CHAPTER
35

The tumult of the battlefield faded into the distance, as the ragtag band of survivors around Rienne grew steadily larger. Cressa’s periodic shouts seemed to give the stragglers courage and perhaps even a shred of hope, though Rienne couldn’t imagine what they thought they could hope for. She didn’t know what was emerging through the sundered seal of the Gatekeepers, but between it and the barbarians, she felt sure the Eldeen Reaches was beyond all hope.

She saw no sign, yet, that the Blasphemer’s forces had managed to regroup after the sundering of the seal threw the battlefield into chaos. Rienne and her band saw one small gang of barbarians crouching on a ridge, looking like they were waiting to prey on stragglers fleeing the battle, but they were daunted by the size of Rienne’s group and fled into the woods. Was it possible that the sundering of the seal had wreaked as much havoc on the Blasphemer’s horde as it had on the Reachers? Rienne didn’t dare to hope as much.

When the noise had faded and the earth no longer shook beneath their feet, Cressa fell into step beside Rienne once more.

“What’s your plan, Lady?” Cressa asked.

“Plan?” Rienne shook her head. She had been thinking only about getting the survivors out of immediate danger.

Cressa’s face fell, and Rienne hurried to create the impression that she knew what she was doing. “Here’s what I want you to do,” she told the girl. “I need to know how many of us there are in this group, and whether there are any officers or elders, or any priests, druids, or shamans among us. Find someone to help. Can you do that for me?”

“I can,” Cressa said, beaming.

“Let me take the standard.”

Cressa carefully transferred the ragged battle standard back to Rienne’s hands, and bounded off to the nearest clump of people to begin her survey. Rienne watched her with a smile, amused by the girl’s boundless energy and enthusiasm.

“Now to come up with a plan,” she muttered to herself.

She had started walking vaguely eastward, ahead of the general direction of the barbarians’ movement and toward the river that marked the Aundairian border. She tried to picture in her mind the maps that she and Jordhan had studied on their airship journeys, squelching the grief that surged in her chest at the thought of Jordhan. The barbarians had cut a swath through the Towering Wood, running more or less directly east from the Shadowcrags. They had reached the edge of the Towering Wood, and would soon emerge into the fields of the agricultural east. If they continued due east across a few hundred miles of farmland, a stretch of forest called the Riverwood stood between them and the Wyr River. If they turned to either side, they’d enter smaller woods—the Mosswood to the northeast, the Wolfwood to the southeast. Or they could follow the fields and farms, turn south around the Riverwood, and reach the river near Varna.

How much did the barbarians know? She doubted they had maps to plan their assault, but Kyaphar—also likely dead on Jordhan’s ship, she realized with a fresh pang—had said that their path had taken them from one Gatekeeper seal to another, breaking each one in turn. What magic guided them to the seals, and where would they go next? She couldn’t possibly guess, but if there were druids or elders in the group, she reasoned, they might know more.

Of course, it was pointless to think about the path of the Blasphemer’s hordes unless it meant that her little band of farmers and foresters could join a larger force of real soldiers. Aundair had ostensibly sent troops into the Reaches to stop the barbarian advance, but they started by sacking Varna, and Sovereigns knew where they had gone from there. They could have followed the road westward toward Cree, perhaps, on a path of conquest to the druidic capital of Greenheart. Was it too much to hope, she wondered, that they struck out to the northwest, along the same path of cleared ground that might lead the barbarians around the Riverwood?

The more she thought about it, the more Rienne desperately wanted to reach the river. It was a far more defensible position than anything she could think of in the Reaches, and it would mean that she could take another stand against the Blasphemer with Aundair’s armies at her back and the prophetic weight of her dream behind her. But even by the most direct route, the river was some two hundred miles away, easily two weeks’ journey on foot. Probably more, with such a large group.

“I’m back!” Cressa announced, still beaming with evident pleasure at being chosen for such an important task.

“And what news do you bring?”

“I’ve brought a count of the troops at your command.” Cressa gave a clumsy salute.

“My command?” Rienne scoffed. “I’m not an officer.”

“No one here is, and they all agree that they’d rather follow Lady Dragonslayer than anyone else.”

“No officers at all? What about druids or elders?”

“Well, I’m not sure, but that eagle seems to be following us.” She pointed into the sky, and Rienne squinted against the afternoon sun.

