Letti bent over, hands on her knees, trying to catch her breath. A young girl, perhaps of nine or ten, stood opposite her. The Nirans had quickly paired Letti with fighters of her own age; she had lasted two strikes before they had pinned her.
Thorn had bested their most dominant soldiers, and had been tasked by Oreyn, Commander of the camp, to coach Letti before their campaign.
“Run on.” Thorn shooed the girl, who was regarding Letti with a mix of pity and revulsion. The girl scampered off, sword sheathed. Her yellow hair trailed behind her in a short braid.
Letti stood, feeling the myriad bruises up and down her body. The little girl had cut her in some places, her bladework clumsier, less precise than the older Nirans.
“You did well.” Thorn sounded pleased.
Letti looked up, sweat dripping between her eyes. “I was beaten by a child.”
“Nirans fight almost as much as Candor.” Thorn took Letti by the elbow and began to inspect her. “Few survive as long as Eryn. To live is to fight, and to fight is to honor Niro.”
Letti almost added first witch, at the end of Thorn’s sentence but bit her tongue.
“Come on.” Satisfied Letti was not in immediate danger, Thorn turned. Letti followed him to their packs. They had been given a tent to share, and Letti was surprised how warm it grew. Though she was displeased at being press-ganged into an age-old war, she was looking forward to a warm night of sleep off watch.
“We march east in three days.” Thorn informed Letti as they stopped. Letti snatched her water skin and took a long draught. Thorn fingered his sword. “Don’t sit down yet.”
Letti, on her way to plopping down on her pack, caught herself with a grimace. “Are we going to spar now?”
Thorn chuckled, oddly at ease for the situation. “No. We’re going to walk.”
As much as Letti would have preferred to sit and rest, walking did not sound as arduous as the Aiadar. She fell into step beside Thorn, who began to lead them to the perimeter of the camp.
“We’re going once around the encampment.” Thorn informed the sentry, a boy, likely the same age as the girl who had just bested Letti. The boy nodded importantly.
“They start young.” Letti observed quietly.
“Aye.” Thorn breathed out, voice as low as Letti’s. “Theirs is a sad nation.”
Letti felt her muscles begin to loosen as they walked. Thorn led them a few lengths from the periphery of the camp before speaking.
“I want to explain to you what our position is.” Thorn began.
Letti raised her eyebrows in surprise. “Rarely are you so forthright with information, Thorn. Did that poison taint your mind?”
“Don’t tease.” Thorn growled. “You must be prepared for what you are about to experience.”
“I have been chased by soldiers and wraiths, drugged by the undead, and killed at least one man.” Letti surprised herself with her evenness. She had expected more of a reaction from herself for taking someone’s life. It frightened her that she remained so level-headed. She remembered her dagger piercing the man’s throat as if it were nothing but linen and shuddered at the memory of the texture. Still, she felt no remorse nor a crippling guilt. She frowned.
“That is different.” Thorn said flatly. “That was pure survival.”
“Will this not be?” Letti asked.
“This is war.” Thorn replied simply. “There is no point, absolutely no point in fighting for one of these sides. There is no reason for them to be fighting each other.”
Letti squirmed, uncomfortable. “What is your point, Thorn?”
“My point is that you must understand you are fighting people who are not bad. I worry for both you and Candor, that you have grown accustomed to the binary, the black and white.”
“That’s rich, coming from you.” Letti’s temper flared, though she did not know why.
Thorn stopped and looked at the girl, surprised. “I have no soul left to lose.” He said softly. “You do.”
Immediately, guilt spiraled horribly down Letti’s spine. “That is not true.” She said stubbornly. “You have soul left.”
“Be that as it may.” Thorn stepped off again, forcing Letti to match his stride. “Neither faction is necessarily badas you understand bad to be. But they will be trying to kill you.”
Letti nodded, beginning to see the moral gravity of the situation. “If the other side is is simply fighting for what they believe to be good and right and pure, what are we fighting for?” Letti asked.
