Rachel Lee - Shadows of Prophecy

“We are already here, m’Lord,” Giri said. “Where else would you find us in a fight?”

“Hiding under a rock, perhaps,” Ratha said, dark humor swimming in his words.

“Speak for yourself, brother,” Giri said, grinning.

“On my word, we advance,” Archer called, ignoring their verbal horseplay, his eyes sweeping up and down the line. “Jenah, can you flank them?”

“Aye, Lord Archer,” Jenah responded. “Doubt not our valor, nor our skill.”

“I doubt not,” Archer said, feeling his muscles tense for the spring. “I doubt not. Advance!”

Anari men and women rose and moved on the enemy, fire in their eyes, fury in their bellies. Archer had had but a few minutes to teach them the old fighting ways, and many were the mistakes. But many things were done correctly, as well, and soon the deadly swirl of swords began to bite flesh. The eyes of the Bozandari were wide with terror, for this was not the helpless prey they had imagined. Still, they fought with the skill borne of countless hours of drilling, managing to form a ragged line in the chaos.

If fury be the fuel of battle, then the Anari burned bright in its cauldron. They fought with the fury of men and women who had lost too much, endured too much, buried too many and grieved their last breaths. The Bozandari fell before them like blood-drenched sheaves of desert rye, yet still held their line.

With a deep cry that seemed to emanate from the depths of the earth, Jenah ordered his flanking force into the attack, and now the issue was fully decided as panic swept down the Bozandari line. For Archer, minutes stretched into hours, his mind blurred against the carnage at his feet, the clang of metal on metal and the screams of the dying. Killing had become an all too familiar routine, and his body performed almost without need of his mind. It was better this way, he decided. Better not to be there when he and those around him did such things. Better to simply let muscle and steel and nature take their course.

Tess looked up to watch the final carnage with a grim satisfaction, then returned her attention to Tom. Words she did not remember having known flitted through her mind: sepsis, peritonitis. The wound was indeed grave, and her hands worked with almost mechanical precision to extract the arrow. The cry that rose from Tom’s throat as she drew the shaft out was beyond human, and Sara sobbed beside her.

“Find water,” Tess said, looking into Sara’s eyes. “And those herbs you keep in your pouch. Find them now, Sara. I need your help. Do you hear me?”

Sara nodded numbly, and Tess reached up to squeeze her shoulder with a blood-smeared hand. “Sara! Listen. I need you to help me. Get water and your herbs. Now.”

“Yes, m’Lady,” Sara said.

As she left, Tom’s hand moved to Tess’s thigh, gripping it so tightly that she could feel the bruises forming. She met his eyes and kept her voice steady and even.

“I have the arrow out, Tom. I need to clean the wounds as best I can, and put a poultice on them. Stay with me, Tom. Look at my face and stay with me.”

“Ohhhhhhhh Elanor,” he moaned. “My sins are grave.”

“He says the prayer of the dying,” Eiehsa said, kneeling beside her.

“Stop that!” Tess said, fury in her voice. “You are not going to die, Tom Downey, Prophet of the Prophecy. You are not going to die in this place. By the power of the Twelve, I forbid it!”

The sky seemed to crack with a thousand peals of thunder, halting even the last of the Bozandari in their tracks. Tess seemed to shimmer from a sun within, light blazing from her eyes.

“I forbid it!” she cried again. “You may not take him!”

The pouch between her breasts seemed to burn like fire, and she yanked it off, allowing the stones to spill over Tom’s belly. The stones flared like golden fire, dancing over his wounds. He cried as blood hissed into steam and the stones sank into his flesh, but she held his arms pinned as she looked up to the heavens.

“Ilduin tessuh nah elah! Ilduin mees lahrohn nah elah! Tessuh nah elah!”

Fury swept out of the sky, flaming hail sizzling on the dead, dying and fleeing Bozandari, igniting their bodies and reigniting their screams. An inhuman howl rose through the valley, a howl to chill the blood of the gods themselves, and with a final pealing boom, the sky seemed to expel its own rage. In the echoing silence that rode its wake, only Tom’s low whimper could be heard.

“My Lady Sara,” he moaned. “I love you.”

“And I love you, too,” Sara said, appearing beside Tess with a pitcher of water and her pouch of herbs. “I have loved you from the moment I was old enough to know what love is, Tom Downey. And I will not lose you this day, nor any other. My soul is bound to yours forever.”

“I love you,” he whispered, eyes fluttering closed. “I love you always, dear Sara Deepwell. Always.”

And he was still.

* * * *

Tess remained filled with the power. It shot about her body like lightning and made her blond hair flow as if in a gale. Her eyes seemed to shoot sparks. All who could see her began to back away in terror, except Sara, who fell across Tom’s lifeless body and wailed.

Archer ran toward them, consternation on his face. “Lady Tess,” he said sharply. “My Lady Tess, cease!”

She turned toward him, her face unearthly as it seemed to glow from within. For an instant it appeared she might lash out at him. Then, with a soft cry, she closed her eyes and sagged. An instant later she lay in an unconscious heap.

“Tom!” Sara cried. “Oh, Tom, I cannot bear to lose you!” She looked up at Archer, her face stained with tears. “Why could she not heal him?”

Eiehsa knelt beside her and gripped her shoulders, drawing her into a tight embrace. “Hush, my lady, hush. It is in grief that we are born, and into grief we all must come.”

Archer knelt beside Tess, taking a quick survey. She was once again in that deep sleep that followed her attempts at healing. Then, not doubting the powers she had called on, he bent forward until his ear was next to Tom’s mouth and nose.

“He breathes,” he told Sara. “He lives.”

Then he strode away to find Jenah and the other clan elders. The power that Tess had called upon here would not go unnoticed. They needed to move again as swiftly as possible, before worse trouble came their way.

Whether she knew it or not, Tess had drawn the attention of someone even worse than the Bozandari, for the Enemy would not fail to detect such a huge use of power.

Their party was truly hunted now.

The clan elders moved swiftly, comprehending the threat as well as Archer, for they, unlike the races of men, understood such powers. Stoically the Anari swiftly buried their dead and tended the wounded. Stretchers were made for Tom and some of the other wounded, creating even greater burdens for the fleeing villagers, but none complained.

Ratha, Giri and Jenah, now riding Tom’s horse, rode out ahead to scout. As the fleeing villagers began their trek once more, with Tom in their midst and Sara riding beside his stretcher, Archer came to claim Tess.

As he had expected, she was still unconscious, but now her hands clasped the twelve stones he had glimpsed only briefly in the past. Carefully prying them from her fingers, he stashed them in the leather pouch that lay beside her on the ground and slipped the cord around her neck.

Then, swiftly, he mounted his own steed, and two Anari helped lift her onto the saddle before him. With his arms tight around her, keeping her safe, they followed the rest of the villagers.

He had much to think on. Perhaps too much. Tess had put them all at risk; he would have to warn her to use her powers sparingly. Now trouble would lie around every twist of the path ahead.