A large bird of prey circled high overhead. It wasn’t big enough to be an Aundairian dragonhawk, unless it was much farther away than it appeared. It might have been a druid—she didn’t dare to hope that it was Kyaphar—but she supposed it didn’t matter until the druid decided to reveal himself.

“That’s all?” Rienne asked.

“Twelve soldiers from the Reaches’ standing army march with us. The rest are militia—a few veterans, mostly new recruits.”

“And how many are we?”

“All told, we number seventy-six.”

Cressa said it with pride, as though it were a huge number, but Rienne almost gasped at how few had escaped the battle. She closed her eyes in a silent prayer that other survivors had made it to safety, but it didn’t give her much comfort. Twelve regular soldiers, fifty-three militia, a druid or perhaps a hungry eagle, and Rienne herself—arrayed against the Blasphemer’s tens of thousands.

The eagle started a dive, but its path took it to the ground a few miles north of Rienne and her tiny army. So it’s just an eagle after all, she thought, swooping down on a rabbit that spent too long in the open.

The thought made her scan the sky nervously, thinking of the Blasphemer’s dragons. Some dragons remained with the horde, she knew, despite her best efforts. From the air, they could lead the barbarians right to the survivors as they moved across the plains and fields.

“Lady?” Cressa said, concern creasing her brow.

“Thank you for the report.” Rienne sighed. “I wish you had brought better news.”

“There’s one more thing.” Cressa seemed reluctant to say it. “Most of us are tired. I’m not, of course, but I saw a lot of people who could barely stay on their feet. Many of them are wounded. I think they’re wondering if we might stop and rest soon.”

Rienne rubbed her temples. “Rest where?” she wondered aloud. “How far away from the Blasphemer’s horde is far enough? What if they’re right behind us?”

Once again Cressa’s face fell, as though Rienne’s lack of a clear plan was a personal attack on her idealism. And again Rienne wanted to say something to comfort and reassure her, but this time nothing came to mind. Even keeping up the appearance of hope was beyond her.

“All right,” Rienne said. “We clearly need to make camp. I’m glad you’re not tired, but I can barely lift my feet off the ground anymore.”

Cressa laughed. “I’m almost too tired to breathe!”

“Well, I have one more task for you. Find a couple of scouts and ask them to find a relatively safe place for us to make camp. Can you manage that?”

“Of course!” Cressa gave another awkward salute and hurried off, clearly less exhausted than she claimed.

The eagle was circling overhead again, and somehow that gave Rienne comfort, as if it were keeping watch over her little army. “Thank you,” she whispered to it, and she imagined she heard its answering cry.

*  *  *  *  *

Three scouts went out at Cressa’s suggestion and found a defensible position for a camp, at the top of a low hill with a good view of the surrounding fields and the forest behind them. They also brought word that what looked like another group of Reachers was making its way toward their position. They estimated that group at about fifty, which almost doubled the count of the battle’s survivors. They were still at least an hour away, so Rienne set people to work on establishing a camp large enough for a hundred and twenty-odd. The professional soldiers set up watches and basic fortifications, while foresters and farmers gathered food and set up simple shelters.

As the sun disappeared behind the smoke that blanketed the western sky, Rienne watched the eagle plummet to the ground again, back in the direction of the forest. She watched the spot where it went down, waiting for it to rise up again. It took far longer than she thought it should, but at last it took to the air again, wings beating furiously. A moment later, she saw another group of people near where the eagle went down. They were walking over a rise, and heading more or less directly toward the camp. She looked up at the eagle again, positive now that it was more than it appeared. Perhaps it was a druid, not just following her band of survivors, but searching the land for others and pointing them in the right direction to join Rienne’s army.

When the first group the scouts had spotted reached the camp, Rienne’s impression was confirmed. She met them at the edge of the camp, and a young man stepped forward to talk to her. A bandage wrapped around his shoulder showed blood soaking through.

“Lady Dragonslayer,” he said, dropping to one knee and bowing his head.

“There’s no need for that,” Rienne said. “On your feet. What’s your name?”

“Sergeant Kallo, lady. Is there any more room in your camp? These people are exhausted.”

“We saw you coming, and made sure to leave room for you all. You’re most welcome.”

“I am grateful, and at your service.”

“How did you find us, Sergeant?”

“A Sky Warden in the form of a bird flew down and told us to follow him. He said that survivors of the battle were regrouping nearby.”

Rienne’s heart leaped in her chest. “What was his name?”

“I’m afraid I didn’t catch it.”

“A dark man, darker than me? With long black hair and a neat beard?”