“What indeed?” Thorn echoed. “Everyone fights for something, Letti. This is the best lesson I can offer you. You find what that is, you find a way to work with them or against them. But it is imperative you learn how you orbit around others.”
Letti remained quiet, processing Thorn’s words.
“I didn’t think Niro was the first witch. You said the first witch died.”
“There are many thousands of myths about the witches.” Thorn said dismissively. “I’m sure many of the violet villages hold their own creation myths about certain witches. Niro just happened to hold the greatest sway in the south.”
“Can that happen? Witches staying at the Citadel for ages, I mean?” Letti asked.
“Yes.” Thorn moderated his tone. “Once an initiate has endured the trials and entered into the Citadel for training, they step out of time. They no longer age. This allows them to progress through their training at whatever pace they need. It is possible, I suppose, for Niro to have been an early witch who did not leave until the nunnery was established. But Zondaria was not the first nun. That was Heira.” Thorn’s back stiffened then released as an old memory flowed through him. “I am not one to inform the Nirans that their religion is false.”
“No, I suppose not.” Letti said softly. She wondered what other takes on history she had missed, growing up in her village. “What do the Zondarians believe then?”
“Similar story, just that Niro did actually grow corrupt for reasons beyond our ken. Zondaria stopped him from torturing any more souls who tried to stand in his way, and killed herself after the deed, for she could not bear to live without the man, evil or not.”
Letti pursed her lips. “Are there any happy stories in this land?”
Thorn chuckled. “And this from the woman who only sings sad songs.” Thorn reached over and ruffled her hair. Surprised at the affection, Letti smiled shyly and glanced at her companion. His beard had grown full in the last few weeks, as he had not cut it, the flecks of silver more pronounced. His earrings still glimmered, and Letti found herself again wondering what they symbolized.
“There is a useful piece to their history.” Thorn offered as they turned back towards the camp. “Lyra was not speaking falsely when she said they were healers.”
Letti raised an eyebrow. “They are known for healing?”
“They fight so much, that to lack skill in healing would have meant extinction a long time ago.” Thorn shrugged. “They actually have some remarkable remedies, things I’d never considered.”
“Different than new magic?” Letti asked.
“Yes, more natural.” Thorn nodded. “They use plants and tinctures, similar to any other healer in any tiny plot of human-colonized land, but they have some majik that has passed through generations. They practice bits and pieces and have learned to apply it without the training of a witch.” Thorn stopped and picked up a flower-heavy weed.
“Watch this.” He intoned. He closed his eyes and whispered something.
Flashes of flesh knitting together and blood withdrawing into a wound danced across Letti’s vision for the briefest of moments.
Thorn handed the plant to her. “If you were to crush this and apply it to a wound, it would have healing properties that far outpace its neighbors.”
“Why is that?” Letti asked. She fingered the plant. It felt no different.
“I have asked it to augment its natural properties.” Thorn explained. “It will now perform more efficiently a task that it would have peformed at a much slower pace without the application of majik.”
“And the Niran can do this?” Letti asked, impressed.
“They have some ability, yes.” Thorn answered evasively. “They have more ability than most humans elsewhere. They are not witches, of course, and they find their application different from the majik that witches do.”
“Of course, they do.” Letti muttered, “They need to be unique.”
Thorn chuckled. “It is what their identity revolves around.”
Letti rolled her eyes.
“Funnily enough,” Thorn said, almost as an afterthought. “This application of majik is very like how the Fae use majik. They work with the land instead of meddling against it.”
“Oh?” Letti asked, intrigued.
“A conversation for another time.” Thorn nodded. “But now you have some good piece of their identity. Now you may begin to cultivate a careful compassion.”
Letti smiled, quiet.
In an easy silence, the pair returned to cantonment, the smell of roasting meat in the air. Members of the camp began to line up behind a rough table set over crossed logs. On it, large pots sat with spoons, waiting to serve the hungry Nirans.
