Banshee’s Honor
Part Seventeen
by
~Chapter
Thirty-Three~
As
part of the mop up units, Devon and Kyrian naturally spent a lot of
time together. The stardancer
found the mild affection she had felt for the boy had grown into a
genuine sense of respect and friendship for the young man he had become. Maturing rapidly under Padreg’s
tutelage, Devon had all but left behind his childhood shyness, instead
wearing an aura of quiet confidence.
As
his studies in magecraft advanced, the young man was offered the rare
chance to study with Vashyra and the other starseekers.
He readily agreed, telling Kyrian that one of the first
lessons both his father and Azhani had taught him, was never to spurn
freely offered knowledge.
With
that in mind, Kyrian continued her impromptu lessons in herbal lore,
gratified to find more than a few members of the vast army trotting
along behind Devon and her as they walked through the nearby woods,
collecting samples.
Leaving
behind a trail of blackened rock and gray smoke streaming heavenward,
the army worked its way to the western sea.
Spring became summer as days stretched out longer and
longer, until they seemed to meld into one long space of candlemarks.
Time
was not the only enemy the army fought. Weather
in the mountains wildly vacillated, swinging from bitter cold to aching
heat. The chirurgeons and
stardancers were kept busy with respiratory problems as well as the
usual broken bones, lacerations and muscle sprains that were endemic to
any large military force.
Kyrian
brushed her hair out of her eyes and blew out a tired breath. Stiffly rising from her kneeling
position by a sick soldier’s bed, she realized that tonight would be
another one of those nights where she was barely able to crawl back to
her own tent.
A
slow, secret smile crept across the stardancer’s face.
Azhani made these days bearable.
With her wonderfully large, strong hands, she would sweep
Kyrian up in her arms and carry her off to be bathed, massaged and
pampered until she was blissfully boneless.
Kyrian
stretched ineffectually, glancing out over the half full chirurgeon’s
tent, and mused about the last few days. The
army had marched in a widespread fan, seeking more of the seemingly
endless supply of egg-filled caves. Surprisingly,
this valley seemed to hold fewer of the hellspawn than the others, but
Azhani grimly assured her that they were just seeing the calm before
the storm.
Over
the crest of the next mountain lay the Ystarfe pass, their halfway
point, and the location of more than three hundred caves and crevices
that were perfect for demon breeding.
“Stardancer,
we’re ready for you,” a familiar voice called from outside the tent. Kyrian waved to the chirurgeons and
stepped out, seeing the tall form of Sergeant Matthias waiting
impatiently for her.
“Thank
you, Sergeant,” she said politely, secretly despising the arrogant ass
that had been assigned to her today. After
only a short time in his presence, she knew that he was one of those
worthless idiots who had caused young Allyn’s attitude problem.
After
that night where both Azhani and Allyn had come back from a long talk
looking like bog creatures, the warleader had transferred the prince
back to her own patrols.
“I can’t do anything about those men who made him feel so small,” she said, holding her lover close. “But I can make sure Allyn is around those that know how to appreciate the person inside the skin.”
“Mm, I think he’ll like that, love,” Kyrian said, stroking her foot down Azhani’s calf. “Devon’s with you now, right? That should give them plenty of time to mend any broken fences.”
“Exactly. Though – I’m afraid that things could get worse before they get better. Have you seen the way they both watch Syrelle?” the warrior asked, nibbling on Kyrian’s lips teasingly.
“Wha? Oh, yeah, um, I think –“ Kyrian gasped, and reached up to pull her lover’s head down for a long, lingering kiss. “I think that things will work out. Sy knows which one she wants, but it will be tough for her to break a friend’s heart.”
“Do you think,” Azhani paused her loving to look up at Kyrian, “that we should say something?”
Kyrian let her fingers dance along the bridge of Azhani’s sharp nose, tweaking it gently before brushing against her kiss-bruised lips. “No dear. They have to find their way, just like we did. All we can do is wait and be ready to support their choices.”
Azhani pouted, nuzzling the stardancer’s breast lightly. “We did get a push from Lyssera,” she said quietly, smiling at the instant hitch in her lover’s breathing.
“Lyss enjoys matchmaking, Azhi,” Kyrian whispered, letting out a soft moan of pleasure.
“Ah, and we don’t?” Azhani lifted her head to ask, one dark eyebrow rising comically.
Kyrian growled and rolled them over. “No, we don’t. We especially don’t right now,” she said firmly, capturing her lover’s lips in a searing kiss.
“Okay,” Azhani managed to say before speech became impossible.
Now
that she was following the man, Kyrian had to agree with Azhani’s
assessment. Sergeant Matthias
was an idiot to have ignored the bright young man that Allyndev was. No matter – Azhani would be glad to
have her student by her side, and the prince would benefit immensely by
being with friends. As for
Syrelle and her two suitors, well, she had told Azhani that they would
leave them be, but that didn’t mean she wouldn’t keep a close watch on
all three to make sure that nothing truly horrible happened.
When
they reached the site of the caves, Kyrian let out a sharp groan of
dismay. Lengths of knotted
rope showed where she would have to climb up sheer faces of rock, and
the first of the caves was nearly a mile up.
Matthias
turned at the stardancer’s groan and hooked his thumbs in his belt. “Sorry ‘bout the inconvenience,
ma’am. Demons ain’t an
accommodating bunch.” His
disdain was barely hidden.
Twins’
mercy, if I wasn’t wearing a red robe, he’d probably treat me worse
than poor Allyn, Kyrian thought sadly as the
soldier stepped aside, waiting for her to begin the ascent. As it was, he didn’t bother to offer
any help, preferring to stay behind and watch as she struggled up the
thick hempen ropes.
By
the end of the day, her back was in more knots than the ropes now being
carefully carried down by expert climbers. Her
throat hurt from constant chanting and her eyes burned and watered from
the acrid smoke that spilled out of the caves, choking the atmosphere.
