The 30th Day of Valemord, 1251

The Village of Marl Kess, Athrolan

“DAMNED WEATHER.” AN'THOR TRADED the comfort of the inn's finer rooms for proximity to the back door. With snow drifting through the crack on the side of the window, however, he mentally kicked himself. Being born in a snow-blasted country made him all but immune to cold. He still hated it. I could do without seeing another flake. Stuffing a crumpled shirt into the crack, he dragged his chair closer to the window. The dense, white fur of his bearskin hood hid the chipped ivory horns curling upward from just behind his temples. It was only a single evening, and that time would be spent with his black eyes fixed out the window.

A Mirikin troop approached from the east, though the storm hid their campfires. The few scattered Laen citadels were destroyed or abandoned. Those few kingdoms still supportive of the Laen had all but barred their gates in fear of the same fate. Rocky grassland stretched from Athrolan's mountainous southern border to the dense forest at its center.

If the Mirikin caught them, it would be there.

The moon rose. Marl Kess quieted and the village’s lanterns were dimmed. An'thor shifted, returning feeling to his legs. Candles flickered in rooms across the way and harness metal glinted on the rider under the stable eaves. The Laen's other protectors rarely met for longer than a few hours, ranging a league or two around their charges. Other than he and Albi'giran, the mounted man below, they were all human. Albi'giran was asai and knew An'thor before the others were born.

A door shut softly down the hall, and he straightened. He pinched the candle out and stepped quietly out the door. Liane paused at the end of the hall, briefly silhouetted by lantern light. Their eyes met. They spoke all of thrice before now, but he would recognize her in a heartbeat. Her gaze was a frozen mountain stream or mist rising from a lake. She hurried silently down the stairs after the others.

An’thor shouldered his sword, buckled on his revolver, left payment on the table, and descended to the stable. The storm muttered around the sharp corners of the buildings, not serious enough for proper winter.

“North?” He swung his saddle onto Theriim’s back, glancing over to the other stall.

Hela, the historian, tacked up her own mount, eyes heavy with exhaustion. “North. I think she means to make it to the next town by tomorrow night. At this pace, we’re as like to drop dead from fatigue as we are to be shot.” She flashed a wan smile at An’thor. “You’re joining us?”

“We can’t be separated again, not when they’re this close. Albi’giran and the man from Ban will flank us by a league or so. Ju-elta, I think is his name.”

Hela sighed in response and looped her reins over her mare’s head. “I’ll see you in the courtyard.”

Even dark clothes and layers of scarves and hats could not hide what their true nature. An'thor and another man would ride with the party, the others surrounding them just within shouting distance. An'thor and his gray horse were once known on sight and they relied on that reputation for the first years of the war. Nothing short of a divine miracle or luck could save the Laen now.

“You're the Wanderer, eh?”

An'thor glanced over at the use of one of his old epithets. The Vielronan man who drew abreast joined them just a week ago. “As much now as ever. You come from the mountains, am I right?”

“I am called Henly. What do you think of this Laen-child they've with them?”

An’thor winced. He did even trust the wind to keep their secret. “I think she must stay hidden.”

Henly seemed to hear the hint. “I didn’t know you folk were for the Laen.”

An'thor snorted. “The Nenev are too engrossed in themselves to care about what happens elsewhere. Why did you choose to protect the Laen?”

Burbling coughs answered him. An’thor turned to see a second arrow bloom from the man's chest. An'thor whirled around, whistling through two fingers. One hand whipped his blade from its sheath, the other fell to the firearm at his hip. For once An'thor was glad his race thought in metal and fire. Hoofbeats already pounded behind them.

He thundered up the line of Laen. Vermillion of the Mirikin uniforms appeared over the hill, but the Laen’s other guards did not arrive. Already cut down, then.

Liane yanked her spooked horse in a circle, eyes meeting An’thor’s.

“Ambush! West, go west!”

One citadel guard raised her glaive, then choked on the black shaft of the arrow that burst through her throat.

An'thor winced and dragged his horse's head about. “What are you waiting for? Ride!”

The second Laen fell as they made for the shadow of trees. Tiny curls of gray power wound about the horses' hooves or over their shoulders to block arrows. An'thor lived too long to weep at the sight. With so many dead, the Laen's power was little more than a suggestion.

