Mary Herbert - Valorian

Aiden’s normally cheerful grin and snapping eyes were dulled with pain and exhaustion, but the spark wasn’t out entirely. The corners of his mouth turned up to greet Valorian, and his grip was strong on his brother’s arm. He was about to say something when he saw the gorthling peeking over Valorian’s shoulder and recoiled in disgust.

The creature snarled at him.

“Ignore it. It will be leaving soon,” Valorian said.

“That’s what you think,” hissed the gorthling.

Aiden looked disgusted and puzzled, but then a comprehending light came over his expression. “Is that how you did it? You used a gorthling to enhance your power?” Valorian nodded. “Gods above! You’ll have to tell me how you pulled that one off.”

“Another time,” the chieftain said, taking the rags from Aiden’s fingers, transforming them to clean strips, and wrapping them carefully around the wound. “You rest now.”

Aiden pulled himself to his feet. “Oh, no. There’s work to be done. I’ll rest later.”

“You need a healer,” Valorian protested.

“Then find one. And while you’re looking, I’ll get the wounded set up over there.” He pointed to a fairly smooth place under a cluster of trees by the river.

The chieftain frowned at his brother and reluctantly acquiesced. Short of tying Aiden down, there would be no stopping him, and. the Clan needed all the help it could get.

“What do we do about the Tarnish wounded?” Aiden asked, looking at the bodies lying around them.

Valorian felt the gorthling stir and its claws pinch at his skin through the fabric of his tunic. It hissed softly in his ear. The hatred he thought he had buried suddenly rose again to choke him in thick, viscid clots, and he almost told Aiden to slit their throats. The intensity of the feeling shook him badly—he wasn’t used to such powerful emotions. Was the gorthling doing this to him? He fought the feeling down again and said instead, “Take them to their officers. They can take care of their own better than we can.”

Before he could go on, a strange voice said bitterly behind him, “I should have killed you when I had the chance.”

Valorian whirled, drawing his sword, and scanned the people nearby. At first glance, he saw only the Clan warriors moving around to check the bodies. Then a Tarnish soldier lying close by moved in the dust. Painfully the man hauled himself to a sitting position and glared at the two clansmen. It took Valorian only a moment to see through the blood and the dirt to the man’s face and insignia. He recalled the night a year ago when he had last seen this man in a wet, dark clearing with four other hungry Tarns.

“Sarturian,” he said, sheathing his sword, “your chance is gone, but all of you seemed to enjoy the deer.” He knelt down beside the older man and examined the bloody wound beneath the soldier’s ribs.

The sarturian glared helplessly at him. Although he had been struck by a Clan arrow in the side and suffered cuts and bruises, he didn’t appear to be in danger of dying. He was panting, though, and in great pain.

Valorian cautiously touched the arrow shaft and turned it to mist before the sarturian’s astonished eyes. “That’s for the reprieve you gave me that night.” He twisted his mouth into a wry smile. “And for the information.”

The soldier grimaced at the memory. “If you’re still going to the Ramtharin Plains, you’re making a mistake. Your people will probably starve by winter.”

“It couldn’t be any worse than the Bloodiron Hills,” Valorian replied. He helped the sarturian to his feet and gestured to two other Tarns who were shuffling down toward the river. “Take him with you,” he ordered.

Aiden tilted his head to watch the Tarns hobble away. “He’ll never take a meal from a clansman again.”

“Not if I can help it,” Valorian said with hearty satisfaction. He was turning to mount Hunnul again when Aiden put a hand on his arm.

“Please, when you have a chance, will you find Linna and tell her I am well?”

The raw note of worry in his voice matched the same concern in Valorian. As chieftain, Valorian’s first responsibility was to his people. He knew, though, that he couldn’t give them his full effort until he had learned the fate of the rest of his family. He returned his brother’s clasp and jumped onto Hunnul to go on with his difficult duties.

He left Aiden busily organizing the able-bodied to bring in the wounded, find the Clan healers, and set up a makeshift shelter. Slowly he made his way down the jumbled line answering a myriad of questions, organizing people to help with the most pressing problems, finding boys to round up the livestock, and helping the wounded whenever he could.

He found Mordan still in the wagon, half-buried under the body of a dead Tarn. He despaired for the warrior’s life, until he hauled the body off and saw Mordan clutching his bloody dagger. The guardsman gave him a grateful smile.

“Have you been busy?” Valorian asked, relieved.

Mordan nodded once. “That Tarn thought I looked like easy prey. But even wounded, I’m still a match for one of them,” he replied hoarsely.

Valorian gestured to several men who came and lifted Mordan out of the wagon and carried him to the grove of trees.

The chief hurried on from one emergency or disaster to the next, lending his calm strength, optimism, and his enhanced magic wherever he could. There were many wounded among the clanspeople and more dead than he wanted to find. No age or group had been spared; men, women, and children had fallen to the merciless attack.

All of the Clan families had suffered casualties, but it wasn’t until Valorian reached the section of the caravan where his own family had been traveling that the toll of the dead sank in hard. Quiet, loyal Ranulf would never go beyond the pass he had found, for he had died defending his sisters. Other relatives were also dead or dying, and more were hurt. They cried out to him as he approached, and even though he wanted to help, his eyes could only search the wreckage of carts and the confusion of horses and people for the four faces he desperately wanted to see most.

Then a voice called out to him over the hubbub. “Valorian! We’re over here!”

He nearly threw himself off Hunnul to reach the speaker. Kierla ran through the carts to meet him, her dark hair loose and flying, her body sound and strong. She flung her arms around him, buried her face in his neck, and cried in joy.

Valorian was beyond words. He merely held her tightly while his heart sang a prayer of gratitude.

“We saw you go by,” Kierla said between tears and laughter. “That was quite a cavalry you found. ”

“Not bad for a thick-witted mortal,” the gorthling said, sneering. “Wait till you see what he can do when I give him some real training.”

Kierla sucked in a sharp breath and stepped back; her eyebrows shot up over her widened eyes. She hadn’t seen the gorthling until that moment.

“I’ll tell you later,” Valorian said hastily. “Are Linna, Mother Willa, and the baby safe?”

Kierla looked dubiously at the gorthling before answering. “Yes, they’re all right. Mother Willa made us cut the traces and turn our cart over. We crawled underneath it just before the soldiers reached us.”

“And that’s not all,” Mother Willa added. Valorian’s grandmother and Linna, carrying the baby, came up to them. Mother Willa went on. “Kierla stabbed a Tarn in the leg when he tried to push the cart over.”

The chief smiled at his wife. “The four of you seem to have handled things well.”

“We were lucky,” she answered and pushed her hair back out of her eyes with a sharp, tense gesture. “If you hadn’t come when you did, there wouldn’t have been much left.”