With
her stomach churning acidly, Kyrian picked her way down from the rocks
and toward the campsite, while the sergeant easily ambled beside her, a
supercilious smile touching the corners of his mouth every time he
glanced over to view her flushed face. She
was just taking a step onto the soft loam of the forest clearing, when
a blessedly familiar voice surrounded her.
“By
the Twins, Sergeant, where are your manners?” Prince Allyndev barked,
stepping up and offering a supporting arm to the flagging stardancer. Coldly, he glared at Matthias and
said, “One of Astariu’s Own required aide, man, and you ignored it,” he
said bitterly.
Matthias’
skin reddened and his hands balled into fists.
“Just what do you think you can do about it, Allyboy? A useless twit like yourself
wouldn’t know the first thing about who to honor and when.”
“I
know more than you will ever grasp, sergeant.” Allyn’s
tone was as chill as the glacial ice.
“Prove
it,” the elf taunted, dropping his hand to his sword hilt.
Allyn’s
jaw clenched, but his hands never left off supporting Kyrian. “I have better things to do than
engage in pointless brutality, sergeant.”
Kyrian
opened her mouth to intervene, but a searing burst of fire from her
back turned her words into a garbled gasp of pain.
The world spun dizzyingly and spots danced in her vision,
causing her to forget even the most basic of pain killing chants. Then she was there, strong, gentle hands
lifting her up and cradling her against an armor-clad chest.
“It’s
all right, Allyn, I’ve got her,” Azhani’s strong voice broke though the
pain long enough for Kyrian to smile in relief.
Azhani
would make it all better. She
always did.
“Easy
now, beloved,” the warrior whispered softly, dipping her head down to
brush her lips across Kyrian’s fevered brow.
Raising her gaze to encompass the sergeant and the prince,
she said, “I’m going back to camp, gentlemen.
I hope to see you for dinner later, Allyn.” Then she purposefully turned her
back on the men, sparing a moment to pray she was doing the right thing. If not – well, then she would come
back later and deal with the arrogant ass of a sergeant herself, but
now, she wanted Allyn to prove to himself and others that he was made
of sterner stuff than they dreamed.
As
soon as the warleader was out of sight, Matthias turned to Allyn and
drew his blade. “All right,
boy, I’ve been waiting a long time for this moment.”
Allyn’s
blade stayed in its sheath. Open
handed, Allyn viewed the elven soldier with curiosity.
“Why? Will it
make you feel like a real man to beat up a half-grown boy?” he asked. “Or would you rather share your
asinine fantasies with me?” he added tauntingly.
Lashing
out in furious rage, the sergeant flicked his sword toward Allyn,
intending to slap the boy across the face with the flat of the blade. Allyn ducked away, easily avoiding
the blow. Keeping his eyes
fixed on the sergeant’s chest, the prince waited for him to make his
next move.
He
didn’t want to draw his blade, because it would be more satisfactory,
more honorable, for him to defend himself without it.
From the corner of his eye, he could see several soldiers
gathering to watch the contest and he grinned, realizing he wanted to
give them a good show.
Dropping
into a crouch, he rocked from foot to foot, waiting for Matthias to
strike. The elf did not
disappoint him. Faking inward
with the hilt of his blade, the sergeant crowed triumphantly when the
prince followed his move.
Almost
too late, Allyndev danced away, narrowly avoiding a strike that would
have sliced open his face. His
eyes narrowed and he clenched his teeth angrily.
That could have hurt.
Making
his first aggressive move, Allyn lunged for Matthias’ left side. The elf brought his sword up to
block. Allyn’s foot snapped
out, connecting solidly with the sergeant’s elbow.
There was a distinct crunch, followed by a howl of pain. Matthias’ sword dropped to the
ground, as suddenly nerveless fingers went slack.
Warily,
Allyn stepped back, watching for the sergeant’s next move. He had broken the man’s elbow, but
he wasn’t dumb enough to turn his back now.
Master Azhani’s lessons had taught him that. Half-heard whispers from the
onlookers tickled his ears, but he ignored them.
With
his gaze still firmly planted on Matthias, he bent and scooped up the
man’s sword. Offering it to
the sergeant hilt first, he said, “Do you yield, sergeant?”
Looking
into the eyes of the boy who had so publicly humiliated him, the elven
man nodded. He cradled his
right arm against his chest, visibly clenching his teeth in pain.
“I
yield, my prince,” he growled hoarsely.
“All
right. I think we should
visit one of the honorable stardancers, don’t you, Sergeant?” Allyn
asked, awkwardly sheathing the man’s sword.
Shamed
by the honor his prince showed him, Matthias nodded.
“Yes, thank you, my prince,” he said, real respect for the
young man tainting his voice for the first time.
The
crowd dissipated as they walked back to camp.
%%%
“Oh
goddess, it hurts,” Kyrian whimpered.
“Shh,
we’re almost there, my love,” Azhani whispered as she carefully picked
her way across the camp to their tent. The
warrior had been sitting in front of a rapidly growing fire when she
had the distinct sense that she was needed up at the cave site,
immediately. Sprinting
through the camp, she arrived at the edge of the hill just in time to
see her lover’s face crunch up in an expression so painful, that her
own face twinged in sympathy.
Kyrian
burrowed her head into her lover, whimpering pathetically. “I hurt all over,” she murmured,
clinging to Azhani’s tunic.
As she ducked
into their tent, Azhani brushed a loving kiss over Kyrian’s forehead
and said, “I’ll take care of you.”
“Mm,
okay,” Kyrian hummed, snuggling against the warrior and sighing
contentedly. I
may hurt like hell, but at least I’m comfortable.
Laying
Kyrian down on the bed, Azhani flashed a smile at her lover and said,
“Be right back,” and sprinted out of the tent.
Minutes later, the warrior returned with a steaming pot in
her hands. Quickly, she set
it down, reaching for the stardancer’s herb bag.
“No
sleep-wort this time, okay Azhi? I
don’t want to feel so wooly headed in the morning,” Kyrian warned just
before the warrior was going to add the wispy fronded herb to a rapidly
infusing concoction.
