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At that moment it seemed the most important consideration in the world, outweighing even my own stupid, trembling nausea.
The black-clad Northerners were busy greeting their captain, who leaned upon Elak’s shoulder, haggard under his bandaging. Of them all, he looked the most grievously hurt—in fact, the only one bearing much evidence of injury at all, for though the Elder were dust-covered and their eyes bright with battle-wrath none of them seemed to have suffered any great damage.
Most importantly, my shieldmaid and I had survived. I did not know whether to thank Aesyr, Vanyr, the Wingéd, or a lesser spirit passing by pure chance. I touched Arn’s shoulder. “Come,” I continued. “There is healing to be done.”
She half-turned, effectively halting whatever answer the Elder would make. “Should you not rest a moment, weirdling? Your cheek is swelling; it will bruise.”
“It is nothing.” The betraying quaver in my voice irritated me as well. “Though I could use a skin of mead and some of Albeig’s roast fowl, certainly.” I was deeply, almost angrily grateful theseidhr-monster had not been able to put more force behind its invisible blows, or my neck might well have snapped.
We were allies to the Northerners, and that comes with responsibilities. I had to do something, especially since I had proven so singularly incapable at every point even before I held the fishguttingtaivvanpallo. I tugged at my mantle-sleeves, touched one of my bead-freighted braids, and set off with what I hoped was a determined stride. Ice threatened to slide underfoot, and Arn had to catch my elbow halfway across the clearing. She righted me with a quick yank, her fingers sinking into mantle-sleeve and flesh underneath.
I did not demur, though later a bruise rose upon my arm. The bodies stank of brassy death and ordure; I was somewhat glad there was nothing in my middle but Elder winterwine. Had my stomach contained that longed-for roast fowl, or even bread, I might have lost it upon seeing intestines spilling loose in wet grey tangles, or drawing nearer the bulk of the deadtrul.
As the servants of the Enemy rot they breathe more than the usual stink of decomposition, and swiftly, too. Sometimes a deeper contagion rises from their decay—foul as the Black Land’s breath, the saying goes, andplague rises with it.
The Northerners quieted as I approached, except for Efain murmuring to Eol—perhaps granting him the unwelcome news of our changed status, or simply making a report as a warrior charged with a completed task must. Elder moved among the bodies, stripping what might be useful; the harpist Daerith—it was a deep relief to find I could now remember his name—was busy salvaging what arrows he could, even the sharp-fletchedorukharshafts.
“Well?” It was not precisely diplomatic to address the heir of Naras and his wolves as I would Bjorn and his fellow warriors after an ale-soaked pigpen brawl, but I was afraid if I sought a softer tone the words might break upon an unwilling sob. “Who needs attending? The daylight wanes.”
It was an afternoon of surprises; the black-clad men exchanged guilty glances, for all the world like errant boys taken to task by Idra or Corag. Arn’s shoulder brushed mine, much closer than she usually stood.
She could perhaps tell my legs were none too steady.
“My lady Question.” Eol’s gaze was fever-bright, and he was pale as I felt. His armor indeed bore rents looking uncomfortably like toothmarks, blackened metal strangely deformed in places as if melted by some caustic forge-breath. “I am relieved to—”
“How badly are you hurt?” The inked marks upon my wrists twinged dully, and so did the rest of me. Half my face felt tight-swollen, and I blinked furiously, for my left eye was swelling too. It was no worse than feeling Bjorn’s pain after a clout from our father, or so I told myself.
“Who struck you?” the Northern captain demanded in turn.
“The thing is dead now, it matters little. ’Tis avolva’s duty to provide healing after a battle.”Since apparently I can do nothing worth mentioning during one.I could not unclench my fists or make my voice behave with its usual smoothness; each word held a shiver. “The Elder seem well enough, but you are not.”
He might have made some answer, but a shadow passed over the battlefield, along with a ripple through every remaining living thing. I shuddered, swaying; Arn’s shoulder bumped mine, hard.
“Hurry.” An Elder I did not know, his long dark hair held back with a silver fillet, held up a gauntleted hand, and the Old Tongue was a barbed comfort. “They are scouring the forest. The Enemy is not content with Nithraen’s fall.”
“Redhill is just within reach, even with Secondborn to carry.” The harpist had just finished collecting arrows, and straightened, casting a curious glance in my direction. “My king, we must away.”
Even though riding was uncomfortable, I would have given much to pull myself into Farsight’s saddle and let a beast take the burden of moving us to safety. It occurred to me the horses, if trapped in an Elder stable, had probably suffered summat dreadful during the breaking of the city. Strangely, the thought pained me far more than the twisted, stinking bodies crowding upon every side. Aeredh approached with an Elder’s soundless step; he halted and gazed at Eol for a long moment, a speaking look.
“Daerith is right,” the Northern captain said, finally. They had returned to the Old Tongue, and seemed likely to attempt disposing of Arn and me to suit themselves once more. “But she looks near to foundering.”
“Then we will carry her.” Aeredh’s shoulders were stiff, accepting a burden—I had seen both my parents tense in that manner more than once, when some unpleasant decision must be made for the good of Dun Rithell. “We have come this far, my friend. The Blessed will not fail us now.”
“Again, you mutter in your foreign tongue.” Arn leaned fully against me now, and I suspect we both drew no little comfort from the contact. “If this is how you treat your allies, I can see why you have so few.”
“Let them speak as they please.” My tongue was clumsy-thick; the sun dipped fully below the hillcrest, continuing through its afternoon walk with no thought of any mortals trapped below the sky. The last dregs of Nithraen’s ancient warmth fled. So far as I know, it has never returned to that place. “It matters little; the sun is falling.”
Even then I pretended not to understand the Old Tongue. The misdirection had become a habit, and one I was grateful for. Theorukharwere foul and the Enemy a nightmare, but I did not wholly trust these men either, and we were alone among them. Eol regarded me, the fevered glitter of his gaze bespeaking some pain, but he made no move to accept avolva’s care.
I found I did not wish to press it upon him, if he would treat me with such disdain.
“We go, now.” Aeredh’s tone shifted; this was the voice of command, for all he spoke in the southron language. “We must reach Redhill, even should we travel after dusk.”
“And what of Faevril’s sons?” another Elder asked. “They are drawing pursuit away; will we leave them to run as hares, alone before one of the Seven?”
So the blond hunter and his easily angered sibling were occupied elsewhere, well and good. Perhaps I could use the information later in some fashion, but at that moment all I felt was weary stomach-rolling disgust.
“Very well.” I hoped my aching face was a mask once more, and turned away from Eol. My overboot crushed a shard of ice, and the breaking was as of a tiny bone snapped in half. “I am gladdened to see you survived, Soren. As for the son of Tharos, he may spurn my aid if he likes; the rest of you may keep your secrets and chatter in your Old Tongue too. But let us do it while walking, for soon the woods grow dark.”