Your horse is faster. The voice was ice crystalizing in his mind.

He glanced over at the Laen pacing him. It was Liane.

She pointed at the young woman dashing madly in front of them. Her eyes glittered silver. Go. We’re already dead.

He swerved into the girl's horse, grabbing her wrist. “On my horse, now!”

She gripped his cowl and arm and she hauled herself up behind him. Icy hands locked at his belt and he leaned forward. Theriim surged ahead. Within moments they outpaced the others. Clamoring pursuit faded. An'thor's hands cramped on the reins by the time trees rose before them and he finally allowed Theriim to slow.

“We made it, my lady.” He patted the girl's hands, still clenching his belt. “You're safe now.” She did not move. An'thor drew Theriim up in the shadow of the forest and reached behind. His fingers came away covered in blood. Fates, not this. Dismounting, he pulled her down after him.

Her eyes were glazed with the effort of keeping herself alive. Bloodless lips stuttered, “I’m scared.”

“I’ve got you, my lady.” Perhaps this would be one promise he kept.

Albi'giran's red charger skittered up, covered in foam. There was blood on the asai's blade and burgundy hair, but he appeared unharmed. He tumbled from his horse when he saw the girl. “Dammit, no!”

An'thor tore the back of her dress open. “Healers kit, now!” The girl’s eyes were beyond consciousness, beyond sanity. Cold radiated from her body. It's just her power. She was too cold. He was afraid to break the arrow’s shaft, afraid to even field dress. What if I ruin her concentration?

He caught her gaze. “I’m scared.” Fear forced him into action.  He snapped the shaft and worked his fingers into the wound. The bronze arrowhead was narrow, hammered with a triangular base. It was designed to bleed. He yanked. Metal came free with a torn flesh and welling black blood. His fingers were slick but managed to grip the faintly-pulsing arteries. He fumbled with the sinew and needle for a second, catching her gaze again. Silver irises faded to dull gray. He wiped his fingers and began to sew.

Albi'giran watched helplessly. There were words for An'thor's actions. Hopeless. Denial. She was dead the moment An'thor pulled the arrow from her chest. She was dead the moment they realized her power.

An'thor's frantic attempts at surgery ceased. “You're safe.” His voice cracked. “You're safe now.” His spirit crumpled with his last shred of hope.

Above, the moon set.

Φ

The 31st day of Valemord, 1251

Despite spending most of the past thirty-two hours on horseback, Bren's whole body hummed. His horse's muscles trembled from the effort to bring them this far. His broadsword was drawn, stained with Laen blood. Early dawn light shone on the soldiers dismounted at the forest's edge. The Mirikin stood in a wide circle around the base of a tree. They looked shaken, but no weapons were raised. Bren halted at the sight of the body lying amongst the roots.

He dismounted, armor clanking softly in the stillness. “Her guards?”

One soldier shook his head. “Gone, sir. They were here, working on her, but when they saw us closing, they took off.”

“Cowards.”

Bren frowned at the man who interrupted. He edged closer to the body, noting the surroundings. She lay still. Blood and the bruised cast of death covered her skin, but he took no chances. Finally, within arm's reach, he crouched. He tugged off a glove and felt for a pulse. “She's dead. Good shot, Doric.” He sat back on his heels thoughtfully. “Sorier, you and Gorden start digging. She’ll be burned, broken, and buried. Everyone else, make camp nearby. We're done.”

His soldiers lurched into motion. They were as tired as he, and deserved sleep. Besides, this is it. He could not look away from the girl's face. Wide colorless eyes stared from beneath a furrowed brow. He knew that expression. Evidence of surgery scattered around the depressions where her guards knelt. He found his knife and turned his attention to her fingers. Cold ligaments and stiff muscle yielded reluctantly to steel, and after a minute he wrapped the token in his kerchief.

Strength left Bren's limbs. He slumped to the dirt with some dignity but rested his head between his armored knees. The sweet tang of blood was so familiar it went unnoticed among the other battlefield scents. It weighed on him. Stifled by the stink of his own sweat, he tugged off his helm. After several deep breaths, he raised his head.

“Fullsen!” Even his battle-shout sounded weary. He managed to haul himself upright and be standing when the boy halted before him.