“All
right, how about a little bit of honey instead?
I know it’s supposed to taste like worm snot, but try it
my way?” the warrior pleaded, reaching for a pot of thick, golden honey.
“Okay,”
Kyrian sighed heavily, “but just this once.”
It was, of course, an old joke.
Azhani had been putting honey in Kyrian’s tea since the
first time the stardancer had taught the warrior to make the stuff. Sweetening it was the only way that
Kyrian could stomach the unholy brew.
While
the tea steeped, Azhani rolled Kyrian over and gently rubbed her
lover’s lower back until she let out a soft, “Oof.”
A distinctive popping noise vibrated the warrior’s hands
and Kyrian sunk almost bonelessly into the bed.
“Oh
blessed Astariu, thank you,” Kyrian moaned in agonized relief.
“I’m
not done yet,” Azhani said, her voice filled with promise. Carefully, she rolled the stardancer
back over and lifted her up, standing up and letting Kyrian hang
perpendicular to the ground. Kyrian
stretched, and soft, kitten-like mews and gasps escaped from her lips,
as bones and joints crackled loudly. “Better?”
Azhani asked as the stardancer allowed her body to go completely limp
in her lover’s arms.
“Uh
huh,” Kyrian murmured, unable to say much else.
“Good.” Brushing a kiss across the top of
her head, Azhani laid Kyrian back down on the bed and turned to check
the tea.
Shortly,
a steaming cup was held under Kyrian’s nose and she pushed aside her
lethargy long enough to sit up and chug the tea.
Falling back to the bed with a groan, she asked, “Are we
there yet?”
Azhani
laughed and began to strip off the stardancer’s boots.
Frowning as she noticed several wear holes, she said,
“Need to get you a new pair from the quartermaster, tomorrow.”
Kyrian
shook her head. “I already
tried that, love. He’s out of
boots in my size – I get to wait an entire week while the cobbler makes
me a new pair.”
“I
bet your feet don’t like that,” Azhani said, dipping a cloth into the
remainder of the hot water that she had brought and beginning to wash
the feet in question.
Eyes
fluttering shut at the intense sensation that the warrior’s almost too
gentle touch had on her body, Kyrian muttered, “No, but they love that.”
Chuckling,
the warrior finished cleaning her lover’s feet and set the cloth aside. Kyrian’s filthy breeches were the
next thing to be removed, followed by her dusty, gory robe and
sweat-stained tunic, to be replaced by a clean shift.
Azhani carefully lifted her lover off the bed and helped
her to sit in a chair while she stripped away the top blanket and
replaced it with a clean one.
With
her eyes still closed, Kyrian let her head tip back against the chair
and just quietly breathed in the homey scents of the tent. It was nice to be pampered, and it
was even nicer when it was her beloved doing the pampering.
She
let out a soft “woof” of surprise when she felt herself being lifted
out of the chair and laid on the bed again.
Kyrian opened her eyes and found Azhani staring at her
with a look of pure admiration on her face.
All her remaining pain vanished under that loving regard.
“I
love that, you know,” Kyrian whispered, allowing the warrior to gently
roll her around and sponge off the worst of the day’s exertions.
“What?”
Azhani asked as she then helped her lover to slip into a light cotton
shift.
“When
you look at me like that, the world goes away.
You make me feel like there’s nothing else but you and me. It makes me feel unique.”
Azhani
leaned forward and kissed Kyrian then suckled on her bottom lip until
the stardancer’s hands seemingly rose of their own accord to tangle in
the warrior’s braids.
“You
are unique,” Azhani said while brushing kisses over Kyrian’s face and
lips. “That’s why I love you. There’s no one else anywhere that
reaches in and sets my soul on fire.”
Kyrian
laughed weakly as Azhani’s hands slipped under her chemise and began
stroking her rapidly hardening nipples. “Make
a girl feel special, why don’t you?” she gasped as the shift, which had
spent such a short time on her body, suddenly vanished and flew across
the tent.
“Only
this girl,” Azhani said, tracing a fiery path of bites and kisses from
her lover’s neck to her breasts.
Kyrian
moaned and held the warrior against her. “Gentle,
my love. I’m still a little
tender,” she quietly warned.
Azhani
started to pull away. “We can
stop...” She offered, though the pout she wore said that she would
prefer it otherwise.
“After
all that? Not on your
legendary blade-swinging life! Get
over here!” Kyrian demanded, reaching out and grabbing the warrior’s
tunic. Efficiently, if
slowly, the stardancer stripped Azhani’s clothes away, baring the dark
skin to her admiring eyes. “You
know, Azhi, I really do love what I see.”
Flustered,
the warrior blushed and covered her embarrassment by leaning in for a
kiss. “Yeah, well, that’s
good, because this is what you get,” she finally said, lying down and
pulling the stardancer into her arms.
“It’s
all I want,” Kyrian assured her, stroking gentle fingers over the
warrior’s angularly planed cheeks. “All
I’ll ever want.” Reaching
down, she drew the covers up over them and slipped her leg between
Azhani’s, slowly gliding against her lover.
Every
time they made love, it was perfect. Even
when they fell out of the cot and ended up fighting the rocks for
space, every touch, each whispered tenderness was like a gift from the
gods. Yes, there had been
more than a few times where one of them had inadvertently caused the
other a little pain, but those tiny hurts easily blended with the
entire symphony of experience, creating such a melody that those aches
vanished into the song of their lovemaking.
Kyrian
often wondered if Azhani felt the same depth of emotion that she did,
but she had not had the courage to ask. Perhaps
some day, when they could face the dawn knowing that their world was
safe from monsters and madmen, she would give voice to the few
remaining questions she had.
Today,
she would forget those questions and concentrate on Azhani’s
wonderfully loving touch.