Before each member offered their plate to the server, Eryn and another woman spoke a short blessing with them, finishing by making the same symbol over their stomachs. By the time Thorn and Letti reached Eryn and her companion, the Nirans’ eyes were bright with religiousity.
“It is time you learn your first prayer.” Eryn said, voice loud. Many heads turned to ogle. Some let out passionate whoops, and many hands flexed over stomachs.
“Repeat after me.” Eryn intoned.
In the beginning, there was a witch
And blessed by loneliness, he saw the first light
Light of Icaria, wounded by man
Niro, first-witch, sought to sew hope
Hope and health, to you who fight,
Fight for Niro, our star in the night.
Letti repeated the words.
“Louder.” Eryn ordered. Again, they called and repeated.
“Again.” Eryn nearly screamed, her face alive with ecstasy.
Letti matched her tone, keenly aware of the eyes of the camp.
“Again.” Eryn said more quietly this time, as if she had crested her ferocity. “Alone.”
Letti repeated the words, looking at Eryn, who seemed pleased.
“This is who we are!” Eryn took Letti’s forearm and raised it, twisting the girl around to face the Nirans. “This is who you are now.” Eryn whispered to Letti, who felt winded.
Quietly, Letti trouped through the chow line, receiving each scoop with a soft “thank you.”
Thorn looked on, concerned. When they sat on a fallen log, Letti ate quickly, using the space between her bites to chew. Thorn did not press her.
“Are you ok?” He finally asked when they had finished eating. Letti had not even enjoyed the warm food.
“I feel…” Letti gulped. “Violated.” She struggled against a wave of nausea. “This is not who I am. I am not witch-chosen.” She spat. “Twins above, I know my gods.”
Thorn remained silent. “You don’t have to convert.” He finally said, already regretting his next words. “You just have to make it look like you’ve converted.”
Letti threw him a disgusted look. “That seems to fail both personally and spiritually, a new low.”
Thorn retreated.
“I’m sorry.” Letti muttered. “I just… Everything the adults warned us of in the village is true.”
“What do you mean?” Thorn did not think Letti’s and Candor’s education about Icaria had been thorough.
“The world is full of people and things that would hurt you, simply because it serves them.” Letti sighed. “Candor was always more hopeful.”
Thorn’s heart twisted.
“Now,” Letti continued sadly, “she has no hope for human nature.”
Thorn considered how to answer. He had never been in a position to mentor a young adult. His life had shattered before that opportunity.
“This fight will not help your perspective of the world.” Thorn began. He did not feel as though false optimism was a useful gift to bestow. “When we fight, you will see both sides of a people kill each other for no other reason than faith.” Thorn shook his head. “To them, it is the most real thing in the world, worth the lives of children, families, self. But in the end, it will mean nothing, as there is no way either side wins.”
Letti made a face. “Are there places in Icaria still worth something?”
“Always.” Thorn tried to explain. “There is also a beauty in this utterly futile fighting.” He gestured to the camp and its inhabitants. “These people think they are fighting for something good and right and pure. That commitment and strength of belief is not to be discarded for its arbitrariness. These are people worth fighting with, as is the other side.”
Letti felt as though she might burst. She wanted to hit something. “If both are worth fighting with, if both have a worthy cause—”
“I did not say each had a worthy cause.” Thorn interrupted. “Both have a silly cause, a cause that means nothing and never will, not to others. The beauty, the splendor of their humanity comes with their commitment, their authenticity.” Thorn shook his head. He needed Letti to understand this. “There are rare humans who are entirely evil. They exist, do not mistake me. But these humans here believe so utterly in what they fight for, they are admirable. As are the ghosteaters. As are the Zondarians. The gate guard who spoke with me at the gate of Ome Chaer would seek to protect his family, even as he would strike us down for profit if he could.” Thorn shook his head. “There is worth in the darkest of humans.” Thorn took Letti’s chin gently to ensure he could meet her eyes. “That does not mean they should not die, Lettishae. Do you understand?”
