Laggards from the Fire
Hope is sharper than fear.
—Elder proverb
Arneior was indeed upon our heels; a short while later she burst from thick shade between two white-swathed trees and fair skidded to a halt. Naciel’s lessons served her in good stead, for ’tis no small thing to match an Elder’s speed. Still, a spray of old snow lifted as she stopped, her mouth crumpled, and I sprinted from Aeredh’s side. My feet sank, the slippers soaking in melt after three steps, but I cared little, and flung my free arm about her.
She did the same, her spear held well away, its end sinking into frozen white. My shieldmaid cursed long and low, breathing a warm spot amid my braids, and I could say nothing through the sobs caught in my throat, aching for release.
“—run off,” she finished, her arm so tight it rivaled Aeredh’s, near crushing the breath out of me. “Do not do that ever again, Solveig. Do not ever.”
There was no use in saying I had little choice in the matter. A shieldmaid who has lost her charge is forsworn; that is an unpleasant state indeed and after the night we had just passed neither of us were in best temper. The wonder was that she did not scold me more harshly, and perhaps give a clout to my ear as my father would to Bjorn.
Finally, her grasp loosened, and she pushed me slightly away, eyeing me critically. “Are you hurt?”
“No.” I could not suppress a shudder; it is well known those with the weirding are draugr’s preferred food, and they can easily infect us with their rot. “It had not time to strike me. Did you… Floringaeld?”
“I do not know.” There were dark circles under her eyes despite the sitheviel, and the edges of her woad had flaked free, leaving a faint yellowish tint on cheek and forehead. Still, she essayed a grim smile. “I am beginning to dislike the North most mightily, my weirdling.”
Oh, indeed.At least she could still jest, however bleakly. “We are still alive.” However long that dubious mercy would linger I could not tell; nor did I dare think that perhaps its cessation might be preferable to more terror and bloodshed. “Are you injured? Tell me.”
“Nothing but my wits half-gone from worrying about my Solveig.” She magnanimously turned her glare upon Aeredh next. “Well, Elder? What now?”
“Now we strike for Dorael, as swiftly as possible.” Aeredh studied the trees, wearing a listening look. The dark weal upon his cheek, clearly visible in brightening mornlight, was now smaller; marks from a haugr’s whip, like lichburn, tax even an Elder’s ability to heal. “There will be survivors moving in the same direction; we shall not be alone for long.”
“Another Elder city?” Arneior, like her charge, plainly thought little of this plan. “Because the last two have fared so very well.”
He acknowledged both the sarcasm and the truth it contained with a wry expression and a graceful shrug, the hilt at his shoulder bobbing slightly. “A different power holds that land, my lady shieldmaid, and in any case we have no choice. The Enemy’s forces will be at their work in the valley for some while, and the routes from thence are narrow and laborious. Taeron’s plans will have taken that into account, giving survivors the best chance of flight, and some will no doubt close the way behind them. Yet soon enough his creatures will be watching the ways into Dorael.” The Elder still scanned the forest, alert to any further pursuit; I wondered if he spoke to Eol in this fashion. “What worries me most, though, is the ice-dead upon the Pass. They should not be there.”
“Those things should not be anywhere.” Arn’s knuckles were white upon her spear. “I thought them foul stories only.”
The iron casket quivered against my left arm; a new day crept between the trees. My eyes were dry and grainy, the rest of me aching though a steady glow of sitheviel burned inside my ribs. Yesterday morning was a lifetime ago; by this time we had already been upon the water.
Pressure mounted in my throat. I could not tell whether I wished to scream or weep. The shadow-cloak, though thin, was warm as my great green mantle with its lining of wolf-fur—was it burning in Taeron’s palace? Had an orukhar taken it as spoil?
“I wish they were,” Aeredh said gravely. “Come. I shall help you both by turns; let us step lightly as we may.”
My shieldmaid embraced me again, a hard, fierce one-armed hug, and we set off through the woods.
We spoke little, though we were presumably much safer; in any case, the cold, while nothing like new-winter freeze, was still enough to trouble a mortal wearing only armor. Arn’s ribs moved steadily with the warming breath, stoking the body’s fires, and so did mine. The trees were thick, the undergrowth winter-dead, and the snow packed tightly as often happens just before the thaw turns many a drift into rotted traps for the unwary. Boughs creaked under wet white, though thankfully there was little wind and the sky, iron-grey, threatened precipitation that never fell.
Aeredh’s listening look increased as the day wore on, and as the day’s eye fell from noon-height we turned due south instead of south-and-west. I saw no sign of passage, but both Arn and Aeredh halted at intervals, glancing at each other, and as dusk hung purple veils between the trees we emerged into a deep-shadowed dell busy with soft activity.
An iced-over stream was beginning to shake off its torpor, a thin silver rill in its very center refreezing nightly, judging by the delicate scallops at its margin. Well-shielded blue aelflame provided warmth and illumination, and a buzz of welcome greeted Aeredh.
Our approach had been remarked, of course; the survivors of Laeliquaende were both weary and wary. There were small tents hidden among the trees, not brightly colored as the festival cloth-houses but of natural dye, taking on the forest-hues around them almost like the shadow-cloak.