%%%
Gormerath’s
obvious fervor for killing demons became part of the rapidly growing
legend that Azhani’s army created. Soldiers
with a skill for crafting stories, found themselves trading many favors
just for the opportunity to ride with the warleader’s patrol and to
record the day’s events. Inadvertently,
Azhani admitted to one of these would-be bards that the sword hummed,
adding another facet to the sword’s mythology.
Doing
her best to ignore the songs traded around the fires at night, Azhani
focused on the blade’s ability to sense the presence of demons,
learning to discern the varying pitches and shades in the hum and glow. Since it shined brightly until the
very last sac had been turned to pulp, and sang dimly if a demon filled
cave was within five miles of camp, it was an efficient system to
follow.
Kyrian
found the idea of a glowing, singing magical sword, funny enough to
tease her lover occasionally. Most
of the time, however, the abundance of daily magic overwhelmed her and
it was just easier to accept the sword’s abilities as ordinary. For her part, the warleader accepted
the mild teasing, understanding that the levity helped her lover cope
with the constant state of battle readiness that the army traveled
under. Not once did the
stardancer volunteer to join any of the patrols, and Azhani never asked
her to go, even when she herself left the base camp for days at a time. Better a cold bedroll than a
terrified partner, was her reasoning.
Winter
came early in the mountains. In
a land where the snow never melted, all could feel signs of change. Those the gods had gifted with the
ability to sense the turning of seasons, reported that autumn’s tide
would soon wash away summer’s flame.
At
midsummer, the army celebrated the longest day of the year by spending
three full days at play. Games
of skill and chance, bardic competitions and feasting on sweet cakes
and wine, gave the army a chance to rest and relax, forgetting briefly
the awful task that lay ahead.
On
the eve of their crossing into the Ystarfe Pass, scouts made a grim
discovery. Eggs in the higher
altitude caves, had hatched. Though
no one had yet to see or hear one of the hellish creatures, guards
around camp were doubled and three groups of ten patrolled the
encampment at all times.
Well
cared for armor made an appearance as the men and women of the army
sacrificed comfort for protection. Varying
styles of mail marked the soldiers’ origins.
Archers wore light, highly flexible coats of leather and
chain, while the infantry strapped on thick coats of studded leather. Heavy plate mail was worn by a few
hearty souls, and banded mail was a favorite of the cavalry.
The Y’Norans
wore spectacularly designed coats of studded armor, the studs embedded
in the leather forming fantastic shapes of birds, animals and
geometrically amazing patterns. Y’skani
soldiers preferred scale mail and dwarves wore whatever would fit,
usually patching a motley of chain and plate to leather coats.
As
they had since the journey began, priests and mages wore woven,
spell-imbued robes. Starseekers,
the mage-priests, wore brilliant blue. Stardancers
were clad in dark scarlet, while the mages chose bright saffron. Chirurgeons tended to wear green or
white, whichever they could find, though their clothes tended not to
stay very clean. Mixed with
the varying tabards, the army made for a very colorful sight when
viewed from the top of a mountain.
Azhani’s
armor was made especially for her. A
gift from Kuwell, it was a combination of scale and plate, with plenty
of chain and leather to protect all the vulnerable spots. The armor was lightweight and
flexible, yet durable enough to withstand several attacks. The warleader was grateful for the
gift. Her original armor was
held in reserve, in case she should need to replace the scale. Besides the armor, she had a pair of
steel-capped boots and a light helm.
Kyrian
absolutely loved how Azhani looked in her regalia.
On top of the silvery armor, the warrior wore a tabard
embroidered with the arms of Y’Syr. Against
a sky blue background, a golden crown was cradled in the branches of an
ancient oak tree. An added
decoration was a border of golden leaves, marking Azhani as the
warleader.
Against
the wishes of Padreg, Elisira donned both armor and arms, proudly
bearing the device of Y’dan. Standing
alone in the Y’Noran contingent, the wheat sheaf badge seemed very
lonely in the sea of gray capes emblazoned with a rearing horse.
As
Elisira helped Padreg to clip his capelet to his armor, the Y’Noran
king said, “I still don’t see why you’re wearing those colors, Eli.”
Turning
him around a few times to take in the overall effect of his look,
Elisira sternly replied, “Because Arris no longer bears these arms and
because something of the real Y’dan should be represented. The gods should see that not all
have turned away from them.”
“You
shame me, Eli,” Padreg said roughly, drawing her into a hug.
Careful
not to be stabbed by the studs on his armor, Elisira snuggled against
her beloved. “There is no
need for shame, my love,” she said, drawing out a rectangle of fabric. “I thought of you, too.” She held up a small belt favor
bearing the same arms that she proudly wore on her chest.
Smiling,
Padreg gamely slipped the favor onto his belt and then leaned in to
kiss Elisira.
Y’droran
and Y’skani devices reflected individual clans, peppering the army with
a variety of hammers, serpents, scorpions, dragons, helms, forges – a
veritable cornucopia of cultural iconography.
Clustered
together, Allyn, Devon and Syrelle held hands and tried not to appear
frightened by the sudden changes. Soon,
the two young men would join Azhani on the first patrol since hatched
eggs had been discovered. The
sky was darkening rapidly as the sun set, and the warleader was certain
that tonight the demons would hunt.
The
princess was terrified for her friends. Alternately
fighting back tears and anger, she wanted to cling to both Allyn and
Devon, though it was Allyn’s embrace she craved the most. Once his horrible attitude vanished,
he became everything she had dreamed – honorable, caring, and brave. The Y’Syran prince made her young
heart flutter.
Only one thing kept her from singing her affections out loud, and that was Devon. The mage’s feelings for her were clearly written in his eyes, though he never once spoke of them. Instead, his actions betrayed his heart, and Syrelle had yet to find a way to gently let him down. Allyn’s emotions were almost as transparent as Devon’s, which made her dilemma that much sharper. Her lips longed to feel the sweetness of his, and her arms ached to hold the prince’s slimly muscled body close.
Syrelle
sighed softly, and was echoed by both of her friends.