Letti, feeling a slight shock at her first name from the mouth of someone other than Candor, took a moment before nodding.
“I will ensure to honor them in death.” Letti said softly.
“That is all you can do.” Thorn released Letti and sat back.
The rest of the night passed in companionable silence. Thorn left for a few minutes, before returning with a small sword resting on his shoulder.
“This will do for now.” Thorn handed the blade to Letti, “But we’ll need to get you a proper blade when we get to Durevin.”
“Let me guess,” Letti said with a small smile, “You know a smith there.”
“I used to.” Thorn shrugged. “Let’s spar for a bit, get you accustomed to its weight.”
Letti stood and buckled the sheath to her waist. It felt heavy, though she reckoned it weighed about the same as Hroth’s work. She had simply been fighting with hands and a dagger lately.
“Draw.” Thorn instructed, and Letti stepped through her poses, spinning and stepping and working her way towards Thorn. Quickly, her arms tired.
“Enough.” Thorn stepped back. “You are much improved, Letti.” He sounded pleased.
Letti, sweating and bruised, did not feel as though her skills had developed, huffed. “Thank you for the blade.”
“No good going to battle with a dirk.” Thorn wiped down his sword once before returning it to its scabbard. “We set up defenses in a few days.”
“Oh?” Letti had been too busy observing their current hosts and worrying after her fighting to think much about the details of the battle.
“Aye.” Thorn pointed through the woods. “Tomorrow, we’ll move another six span or so through Uradov. Eryn and Oreyn want to set up through the night to be ready for a dawn battle.” Thorn frowned. “I think it is a mistake to fight in these woods, but I cannot convince Oreyn.”
Letti’s vision flashed back to her first meeting with the camp leader. Can you fight? Echoed through her mind. “Why should they not fight here?”
“This is not a place in which you spill blood.” Thorn shivered. “They should not be this far north anyway. This would put their battle on the edge of the holy land.”
“Drag me along, Thorn.” Letti groused.
Thorn snorted. “There are sands here, wide dunes between the plains and the swamps. Within the sands lies the Temple, where Niro and Zondaria perished. When they died, a great break in majik occurred, leveling the land and drawing life from it.” Thorn gestured as if the rest should have been obvious. “That is the sands. They are unnatural and neither faction usually descrates them with fighting. That they have changed this pattern…”
“Seems like nothing is quite right in the land.” Letti murmured.
“Aye.” Thorn agreed, just as quietly. “We must get to Durevin.”
Both lapsed into silence and listened to the sounds of the camp. Bustling people, small chinks of swords against each other, and scrubbing offered an almost domestic feeling to the life there. It made Letti nostalgic, thinking of the nights in the village after a feast when everyone would help clean, and the men and women would sing songs before everyone retired. We are far from that life, Letti thought sadly. If only they knew what joy there is in peace.
Letti slept well that night, curled up next to Thron in their little tent. The next morning, they rose early and joined the Nirans for a pre-meal spar. The practice was light today, in preparation for the immanent battle. Letti said her prayer before breakfast, and quickly found herself walking east with a ruck on her back. After so many days travelling by horseback, Letti’s muscles ached, and her feet began to throb. She ignored them. This was no different than anything she had endured so far. She recited a song to herself to distract her body from its discomfort.
When the call came to halt, Letti let out a sigh of relief. She would be sore for the battle, she knew, and her stomach began to flip in fear and anticipation. She had never been in a position to think of a battle before it happened. Letti decided she much preferred surprise conflict to war. She informed Thorn as much as they set up their tent that night.
“War is a coming undone of time.” Thorn answered, and Letti, too tired and not knowing what he meant, did not reply.
Instead, she asked, “Do we have a plan?”
“A plan for what?” Thorn frowned.
“To escape?” Letti kept her voice low.
“Oh.” Thorn nodded. “We wait for the battle to end. In the short chaos at its completion, we steal our horses back and sprint to Emak.”