“Thank the Blessed!” A mortal voice rang among the murmurs of Old Tongue, southron strong and clear. Tjorin had arrived just before us and hurried from the largest tent; I bit back a gasp of relief. For pushing aside the flap was a slim, familiar shape, a long fall of bright hair—Naciel winced slightly as she padded from that shelter, where those most weary or wounded among the survivors were receiving aid. “You look half-frozen; fear not, you have reached safety. Many will wish to see you, my friends.”
That was not the only shock. Other hurrying footsteps, quick but not quite so light as Elder, sounded in the gloom, and from the shadows figures in black Northern cloth appeared.
“Minnowsharp!” Efain, his eyes bright though his hair was singed and his tunic near-shredded, shouldered Tjorin aside. He thrust out his left hand; Arn, bemused, moved to take it by the wrist as warriors do in the North. He yanked upon her arm and clapped her upon the right shoulder, almost embracing her, and—even stranger—she allowed it, though a shieldmaid does not often let a man treat her so. “I knew it. I told Soren you would arrive before dark; I won the wager.”
More shadows resolved into Gelad and Karas, who crowded close. There was much good-natured buffeting, as reunited warriors often express relief in such terms, and even low laughter.
“Ah, he bet against me?” The pale, pinched look Arn had been wearing eased, and she allowed Gelad to clasp her left wrist as well, accepting his buffet upon her opposite shoulder with a clap of her own, though with caution for her right hand was full of spear-haft. “I shall have to send him into the mud twice the next time.”
I held the casket awkwardly, watching this, and Naciel arrived, as near to breathless as an Elder could be. She was no longer barefoot; inside her slippers were linen bandages, wrapped tight and clean.
“Thank the Blessed.”The princess repeated her husband’s greeting, but in the Old Tongue. For the third time that day I was embraced, and she hugged me hard enough to send hot water trickling down my cheek; I was grateful for the twilight to cover such evidence. “Oh, my friend. I worried for naught; is Floringaeld with you?”
“Against you?” Soren appeared too, his heavy eyebrows peaked and his grin visible even in the dimness. “My lady Minnow, I wagered you would arrive here before us, and ask what kept laggards from the campfire.”
“We have not seen him since…”I could barely produce the words, between the vise-grip of Naciel’s arms and the leap of my heart into my throat. “What of the others? Is…”
I could not say what I truly wished to know. The question simply refused to rise from my throat, for if I asked and the answer was no, what would I do?
“Solveig!” A familiar voice, and the knot of Northerners separated. Another shadow thrust between them. Naciel’s arms loosened; she drew away, smiling, and reached for Tjorin’s hand. “Solveig!”
It was Eol, his blackened armor ragged and smoke-tarnished, his swordhilt heavily wrapped once more so the gleam of the gem did not give it away. He pushed past Arneior almost rudely, descending upon me. My shoulders were grasped, the world wobbling before catching like a skirt upon a fence-nail.
Everything was ash and bloodshed, yet now something had been set aright.
“You are alive.”His teeth gleamed as the dell slid deeper into darkness, the blue glitters of aelflame shuttering themselves as if even the fires knew we were hunted. “I feared the worst.”
It was not so much the words as the tone—he sounded like my brother scolding Astrid, or our father when Bjorn had committed yet another blundering bit of mischief. His fingers sank into both shadow-cloak and flesh beneath; he held me at rigid arm’s length.
“Eol.” His name caught in my throat, and the relief was like a live forge in my chest. I could not find the Old Tongue, though I had spoken it near-daily for months now. “Where were you? How did you escape?”
“It matters not.” He paused; a hush had enfolded the small camp. Most of the Elder were looking away, Tjorin wore a curious smile, and Arneior studied the air over Eol’s head, graciously not taking exception to a man handling her charge in this fashion. “I swear, I will never let you out of…” The heir of Naras stopped short; his grasp softened. “Ah. You must be weary, and cold.”
“R-relieved.” More hot water trickled down my cheeks, but I could hope it was not visible. “Nobody had s-seen you, or your men, and I…”
“No need for worry.” As quickly as he had seized me he let go, but otherwise did not move. “We are all accounted for, even those from Nithraen; Daerith was wounded after his arrows were spent and Kirilit requires some rest before he may move with any speed. But all in all… we are well enough. There will be much joy at your survival—and our lady Minnowsharp’s,” he added hastily. “We have travel-fare, and fire. It shall not be so difficult a journey as before. You must take some food and sleep, both of you.” Belatedly, he glanced over my shoulder and caught sight of his friend. “Aeredh, by the Blessed, I should have known. What kept you?”
“Oh, nothing large.”The Elder’s smile was instant, and he clasped the captain’s wrist. They yanked each other close, shoulders meeting with bruising force, and embraced as brothers do in the North. “A thing with two whips, a lich, a few pale excrescences, and a trio of corpses. Tell me there is some wine, my friend, and I shall bless you.”
We were the last to arrive, though I did not care at that moment. It was enough that there were fires to keep the cold at bay, leftover Elder vintage carried in haste from the valley, and shelter from lingering winter. The tent for the wounded and children was not overly crowded; Arn and I were shown to a hastily constructed bed of downed fir boughs and torn cloaks. The instant I dropped into its shelter consciousness fled me, and at least for that night I did not dream.
But I clutched the iron casket close, waking with its imprint pressed into the skin of my upper arms, over and among the marks of a man’s fingers.