“Lieutenant, sir?” He swayed where he stood, and no longer had an arm on his right side. He seemed not to notice either.

“You wounded?” Bren peered at the dirty bandages. “You ought to be resting.”

“Happened in yesterday before we caught up to you. Healer fixed me up proper. Got a good story for the women!”

Bren shook his head. Fullsen's age was closer to a toddler than a man. “Can you pen a missive?”

“Surely, I scribe with my left anyways.”

Bren could not say his own hands shook, or he feared he would be sick all over the parchment if he tried to write the letter himself. He tossed over his writing kit and gestured to the campstool someone erected for him. “Address it to Milord King Azirik. He's on the coast now, I think.” He shook his head to clear the fog from his thoughts. “We found the women. Just north of Marl Kess, as expected. There were only six. They had guards, but we separated them. They were cut down. One among them was the girl. She wore armor, and the others protected her above all else, above their own lives. We chased her to the Hartland, but she was already dead, shot down during pursuit.” He paused, as much to draw breath as to fight back nausea. Is it normal to feel this way when war is over? “I am confident she was the Dhoah' Laen. I will await your orders. Signed Lieutenant Barrackborn.” He handed over the fingers folded in the kerchief. “Send this with it.”

Fullsen carefully scribed each word, tongue clamped between his teeth in concentration. When Bren finished he glanced up. “Lieutenant, permission to ask a question?”

“Yes?”

“Sir, is this true? What you just had me write. Did we really destroy the Dhoah' Laen?”

Bren frowned. “I suppose we did.” They won. He won the war his king began two decades ago.

“You killed her?”

Bren almost nodded, then shook his head. “Doric killed her. Arrow in the back.”

The boy leaned forward, eyes hungry for more of the story. This was the event every Mirikin boy trained to work toward. “Did you see them? Did you see her? What did they look like?”

“I did. They were tall, I suppose. Hair blacker than night and skin that glittered, like dusted with glass.” He knew it sounded stupid, too poetic, but Fullsen was a boy, and a boy would not care. “Their eyes were silver. You could feel their power, cold, like walking the beach in winter. It was strange. Everything around them, even battle, seemed muffled.” He sighed. “I've fought them many times, but this was surely different.”

“What about the Dhoah' Laen?” Fullsen asked, rocking forward on his toes. “Was her skin made of metal? Did she have the black claws? Blue blood?”

Bren glanced up, staring at the boy, but not seeing him. He saw a face frozen in panic. Clouded eyes. “No. She looked like just a girl.”

Φ

The 33rd Day of Valemord, 1251

An'thor stared at the thick brown of his drink. He drank rarely. It dulled his senses and made for carelessness. He took a slow sip, rolling the acrid liquid around his mouth. It did not matter anymore. I could drink until I'm tossed, and it wouldn't matter. Around them the tavern bustled, barmaids weaving around busy tables as patrons shouted as many lewd remarks as drink orders. An'thor and Albi'giran were a fragile bubble of despair in an oblivious, turning world.

Albi'giran knocked back another thumb of tar-whiskey. The grimace was violent on his ashen features. “We can't possibly be getting tossed in an Athrolani bar.”

An'thor's black eyes fixed on the other man's. “She's dead.” He flung an arm out. “This place will be gone in a year, two years, damn, I don't know, but it’ll be gone. Everything will be gone. The world is crumbling and the only chance at healing it is cold and dead on the edge of the Felds.” Venom laced his quiet voice.

Albi'giran looked away. It did not seem real. “Perhaps I’m grasping here, but are you certain she was...what you thought?”

An'thor looked down. “The Laen were certain. That's enough for me. I never saw her power and neither did that girl in Vielrona. That they kept her from using it says a lot.” He frowned. “You think she was a regular Laen?”

The asai sighed. “I don't know what I think. I'm too cold to think. Too numb.”

An'thor looked away. Tears stung his eyes, but the ache in his chest was too deep for weeping. “I almost wish her death caused chaos at once—if the moment her heart stopped the world tore asunder. It’d make it easier.”

Albi’giran splashed more alcohol into the Nenev’s glass. “Waiting’s worse.”

“Watching the world devour itself, knowing she died in my arms.” An’thor shuddered. “This is worse than anything I could dream.”

Albi'giran grinned humorlessly and raised his glass. “To the end of the world.”