Letti blinked. “That’s your plan?”
“It’s simple.” Thorn sat back and pulled out his whittling project. “It’s fast. There’s not much we can plan with so many pieces.”
Letti considered and found she did not disagree. “Can you teach me that?” Letti pointed at Thorn’s piece of wood. She couldn’t yet tell what it was supposed to become.
“Yes.” Thorn stood, hunting for a small piece of appropriate wood. Discarding a few, he finally found one that satisfied him.
Returning to Letti, he handed the chunk to her, and explained that certain woods were better for whittling than others. “When you shave to your initial shape,” he took her hands and guided her through shearing curls of wood from her lump, “do it slowly, and do it little by little. You will be tempted to try to shave all at once, but patience is the game.”
Letti nodded and grasped her dagger. “Isn’t this bad for the blade?”
Thorn nodded. “But good for the mind.”
Letti smiled and looked at her wood, thinking of what she wanted to carve. Deciding on an object, she began to whittle.
As Letti rolled into her blankets that night, she wondered what building a defense would look like.
Letti found herself on a beach, staring out over a shore, vision split between waves and sand. Behind her, she knew, a horrible fate waited, a monster, pain, something slippery her mind could not comprehend. She had to move forward, and one way was the right way. She did not know which path she should take. Behind her, war horns sounded, the thing was here. It was time. Letti lifted a foot to choose—
“Letti, Letti,” Thorn shook Letti awake. Disoriented, Letti snatched at her dagger.
“Wha—?”
“We’re being called to battle.” Thorn explained grimly. “Dress and pack. We march now.”
So much for a defense, Letti thought as she rolled her blankets and pulled on her boots. Thorn shoved the tent into his pack, and they donned their rucks.
“Stay close to me.” Thorn ordered Letti, who did not need to be told twice.
War horns sounded, a long, mournful note that drove iron into Letti’s blood. She fingered the pommel of her sword, caught between a desire to fight and a fear of dying. Belatedly, she realized the sound from her dreams was the sound from the battlefield. She grinned, a small bare of her teeth to ground her courage.
Letti was surprised at how much she could see in the darkness; the stars sent more light than usual through the boughs of the forest. The horns sounded again, and Letti’s hair stood on end.
“Are those ours or theirs?” Letti asked Thorn.
He shook his head. “I do not know if they are Niran or Zondarian.”
Understanding his nuance, Letti strove to set her mind in place for killing, for escape. As the Nirans drew close to the edge of the Udarov, the sky had lightened enough for Letti to see the terrain to their east, the terrain, she assumed, over which the Zondarians would be attacking.
Waves of sand met her eye, nearly blue in the early morning light. The dunes towered above the Udarov, their peaks windswept in the open space to the east. To the north, Letti glanced thorugh the trees, the plains stopped short at the end of the sand, the grasses waving solemnly at its edge. Letti could not see the swamps to the south.
“Marda.” Letti heard Thorn swear softly. “Look.”
Letti tried to follow Thorn’s finger.
“What?” She whispered.
“Look at the surface.” Thorn murmered.
Letti dropped her gaze and, in the dim light, focused on the top of the sand, as if she were looking at the shell of the sea.
It was moving. Letti sucked in her breath. The sand looked to be boiling, its grains roiling and almost bubbling over themselves.
“Do not let them take the woodline!” Letti could hear Eryn’s voice through the woods. “Hold them in the sands, Niro, first-witch, will punish them for debasing the holy land!”
Thorn cast an irritated glance over his shoulder. “You’d think she’d want to keep our location a secret.”
Letti let out a soft, hysterical giggle. The sand bubbles grew closer. Then, with a gasp of horror, Letti’s eyes focused on the small spherical bubbles that seemed to skim over the top of the sand.
“They’re heads,” Letti hissed.
Thorn nodded.
As they drew closer, Letti lost count of the number of heads that moved through the dunes. How are they doing this? She thought in horror.