Devon cautiously wrapped an arm around the princess,
smiling ruefully when Allyn mirrored his action.
It struck him suddenly that his friend was just as deeply
in love with Syrelle as he was. Jealousy
swept through him, nearly seizing control. It
was the thought of how much it would hurt Syrelle to see him fight with
Allyn, that stopped his wildly careening emotions.
Pasting
a smile on his face, he forced himself to find something to say. “Hey, I bet I get one of the
bastards before you, stick swinger.” He
allowed the slightest hint of mock derision to taint his voice.
“In
your dreams, sparkle fingers,” Allyn shot back, smiling to show that he
was teasing as well. He had
struggled to leave behind his churlish ways and it was still hard for
him to joke with his friends without feeling guilty.
Syrelle
rolled her eyes and wrapped her arms around both her friends. “So long as you both come back in
one piece. I will be quite
happy if your night is boring.”
Letting
go of the princess, Devon reached for his belt and baldric, strapping
on the saber he carried in case his spells failed.
“Ah, don’t worry so much Sy. We’ll
come back just fine, won’t we Allyn?”
“Of
course we will,” the prince said, taking a moment to relish the contact
with Syrelle. “Master Azhani
won’t let anything happen to us,” he added confidently.
Passing
by, Kyrian overheard the conversation. Casting
her eyes heavenward, she silently prayed, Oh let
that be so, Astariu. Let them
have a successful first night. Keep
them all safe, especially my beloved. She continued on her way to join
the other stardancers. With
only about thirty of Astariu’s Own in the army, each of the priests
would have the chance to ride with a patrol before long. Kyrian would stay behind and work
with the chirurgeons and herbalists, readying the field hospital for
possible casualties.
Kyrian
spotted Azhani among the gathering forces and reveled in the flush of
love and pride that raced through her. Sitting
arrow-straight on the back of her horse, the warrior’s face held an
expression of utter calm as she observed the men and women of her army
scurry about, making last checks before their first armored patrol. Turning away, Kyrian closed her eyes
against the prick of tears, not able to watch as the patrol rode out of
the camp. A part of the
stardancer wanted to go over and beg her lover to give her one last
kiss, but they had already said their goodbyes.
“I’m not going with you tonight, my love,” Kyrian said as she helped Azhani arm.
“I know,” Azhani said, turning and putting her hands on the stardancer’s shoulders. “Would it seem terribly selfish of me to say that I’m glad? I don’t want you in any more danger than you have to be.”
A crooked smile lit up Kyrian’s face. “You mean you’re not going to stand there and give me a pep talk about putting aside my small-minded fears and racing out there, glory bound to die?”
Rolling her eyes, Azhani said, “No. There is no glory in seeking death. This is a hunt, plain and simple. We are going out there to destroy the monsters, and I will be happier knowing you are here, safely tucked away.”
Briefly, they kissed, a whisper soft passage of lips that deeply conveyed the importance of Azhani’s return.
~Chapter
Thirty-Four~
Azhani’s
jaw ached from the constant hum the sword gave off.
Its song was so loud, she was tempted to ask if anyone
else could hear it. Not that
they would – as long as she had carried the damn thing, it had sung
only for her. For a moment,
she feared what would happen when she drew the magical blade. If Gormerath lit up like a torch to
scramble eggs, what would it do in the presence of the whole demon?
She
was about to find out. Crackling
bushes exploded outward as three-dozen gray-furred shapes burst out
onto the path around her patrol. The
demons crooned eerily as they circled the mounted warriors, preparing
to attack.
Looping
the reins around the saddle horn, Azhani quickly strung her bow and
fired twice. One arrow struck
a demon in the center of its thickly furred chest.
The monster staggered back briefly, keening in pain. The other shot was a signal arrow,
whistling off into the darkness to alert the other patrols that first
contact had been made.
Bowstrings
twanged as the other warriors feathered the attacking monsters with as
many arrows as they could. As
soon as the demons were too close for clear shots, the bows were
dropped in favor of melee weapons. Swords,
maces and battle-axes were drawn and swung.
Clouds of hot blood and ichor sprayed out, coating the
foliage.
Blanking
her mind, Azhani ignored everything around her, seeing only the blazing
form of Gormerath as it severed limbs and sent chunks of demonic flesh
flying. On her left arm was a
small round shield, which she used to deflect the vicious claws and
teeth of the beasts.
Kushyra
fought as fiercely as her rider, kicking and biting at the demons as
they attacked. Before the
patrol rode out, all of the warhorses had specially forged shoes fitted
onto their hooves. The heavy
iron covering acted as both protection and weapon, inflicting
devastating blows with each kick. Aside
from the special horseshoes, the mounts all wore barding. Heavy leather and plate armor
designed to shield the horse’s hide from the demon’s razor sharp claws,
creaked and clanked as the riders fought off the advancing monsters.
The
telltale scream of a horse, shook Azhani from her battle haze. Sparing a prayer for the rider, she
pulled her blade from the body of the demon she was fighting, tipped
her head back and let out a long, piercing wail.
Around her, the shouts and cries of her soldiers joined in
as they fought. Laughing, she
twirled her sword and wheeled Kushyra around to face the next monster.
Distantly,
the warleader noted the sounds of other whistler arrows, but she forced
herself to concentrate on the battle before her.
It seemed like for every demon she killed, two more sprang
up to take its place. The
thick, coppery scent of blood misted the air and gurgling screams of
the dying filled her ears. Then
there was a moment of peace when all sound ceased and the foes before
her were dead or dying.
Turning
toward the rest of her patrol, Azhani caught a glimpse of Allyn on the
ground, reeling back from a devastating blow.
Spurring Kushyra forward, she yelled and charged the demon. The force of the horse’s body
hitting the monster, threw it back several yards into the side of the
mountain.
“Hop
on!” she shouted, reaching out for Allyn’s hand.
Wordlessly,
he pulled himself up behind her, sitting with his back to hers and
preparing to fend off any blows. The
position was awkward, but he was a consummate rider and managed to keep
his seat.
