching, she would have asked Belfas to memory-walk. Instead she had to rely on her own recollections.

“Beryon Valley,” she said at length. “I think we're going to Beryon.”

“Isn't the Sarillar there?”

She looked up; occasionally Belfas could still surprise her. “Yes.”

“It's bad, then.”

“Belf, we'd hardly be on a forced march if it weren't.” But the friendly exasperation that usually marked any sentence that began with “Belf . . .” was missing.

It was the first time that either of them could remember the Sarillar sending for help.

Beryon Valley was a good twenty-seven miles away by the straightest path, and Telvar pushed them all, setting a pace that they could follow at some cost. Words drifted away into silence and the occasional snap of dry twig beneath booted foot.

Ahead and behind Erin could see the faint green glow that each line-member carried instead of a torch; the power of blood to light the path that must be traveled. She had seen it many times, but it never failed to strengthen her. Sixty people, each carrying an emblem of the Bright Heart and His Servants that
nothing but Lady Death herself could dim, marched on toward morning.

They stopped once, taking no more than an hour to massage their legs and refresh themselves. Many of the unit insisted that they were fit to carry on, Erin among them. But it was Telvar's command, and no one seriously considered disobeying it.

Still, it was obvious that Telvar was worried; he was grim and silent, instead of grim and verbal. His mood lent an edge to his followers; and when they at last moved on, they, too, walked in the cloud of silence.

When they stopped for a second time, Telvar called for Erin and Carla. Belfas touched Erin's shoulder quickly as she left the ranks, and she caught his hand in a firm grip.

“I'll be okay,” she whispered.

“You'd better.”

She walked away to join the first and second.

Telvar nodded. “Do you hear anything?”

She shook her head.

“Good. How far have we traveled?”

“Twenty-six miles, sir.” She thought for a moment. “And some hundred yards.”

He smiled briefly. ‘Very good. Andin—the Sarillar—has been fighting alongside three of our units and two of Cormont, these past three days.

“Losses to the lines have been high, but losses to the Malanthi higher still.”

Erin nodded; this was common enough on a field where either side rarely retreated.

“Yesterday, word came to him that a larger group—composed primarily of the nonblooded—were coming to Beryon to aid the Malanthi.”

The nonblooded. The familiar anger that she felt at this momentarily rippled across her face. How could the nonblooded join the enemy ranks? Was it not for their sake that so much of this fighting took place? And worse, far worse, the Lernari effectiveness against the nonblooded was poor unless excessive amounts of power could be called.

“Andin believes that they will be led by the high priest of the Enemy with a number of his Swords. He has called in Tara's unit and Shorla's unit as well. We may not have arrived in good time.

“Be back in an hour and a half. If you aren't, we'll move on in defensive formation.”

She nodded.

“If the numbers are too large, we will retreat.”

She nodded again.

“Carla?”

“Ready as well, sir.” She saluted, although a salute was, strictly speaking, unnecessary, Carla never failed to produce one.

Ahead, the forest waited to give them the cover they would need. Erin listened for a moment and then began to walk toward it, her feet no longer making the firm, hard step of the march. Indeed, to those watching her progress into darkness, it seemed that she must be almost dancing just a hair's breadth above the ground, her movements were that sure and that silent.

Carla followed a few feet behind, walking just as swiftly as Erin did, but much less gracefully. Both women kept their swords sheathed.

Nor did either speak. By signals that they had worked out before their first mission together, they allowed the other to know where they intended to move, how far and how fast. These signals—the way a hand brushed a shoulder or touched a cheek or arm—were second nature to them, and they moved quickly and confidently forward.

Only when the ground began to slope downward did Erin pause; they were at the peak of the valley now. Beryon Valley, or Beryon's valley as it had once been called, was the final resting place of an army, remembered in children's stories and in bardic verse.

Carla tapped her shoulder twice in quick succession; Erin signaled a stop. She tilted her head to one side, listening. Leaves rustled by; a breeze blew through shadowed trees. Ahead a small stream trickled past. Crickets, frogs, and the occasional dart of feet too small to be dangerous added their rhythm to the night.

But beyond these comforting sounds, something else moved. Something . . .

Erin shook her head, touching Carla's open palm with two fingers, then three. Carla nodded and they began to make their way down.

Beryon's valley lay in wait. Erin had seen it once, maybe three years past. She and Belfas had gone exploring to try to learn the truth about the legend of the buried army. They had found nothing: no markers, no stone, no emblem to suggest that important battle at the dawn of the world.

But they had gone in daylight, and the night was always different.
The darkness, natural or not, held a hidden world with a secret language of its own. As she walked forward, she could dimly make out the occasional fallen log or boulder jutting from the forest floor like some forgotten tombstone.

She could almost hear the sounding of the horns and the charge of foot soldiers making their desperate last stand because they had nowhere to retreat. She could almost hear the whistle of the archers, and the twang of greatbows releasing a hail of arrows; could almost hear the clash of metal against metal, and the screams of the dying.

The clash and the screams . . .

She stopped suddenly in her tracks. Carla was good enough that she could mirror Erin's quick reaction. She pulled up, touched Erin's shoulder, and knew that it was shaking. But although she listened, she could not hear what Erin heard.

Trembling, Erin moved forward. Every step she took brought the noise closer.

Maybe,
she thought,
it's just imagination. Maybe I've been thinking on Beryon Valley too long.

Then Carla stopped, and Erin felt three fingertips across the back of her neck. Not imagination, no.

She nodded grimly.

Go back?
Carla's fingers signaled.

Not yet,
Erin's replied.
Numbers.

She picked up her pace, knowing that she would lose the silence that she was known for, but knowing that it wouldn't make any difference.

Carla stopped only once more, and Erin waited as the older woman strung her bow and pulled an arrow from her quiver. Then they advanced again, seeking the source of the growing sound, moving this time with more caution toward those that might see than those that might hear.

They quickly reached the outer edge of the valley and, through the last of the trees, saw what they most feared seeing.

Beryon Field was on fire—and no normal fire, either.

Some five feet from the last of the trees, they knelt with their eyes above tall brush that tickled their cheeks. Neither noticed.

Backs of warriors lined the edge of the gray rocky fields that stretched out for some miles. Some were wounded; Erin feared mortally so from the quantity of blood. Links of chain showed through torn strips of gray—and glinting in green light, Erin could see the circles.