“Archers!” Eryn called. “Draw, aim, fire!”
Arrows launched from the woodline, many burying themselves in the visible heads, others disappearing into the sands. The sun, though still young, had risen, casting true light on the orange dunes. They rose like fire behind the sand-swimmers, and Letti wondered what else was hiding beneath their surface.
“How did this get so far without me knowing?” Thorn muttered. Letti did not think he wanted a reply. “This is a different fight.”
“This is why the soldiers are moving south.” Letti whispered, certain. Thorn stilled.
“You’re right.” He watched another round of arrows drive into the Zondarians. “I don’t know how they’re doing this.”
“What walking below ground?” Letti asked, still slightly hysterical.
“Well, yes.” Thorn answered lamely. “This will make it hard to fight outside the treeline.”
Letti was not certain she wanted to fight outside the treeline; the trees seemed to offer more cover than did the open sands, and more stability.
Watching her thoughts play across her face, Thorn shook his head. “They enter the woodline, we do not escape.”
From behind the ever-encroaching heads, small fires glimmered to life.
“What—” Thorn said, then roared, “duck!”
Fireballs, launched from behind the larger dunes scattered into the forest, lighting the undergrowth, and forcing cries from several Nirans.
Thorn let string of swear words. “That’s flate fyre.”
“Which means?” Letti prodded Thorn, desperate for information.
“Which means it won’t go out with water. Only majik or the trees will be able to quench it. And the trees want us gone, so they are likely to let it burn.”
While this did not make much sense to Letti, she sensed their time running short.
“Why don’t we charge them while they are still in the sand?” She asked. “Chop off their heads when they can’t fight.”
As if he had just come to this conclusion, Thorn rounded on Letti. “That’s not a terrible idea.”
Letti made a face.
“There are likely to be traps and several very good reasons not to do so,” Thorn finished his analysis, “but it’s fight or burn. And I’m inclined to live.”
“As if you have a choice.” Letti muttered but drew her sword. Her stomach dropped, then seemed to take residence with her heart, pressing it to beat faster.
Letti jumped as Thorn let loose a horrible cry, sprinting onto the sand with an uncanny grace. Letti followed, feeling a cry of her own echo through her throat. It boiled her blood, and made her feel, at least for the moment, that she would survive.
Between the pounding of her blood, Letti heard the horns that had woken her in the night begin to ring out, and the hollers and yells of the Nirans behind her. She bared her teeth, legs burning as she sprinted after Thorn. Several lengths in front of her, Thorn swiped a head, lopping it off as easily as you would a blossom. Blood spurted, but quickly dribbled, soaking the sand. As Thorn made quick work of the heads on the front lines, the Zondarians seemed to rise from the dunes as if they had wings, sand pouring from them like water. Across their faces, they wore loose scarves, which they dropped as they raced towards Thorn.
“No!” Letti caught a few of her own heads before they crept from the sand, before engaging a Zondarian, fresh from the earth.
Using the fact that they were covered in the grains to her advantage, Letti kicked dirt into the fighter’s face, silencing his howl of pain with a stomach shot. When he fell, she struck his neck. Letti was not as graceful in battle, nor was she as strong, preferring to strike in a belly than go for the neck at first. As she watched blood begin to redden the orange desert, Letti fought to control her stomach. The battlefield began to smell of almost rotten meat, the coppery smell of blood mixed with the awful dead smell of fish and sewage. She retched.
Looking up, Letti wondered why no one had engaged her again, before realizing Thorn was dispatching several Zondarian at once, and many were piling on.
With another yell, Letti launched herself into the fray, feeling the adrenaline well in her veins again. By the grace of the twins, she sustained only a few slices, though some quite deep, and managed to wrap her arms with a scarf from a dead Zondarian.
Thorn threw down a last opponent with a grim snarl and found Letti.
“They have retreated.” He pointed.