The
battle rolled on. The graying
of false dawn brought an end to the fighting, as those demons still
alive scattered into the mountains. Unable
to stand the touch of the sun, the hellspawn sought shelter until night
fell again.
Of
the men and women she started the night with, all but three horses and
one soldier would return to the camp. No one escaped injury. Field dressings covered gaping
wounds and bound broken bones, while healers and stardancers fought to
keep those whose injuries were the gravest from dying.
Exhausted
but proud of a good night’s work, Azhani returned to her tent. Her wounds were minor compared to
others, so she decided to tend them herself. Numerous
small cuts and scrapes and one long gash extending from her left hip to
the inside of her knee, were the extent of her injuries. Filling a pot with water, the
warleader set it on the brazier to warm while she searched for a needle
and thread. Half a candlemark
later, Kyrian found her lover seated on the edge of their bed, hunched
over and trying to stitch up the wound in her leg.
“Azhi?”
she called out as she entered. “Are
you in here? I didn’t see
you... oh goddess, Azhani, why didn’t you come and get that taken care
of?” she chided, rushing in and kneeling next to the warrior, taking
the needle from her.
Tipping
her head back and sighing as Kyrian began to stitch the wound, Azhani
said, “It’s just a scratch. I
didn’t want to take away valuable time from those who were more
injured.”
Kyrian
looked down at the four inch long, nearly one inch deep gash and said,
“A scratch? Honey, this isn’t
a scratch, it’s a laceration. Did
you clean it out first?”
“I
splashed a little of that stuff you got from Ambassador Iften on it,”
the warrior said, wincing as the stardancer started to prod the wound.
“Dear
goddess, Azhi, and we didn’t hear you scream?
You’re stronger than I thought,” Kyrian said wryly,
pulling out a packet of herbs. It
was the last of the dozens she had stuffed in her pouches as the
soldiers started trickling back into camp. Now
she was grateful she had held one back. The
herbs had been specially blended to fight the infectious properties of
the demon’s claws and teeth.
“I
was too busy trying not to black out,” the warrior admitted, grunting
as Kyrian sprinkled the herbs on her wound.
The
stardancer didn’t answer, only began to softly sing.
A child’s lullaby carried the magic of her healing touch
as she carefully stitched up the rest of the wound.
As mentally drained as Azhani was physically, the
stardancer had just enough magic left to burn away the poison in the
warrior’s system.
“Thanks,”
Azhani said as she stood. “Gotta
go meet with the others.” She
yawned and rubbed her eyes. “Be
back in a bit, unless you want to come with?”
Azhani and her other patrol leaders needed to go over the
night’s battles and tally the lists of dead and injured. Bleakly, she realized that it would
probably take her candlemarks to finish all the letters to the families
of the slain.
“Sure,”
Kyrian responded, forcing a chipper edge to her voice, though she was
longing to crawl into their shared cot. “Someone’s
got to keep you warriors sober enough to find your tents.”
Arm-in-arm,
the two women slowly walked to the mess tent where the others were
already gathering.
%%%
Oh
goddess, twelve dead, one hundred and thirty six wounded. Azhani numbly drank a cup of
lukewarm tea and stared down at the tally sheet in her hand. To her right, Kyrian was snoring
softly, her curly golden red hair sticking out in all directions as she
slept. A few other hearty
souls peppered the tent, but the rest of the patrol leaders had already
gone to bed. The morning
breakfast rush had yet to stagger in, leaving Azhani alone with her
thoughts.
The
list of casualties struck her like a blow. Name
by name, she called their faces to mind, searching her memories until
an elusive smile or frown was associated with the terse letters that
shaped the final moment of their lives. The
ink blurred through her angry tears and she dashed them away, hardening
her heart against the pain of loss. Twelve
had given their lives so that hundreds of demons would no longer
threaten the kingdoms.
During
the meeting, she and her top lieutenants had decided to stay in the
area for three more days, then move westward, continuing to burn out
caves, as well as running night patrols. Messengers
to Y’Syr had left only moments ago, carrying strongly worded warnings
to the small communities that dotted the borderlands.
Starseeker Vashyra had promised to send word to Kuwell and
Lyssera, as well.
Padreg
was the last of her seconds to leave, stopping by her chair as she held
the list of the dead, to put a heavy hand on her shoulder. “Grieve for
them later, warleader. ‘Tis
time for rest and recovery, not to bellyache over should haves. Take your lady home and hold her
close, Azhani, for that is what I intend to do.
When we rise, we will seek out more of the bastards and
send them screaming back to hell!” he had whispered softly and
walked away.
Azhani
sighed, wishing she could heed his advice. Too
much needed to be done, and giving the dead their last respect was one
of the duties that she left to no one else.
Best to take the time now, while she still had it, rather
than later, when she was up to her ears in demons.
Those with weather sensitivity had given her a bare six to
eight weeks before the winter snows fell, and by then she hoped to be
in the mountains above Y’dan.
Dipping
her quill into a pot of ink, she began her first letter. To the family
of Ariana Wintersky: I regret to inform you that your daughter has
perished in battle. She gave
her life courageously, defending her land from the forces of evil...
A
candlemark later, twelve scrolls lay in a pile in the center of the
table. Twelve reminders of
the price paid to destroy the demons. Stoically,
Azhani drained the dregs of her tea and shook Kyrian.
“Come
on Kyr, it’s time to go to bed,” she said, her voice no more than a
dull shadow of its usual robustness. The
warrior was used to it, though. After
every battle, she drank gallons of tea to sooth her savaged vocal
chords. The cry that so
identified her on the field, often left her voiceless for days after a
battle. Kyrian woke
reluctantly, but was able to toddle with Azhani back to their tent.
%%%
“Ah,
gods, that hurts,” Allyn groaned as Syrelle used a soft cloth to wash
away the dried blood from around the wound in his shoulder. A careless turn had cost him the use
of his shield arm and now he lay on his stomach in their tent, waiting
for the feeling to return.
