Shadows of Prophecy

Live long in honor, brave and free.

Sara found herself singing along, her voice dancing with those of the Anari as if born of a strength beyond her own. If the Twelve had indeed created the Anari, then that grace must surely wash away any stain. For in the lilt of their voices, and hers, she found a peace like none she could remember.

Finally even Tom sang beside her, their voices rising like the dreams of lovers not yet met as if to play among the stars. Long had she wished for this, to hear his voice unite in song with hers. If it took a horrific flight through all the world to hear his voice thus, then every horror was paid in this moment.

“I do love thee, Tom Downey,” she said, leaning in to kiss his cheek.

In the instant that her lips tasted his sweetness, a brief, flitting whisper sounded. And then the arrow lodged in his side.

6

“By Elanor!” Tom cried, sinking to the ground.

Archer heard the cry, but his eyes were already on the ridge to their left, looking at the rainbow of arrows arcing through the air toward them.

“Cover!” he cried.

The words were unnecessary, as already the Anari were going to ground amidst the rocks, mothers clutching children to their breasts, men unslinging their own bows and nocking arrows.

Archer reached down and lifted Tom with one arm, the other gently pushing Sara aside. “Let us get him safe from further wounds first, m’Lady. Then you can tend to these.”

She nodded, her face white as a midnight moon, and scrabbled alongside Archer into the lee of a rock. The clatter of arrows on rock lasted another few seconds that seemed like an eternity, then stopped.

“Why do they show mercy?” she asked.

“It’s not mercy,” Archer said. “They have no easy targets and waste not the work of their fletchers. This is but a brief respite, and then they will fall upon us with all their fury.”

Tom let out a long, low groan, and Archer rested a hand on his shoulder. “Breathe easy, my friend. The wound hurts worse than it is. Your Lady Sara can tend it beyond any notice. I promise you.”

Tom nodded weakly, his eyes screwed closed, and Archer glanced at Sara’s face. She saw the truth as plainly as did Archer. The arrow had entered Tom’s side, just below the ribs, the tip protruding from his belly. He would indeed need Ilduin magick.

“I’ll get Lady Tess,” he whispered in her ear, so that Tom would not hear it. “And try to organize our defense.”

Sara nodded, and cradled Tom’s head in her arms, murmuring an entreaty to Elanor, the goddess of healing.

Archer slipped from rock to gully to rock, taking the faces of shaken Anari in his hands and explaining what he needed of them. In moments, their shock was replaced by a cold determination. Finally he reached the head of the column, where Jenah had already recalled the advance guards and was issuing instructions. Tess was tending the wound of an Anari whose calf had been pierced through, and Archer waited for her to finish before speaking.

“It’s Tom,” he said. “Midway back in the column. He is shot through the belly.”

“Damn them,” she swore, Ilduin fire flashing in her eyes. “I will go to him.”

“Quickly, please,” Archer said.

“They will attack soon,” Jenah said, after Tess had left. “They follow us like a hunter after wounded prey.”

“Yes,” Archer said. “And when this is over, we must consider why that is. But that is for later. For now, we fight.”

No sooner had the words left his lips than a cry arose on the ridge, and two hundred Bozandari rose from their positions and began to descend upon the Anari. These were not seasoned troops, for they came on too fast, and soon were stumbling amidst the loose shale and talus on the slope. Now the Anari added their arrows to the hardships of the advance, and within minutes the ridge was a roiling mass of screaming forms, comrades stepping on comrades in an attempt to press the attack, trying vainly to form battle order, lest they emerge onto the valley floor as a vulnerable rabble.

“Hold fast!” Archer bellowed, the order echoing down the line as a few Anari rose to advance.

To meet the enemy on the slope would be madness, for their descending mass would shatter any line. But once they reached the base of the slope, those in front would suffer from the headlong rush of those behind. Then they could be struck with effect—if only the Anari would be patient.

“Steady!” Jenah yelled, his deep voice seeming to carry the weight of the mountain itself as it boomed and echoed through the valley. “Steady!”

Arrows continued to thin the Bozandari ranks, but Archer could see that too many were making it through the deadly hail. “Ratha! Giri! To me!”

“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.