“No, they are taking a break.” Where Thorn saw a rout, Letti saw a regroup. Her heart dropped. Her sword felt heavy as the moment turned into two, and the Nirans paused to wait for the Zondarians’ next move.
A dull roar vibrated the sand below their feet. A few yelps from the Nirans behind Letti caused her to glance behind her. Green bodies littered the ground, their camouflage no good in the orange sands. While many of the Zondarian lay dead, so too did many Niran, and Letti did not bother to count. She saw the child who had defeated her with blood dripping from her mouth, her eyes glassy, and looked away. She did not have enough water left in her to retch.
The roar echoed again. Smoke from the forest had begun to obscure the space between the trees, but Letti did not bother trying to peer between them. This noise was subterranean.
Thorn swore, and Letti saw red flash across her vision, she knew he had sworn with the word blood in the Fae tongue. She wished he would stop doing that.
As the moment stretched, so too did Letti’s nerves. Without warning, the dune not ten lengths in front of them exploded, rocking Letti backwards. She fell in wet sand, feeling someone else’s blood seep into her tunic as she struggled to stand. It was still warm. She couldn’t help it; she retched.
“Thorn!” Letti cried, trying to wipe grit from her eyes. “Thorn!”
As Letti worked to refocus on the battlefield, she saw what had decimated the peak of sand. A giant worm poked out from the earth; its head inlaid with layer upon layer of spikes. Atop it sat a Zondarian holding reins that wove through the large teeth. It roared again, and Letti was forcibly reminded of the great bear’s decibles in the black teeth. She shuddered, stumbling to her feet. By pure instinct, Letti raised her sword, only to be surprised by the clang as it struck a Zondarian blade.
Letti focused on the person in front of her, forgetting Thorn and the sand worm. From the second stroke, Letti knew she was woefully outmatched; the best she could hope for was a savior. Still, she parried, feeling the sand between her teeth as she bore down, trying to breathe and fight the man’s strength. His head, Letti noticed, was entirely bald, different from the Niran. She did not find a disadvantage in that and ducked, his blade whistling over her head.
As she returned upright, Letti felt a sting across her cheek, and an arrow sprouted from between the man’s eyes. He fell backward, and Letti let her fingertips fall from the blood, turning to thank her saviour. Eryn held a bow, clearly too small for her, face grim. Letti nodded, and Eryn nodded back, before discarding the bow next to the body of a small archer.
Letti turned back to the battle, wondering at how there could still be anyone left in the fight. The sand worm’s rider had been dispatched with a well-placed arrow, and now a figure was driving a sword into it over and over on its back. The worm whined, bucking, and finally sliding all the way out of the sand.
Letti recognized Thorn’s figure on the back of the creature, even as the earth shook again.
Another one? Letti thought, aghast. She looked at the Nirans, whose faces were grim. We cannot take much more of this, Letti thought. Rouse them, Eryn, rouse them now!
Letti thought of Thorn’s run, and how she had wanted to follow him. Without considering the consequences, Letti ran along the line, clearing her throat from the smoke.
As she reached the first Nirans, kneeling in rest, she cried, “In the beginning, there was a witch.” Letti pulled her dagger and struck her sword with it, the sound of battle. “And blessed by loneliness, he saw the first light!”
She began to see faces turning to her, eyes widening. “Light of Icaria, wounded by man!” Letti screamed.
“Niro, first-witch, sought to sew hope!” Voices overlapped and drowned Letti’s out. “Hope and health, to you who fight, fight for Niro, our star in the night.” Letti banged her dagger and sword together and was rewarded with the clanges of others’ blades.
“To me!” She cried and turned towards the battlefield. Sword in her right hand, dagger in her left, Letti began to run, picking up into a sprint as she ran towards the large body of the dead worm. As the Nirans neared the worm, Zondarians leapt from behind its corpse, careening over the Niran line and crashing into combat.