“Hush! If you hadn’t stopped to woolgather,
we wouldn’t be here,” Syrelle chided harshly, scrubbing a bit harder
than she meant to in her ire. When
he had come in that morning, his arm bandaged to his side and blood
coating most of his armor, she had been certain he was going to die. Pale features were ghostly white as
the young prince stoically tried to bear the pain and stay seated on
his exhausted mount.
Beside
him, Azhani had kept a firm grip on his reins, talking softly and
keeping him awake and mostly alert. The
princess had raced across the camp, bracing herself to hold him up as
he slid off the horse, but Azhani beat her, gathering her student up in
her arms and striding purposefully toward the chirurgeon’s tent.
Kyrian
had quickly set aside the mortar she was grinding herbs in and helped
her lover lay the prince down on a cot, using a small but very sharp
knife to cut away the damaged armor and clothing.
As soon as she saw that Allyn was in the hands of the
healer-priest, Azhani had taken Syrelle by the shoulders and steered
the princess outside to wait.
“Come
on, we’ll do more good out here, helping the others find their tents,
than in there. Kyr’s got him
now and he’ll be just fine,” she had said confidently. Syrelle believed her and blindly
followed the warleader outside.
“Wasn’t
woolgathering,” Allyn protested weakly. “Thought
it was dead and ...”
“Yes! I know all about it!
You’ve said nothing else for three days, Allyndev Kelani,”
Sy spoke bitterly. She packed
on a new poultice and laid a clean bandage over the wound. After singing out the poison and
stitching the gash closed, Kyrian had carefully explained to the
princess what she would have to do. Keeping
Allyn in bed for a couple of days was one of those things, and between
her and Devon, they had managed to keep the prince occupied for two
days so far.
Allyn
was getting restless though, and only the fact that he could barely
raise his arm kept him away from the battlefield.
He wanted to be out with Azhani, sending demons to their
maker, not lying on his stomach, staring at the woven mats that covered
the floor of their tent.
Finishing
up the dressing, Syrelle gently ran her fingers through Allyn’s hair. The long, blonde mane was matted
with dirt and dried blood. “I’m
going to find some way to wash this out, Allyn, or I’ll have to cut it
all off.”
“Okay,”
Allyn said dreamily, not really paying attention to the princess’ words. Her touch had driven away all his
pain, leaving him floating breathlessly. He
could feel the heat from her hand as it rested lightly on his back,
just to the side of the bandage. Trying
to breath shallowly, he prayed she wouldn’t move just yet.
Syrelle
stared down at her hand, seemingly dark against the pastiness of
Allyn’s skin. His color was
better today than yesterday, when he had seemed so ghostly that she
could see blue lines in his neck. Alternately,
she wanted to shake, strangle, kiss and hug him.
He was alive, but he was hurt, and that fact drove her to
distraction.
“Hi
kids, I’m home!” Devon’s voice broke the quiet spell in the tent. Ducking inside, the freshly washed
young mage tossed his still damp robe onto his cot and walked over to
kneel beside Syrelle. “How’s
it going?” he asked, gently putting a hand on her knee.
The
princess lifted the edge of the bandage and said, “It’s a little better
today. Look.”
Devon
tilted his head to see, and nodded. “Yeah,
it doesn’t look so puffy. You
got lucky, Allyboy.” He
reached out and ruffled his friend’s hair. “Ew! You’re a mess!” he exclaimed when
flakes of blood and dirt clung to his hand.
“Tell
me something I don’t know?” Allyn growled impatiently.
It was all right when Sy pampered him, but it made him
feel silly to have the younger Devon acting as though he were the wise
elder brother.
Pulling
his hand away as if it had been burned, Devon stood up and said, “Well,
I can see someone is feeling cranky.”
Allyn
sighed. “Sorry. It’s just – I feel so useless lying
on my face.”
“Hey,
I understand, buddy. But
you’ve got to relax and rest. Give
your body a chance to heal. Can
you move your arm yet?” Devon asked as Syrelle stood and walked out of
the tent. The mage took her
place, using his stronger hands to massage the joint around Allyn’s
shoulder.
“Sort
of, but not really. Stardancer
Kyrian says that it’s probably going to take one more song to heal, but
I feel so bad asking her to do it, because she’s always so tired!” the
prince said wistfully. “There
are so many folks whose injuries are worse than mine... it would be
wrong of me to ask for the goddess’ touch when they need it more.”
“Nobility
becomes you, Allyndev.” Azhani’s
voice floated into the tent. The
warleader stepped inside, ducking under the low roof and coming over to
kneel beside the cot.
Allyn
snorted derisively. “It’s not
nobility, it’s practicality, Master. My
arm is not worth the lives of the soldiers that your lady’s magic can
save.”
“Ah,
you are right, it is not nobility – it is self pity.
I stand corrected,” Azhani said quietly.
She stood and looked at Devon, who continued to massage
the prince’s arm. They shared
a moment of empathy, each understanding that Allyn’s mood would improve
with his arm. Sharply, the
warleader said, “When you’re done wallowing, Kyrian will see you in the
chirurgeon’s tent.”
Devon
was nearly thrown from the cot, Allyn stood up so quickly. “On my way,” the prince said
tightly, reaching for a clean shirt to wear.
As he sprinted out the door, he narrowly missed Syrelle,
who was carting a heavy bucket filled with steaming water.
“Sorry
m’lady,” he said, grinning cheekily as he headed toward the tall white
pavilion in the center of the camp.
“Allyn
–“
“Don’t
bother trying, Sy,” Devon said as he came outside, taking the heavy
container from her and setting it on the ground.
“He’s been called by Stardancer Kyrian.”
“Oh,
well, I was going to wa– er – I was going to help him wash his hair,”
she explained, indicating the water filled bucket.
“I’m
sure he’ll appreciate that, princess,” Azhani said as she joined them. “After he’s seen Kyr.”