“Yes, that sounds like him.”

Kyaphar! It seemed he had survived the crash of Jordhan’s airship after all. Might he have saved Jordhan as well?

“Please make yourselves comfortable in our camp. Sergeant. You’re the ranking officer here, so I’m happy to relinquish command to you.”

“Oh, no, lady. I’m just a sergeant. I wouldn’t presume to give you orders.”

Rienne sighed. She didn’t particularly want the responsibility of commanding this tiny army, but there didn’t seem to be any hope of escaping it. “Very well. Cressa here will show you the camp. Rest well, and tend to your wounds, but I’d like to consult with you at sunrise.”

“I would be honored. Thank you, lady.”

Kallo bowed, and Rienne returned it, feeling foolish and awkward. Despite her noble birth, she’d never been comfortable with the formal manners of the nobility, the elaborate etiquette of their social affairs, and particularly the subservience of others. She’d always been happiest delving into the caverns of Khyber with Gaven, far removed from family intrigue, social obligations, and manners. She smiled as Kallo walked away, thinking of Gaven and their utter disregard for polite manners while exploring the deeps.

The eagle wheeled in the sky, and Rienne imagined that it was beckoning the other group of survivors, urging them onward to something like safety. Somehow, she reflected, she had become a rallying point for the remnants of the Eldeen forces. As a girl, she’d been socially awkward, impatient with conversation because she always knew what people were going to say, and she had immersed herself in her training with the sword to insulate herself from interactions with other children. She had ended up with Gaven because both families wanted an alliance, and both families had problem children they couldn’t otherwise marry off. Together, they had utterly disregarded their families’ expectations and flitted off together on their adventures, prospecting dragonshards for House Lyrandar, circumventing the normal trade with House Tharashk. They had been young, impetuous, rebellious, and very much in love. Through years spent with Gaven, she managed to dodge the responsibilities of life in a noble family of Aundair. Then when Gaven went to Dreadhold, she’d been swallowed up in those responsibilities again—twenty-six miserable years filled with formal occasions and business negotiations. At least after a few years her parents had stopped trying to arrange engagements with other men.

Gaven had escaped, and it was like old times again—traveling across the countryside at Gaven’s side, from the edge of the Mournland to Sharavacion and Stormhome and the Starcrag Plain, then all the way to the interior of Argonnessen, the grandest adventure of her life. And then Gaven disappeared, and suddenly her life was different than it had ever been before. She was alone in the Land of Dragons, neither doing family business on her own nor adventuring at Gaven’s side. She had discovered new reserves of strength and independence in herself, and for the first time in her life she’d felt like she was pursuing a destiny that was uniquely hers, something the world needed her to do, which only she could do.

Now she began to wonder whether that destiny really had anything to do with slaying the Blasphemer at all. Perhaps it was more about providing leadership and hope to these people in the aftermath of the utter desolation of their homeland. She could see it on the faces of the people she saw in the camp—the sacredness of the land was part of who they were, their identity as a people. These weren’t Aundairians, she realized, though their political independence from Aundair was only forty years old. They were part of the Eldeen Reaches, part of its land, and it was clear from the way they carried themselves and the expressions in their eyes that the devastation of the Blasphemer was a wound from which they might never recover.

To them, she was Lady Dragonslayer—a symbol, she suspected, of resistance to the Blasphemer. His dragons scoured the earth, but she was the slayer of dragons. Perhaps she could be more than that.

Darkness settled over the camp, and Rienne moved among the cookfires and makeshift shelters, offering what expressions of comfort she could muster. The mere fact of her presence seemed to be a help to many of the people she saw, whose faces brightened when she drew near, who stood and pressed food into her hands, or who leaped to their feet and embraced her, shaking with sobs as they clutched her to their hearts. It was humbling, strangely—it seemed that there was something greater than her at work in her, using her body and her voice as a tool to reach and comfort these people. It made her think of the shaman who had tended her in the grove, with the spirit bear beside her, a conduit between the world and the realm of the spirits of the land. Had those primal spirits chosen her as a vessel?

A cry of alarm arose at the western edge of the camp, and Rienne tore herself from a cookfire to investigate. She expected to find the other group of survivors she had spotted, and at first that’s all she saw. Then her eyes distinguished a cloud like roiling smoke behind them—a swarm of flying insects pursuing the Reachers as they ran in a panic toward the fires on the hill. Even at such a distance, she could hear the angry droning of the swarm beneath the screams of its victims.