Letti, who the fighters had missed, climbed over the dead worm, only to find Thorn battling another Zondarian on what was once a dune’s peak. Letti ran to join him, her vision narrowed. She did not see the Zondarian, crouched in the shadow of the worm’s tail jump to her. Letti cried out, her arm coming up to block, but she was too slow. The blade sliced through at her wrist, cleaving her hand from her arm. She shrieked, a pain rawer than anything she had ever experienced running through her body.
Falling to her knees, Letti tried to draw her dagger, stomach heaving from the pain, only to discover the man’s head falling in front of her.
She tipped over and felt arms around her.
“Letti. Letti!” Thorn’s voice was ragged.
Letti, dark spots appearing larger and larger in her vision, felt herself rise from the ground and move laterally across the battlefield.
“Thornnn” Letti tried to whisper. It was imperative she find him, to save him, to tell him that there was another enemy, she needed to save him, or had she already? Letti was not sure. The pain was fading, she was grateful to feel, the pain slipped from her toes up through her legs into her chest and out to her arm. She could have smiled. Perhaps she did; she couldn’t feel her lips. A man’s voice, very far away, was calling her name.
“Stay with me.” Letti tried to assure the man she would stay, she couldn’t move, how could she go? But her voice failed her, and the darkness finally won over Letti’s vision, dropping her into darkness.
“Letti!” Thorn could feel his throat closing. This is why, Thorn thought to himself. This was why he did not have friends. Thorn held Letti as tenderly as he could, traipsing back through the lines of Nirans. No one bothered to stop him. In the shadow of the sand worm, Thorn had bound Letti’s wrist with her own sword-belt, but it still bled profusely. My bag, Thorn thought frantically. It had been many years since his mind had frozen at conflict. He did not appreciate the reminder he was human.
At the edge of the forest where the two had dropped their packs, Thorn lay Letti down, careful her head was supported, and placed her bleeding stump over her heart. As fast as he dared, cognizant that their time to leave was immanent, he tore through his pack, looking for the one vial he swore he’d never use.
There it was, Thorn pulled out the little crystal bottle, unstopping a violently red tincture. Biting his tongue so hard that it bled, Thorn unsealed it, the wax falling away, and lifted Letti’s bleeding arm gently. Hesitating only slightly, Thorn poured several drops of the solution over the bleeding tissue and watched the bleeding staunch itself. He added another two drops, as he knew their travel would be difficult, before rebandaging the wound and throwing a pack over each shoulder. Careful to keep the rucks balanced, Thorn stooped and picked Letti up again. Cradling her, Thorn walked to the back of the lines, listening for the braying of horses. He whistled softly, calling the wind on his next breath, hoping it would carry his tune to their ears.
Sure enough, Thorn heard the whinny and stomp of Bert, Enri, and Ean, and hurried towards them. Their eyes wide with fear, they smelled the death of the battlefield, the horses stamped and bucked.
“Has no one unsaddled you?” Thorn asked angrily. This would be a painful journey for them.
Tying one pack to Enri and the other to Ean, Thorn shuffled Letti’s weight around and mounted Bert, strapping Letti to himself. He was careful to secure her arm around her chest as well, keeping the stump above her heart.
“Come on.” Thorn urged the horses forward, keeping an eye on the light past the forest. As soon as it turned from a dull orange to a buttery yellow, Thorn pushed the horses towards it. At the Udarov’s edge, Thorn maneuvered the horses to the very edge of the plains where the sands abutted the grasses. The sight was odd, a clear violation of the land. Something had ripped apart the earth, and it hadn’t healed properly. Thorn shuddered and guided the animals towards the grass. Allowing himself one last look behind them, mostly to ensure they would not be trailed by arrows, Thorn urged the horses east. Letti’s weight heavy against his chest, Thorn nearly prayed that she would be alright. She had survived worse on her travels, but she’d had Candor then. With the bloodied sands to their south, and the waves of frothing plains to their north, Thorn and Letti cantered away from another winless battle. Thorn could swear he heard a sad lullaby fading into the distance.
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