“Can
she really heal his arm?” the Y’maran princess asked, biting her lip
hopefully.
Azhani
shrugged nonchalantly. “I
don’t see why not. She healed
my leg up perfectly.”
Having
heard from Devon the story of how the two women met, the princess
nodded silently. Still
chewing her lip, she watched Allyn run into the chirurgeon’s tent and
greet the stardancer jubilantly.
Comfortingly,
Devon wrapped an arm around her shoulders and drew her close, allowing
her to lean on him. “It’ll be
all right, Sy,” he promised quietly. “Come
on, let’s get that bath ready. I’m
sure Allyn will be more than ready for it when he comes back.”
%%%
Kyrian
laughed as Allyn, flushed from his run, stripped off his shirt and
knelt to present his wounded shoulder to her.
“You could have stopped to put shoes on, Allyn,” she
scolded lightly, carefully removing the bandage from his back.
“I
didn’t want to keep you waiting, stardancer,” he murmured softly,
pulling his matted hair off his neck. He
was so nervous and so excited, that he wondered why he hadn’t vibrated
a hole in the ground yet. Though
his left arm was useless, his right one was perfectly healthy and quite
able to grip his thigh with crushing force.
Wincing, he struggled to pull his hand off his leg, and
ended up pressing his fist into the ground as the first strains of
Kyrian’s song stole away his awareness.
When
he came to, he was lying on his own cot once more.
Devon’s hands were supporting his head and Syrelle was
gently washing away the blood and dirt from his hair.
Blinking his eyes open, he groaned and unconsciously made
a fist with his left hand as he tried to stretch.
“Nice
to see you back among the living, my friend,” Devon said calmly,
continuing to hold onto the prince’s head with gentle firmness.
“Ugh. I’m starving,” Allyn said hoarsely,
licking his dry lips. “And
thirsty. Gods, I’ve never
felt anything like that before.”
“Here,
the stardancer said you could have this,” Syrelle reached over and
handed the prince a skin.
Allyn
carefully opened it and drank slowly, sighing in relief at the cool,
sweet water that moistened his parched throat.
“Thank you,” he said, tipping his head back at her gentle
direction, so she could rinse out the soap.
“And thank you both for this,” he said quietly, humbled by
their generosity. He wasn’t
sure he would be able to wash Devon’s or Syrelle’s blood out of their
hair so calmly.
“No
problem, buddy,” Devon said, releasing his friend’s head now that he
was more awake. “I’m going to
go get our dinner. I’ll be
back shortly.” The mage
smiled briefly and then was gone before either of the nobles could
speak.
“I
can’t believe how hungry I am,” Allyn said, to break the odd silence
that had sprung up as soon as Devon had left.
“Stardancer
Kyrian says that it’s typical after a Healing,” Syrelle mentioned
casually, wringing out Allyn’s hair. “Here,
sit up and towel it dry.” She
handed him a towel, trying not to hold her breath.
So far, he had been able to move his left hand slowly, but
she had to know if the priest’s magic had worked.
Allyn
calmly accepted the towel and took a deep breath and then used both
hands to briskly dry his hair. When
he pulled the cloth away from his face, his smile lit the tent brighter
than Devon’s spell.
“I
can move it and it doesn’t hurt!” he whispered excitedly, dropping the
towel and flexing his arm. Lifting
it above his head, he winced. “Okay,
so it mostly doesn’t hurt.”
“Yeah,
you’ve still got the stitches, but you’ll heal fast and...” Syrelle’s
voice faded a bit and she sighed heavily. “And
you can go patrolling again tomorrow.”
In
the process of putting on his tunic, Allyn almost didn’t hear the
hesitation in her voice. He
let the fabric slither down and shook his shoulders to settle the light
blue tunic. “Sy?” he asked
curiously, cocking his head and looking at the still kneeling princess. “Don’t you want me to be better?”
She
stood up angrily. “Of course
I do!” she hissed softly. “Why
would you think otherwise?”
Standing,
he walked over and put a hand on her shoulder.
“Because you’re so mad now, and because you didn’t sound
happy that I could patrol again.”
A
tiny noise of frustration erupted from her throat and she spun away
from him. “I’m perfectly
elated that you’re feeling better, Prince Allyndev,” she said bitingly. “I am not, however, at all pleased
that you are able to be demon fodder again!”
Then she bent and lifted the bucket of dirty water and
ducked out of the tent.
“Sy
wait!” Allyn scrambled to
follow, but the princess was quickly moving away, heading for the place
where those who camped at the warleader’s site, dumped wastewater. Standing in just a tunic and short
breeches, the prince could not hope to follow her over the hard, rocky
ground. “But...” he
whispered, stunned at the vehemence of her statement.
A confused expression colored his face and he sighed then
returned to the tent.
Devon,
watching Syrelle’s departure, sighed heavily and carefully juggled the
three bowls of hot stew. He
didn’t know what irked him more – the fact that he was so deeply in
love with the princess, or the fact that she was in love with Allyn. It meant pain for him either way,
but as long as nothing was said, he could continue to fantasize that
she might suddenly decide that he was the one who she truly loved.
The
young mage shook his head sadly. He
had seen the look on Allyn’s face as Syrelle dashed off. The Y’Syran prince was as hopelessly
in love with the princess as he was. Swallowing
resolutely, Devon put that thought out of his head and pasted a
cheerful smile on his face, ducking inside the tent with the food.
“Dinnertime!”
he sang out enthusiastically, handing a bowl to Allyn, who was
listlessly sitting on the edge of his bunk.
“Thanks,”
the prince murmured, automatically taking the food and lifting the
spoon to his lips.
Devon
watched him eat mechanically, not even seeming to taste the food that
he chewed and swallowed. Almost,
he opened his mouth to ask about it, but he couldn’t quite bring
himself to be that charitable. Quietly,
he ate his own meal, silently praising the lady Elisira’s skill with
venison.
Chapters Thirty-Five and Thirty-Six