Shadowstorm (14 page)

“Children?” Regg asked.

Roen nodded.

Abelar thought of Elden and did not hesitate. “Take us to them.”

Roen led them into the village of cottages. Children, men, and women greeted them and smiled. Hacking coughs racked several of the villagers. Abelar and Regg shared a look.

Two young boys, perhaps five or six winters old, marveled at Abelar’s shield and the rose enameled on it. Abelar unslung it and let them play with it.

“No dragon slaying without me,” he said to them. “And I’ll need it again soon. Yes?”

“Yes, goodsir,” they said.

He tousled their hair and they scurried off, arguing over who would play with it first.

“There is fear in the eyes of everyone here,” Abelar said softly to Regg.

“Aye,” answered Regg. “It is not just disease.”

“No,” Abelar agreed. “It is not just disease.”

Roen took them to a mud-packed log house on the western edge of the village. The shutters and doors were closed, but the sickly sweet stink of contagion sneaked through the cracks. Roen knocked once and entered.

A miasma filled the home and the smell of sweat, filth, and old blood hit Abelar like a mace. The two-room cottage had little in the way of furnishings. A few chairs, a table, a sideboard. A low

fire burned in the small hearth. A pot of what Abelar assumed to be broth hung over it. Jiiris’s two slim swords and gloves lay propped against the wall near the fire. An open doorway led to another room.

Coughing, deep and wet, sounded from within. A child’s cough joined in, then another. A soothing voice sounded— Jiiris’s—and the coughing subsided.

Jiiris stepped out of the room. The young priestess had her light hair pulled back in a horse’s tail. Blood specks stained her sleeves. She wore a strip of cloth over her mouth and nose to ward off disease.

Abelar and Regg had nothing to fear from contagion. When they had sworn their souls to the Morninglord, he had blessed them with resistance to certain weaknesses of the flesh, including disease. He had also gifted them with the ability to heal disease by touch. They could not do it often, but they could do it.

“My lords,” Jiiris said. She removed the strip of cloth from her mouth and smiled. “Welcome back. How did you fare at the Abbey?”

“Not well,” Abelar said, and left it at that. “Gear up. We ride soon.” He nodded at the room she had just exited. “I will see to them.”

Jiiris nodded. “The light is in you both. I am glad of it.” She thumped Regg on the shoulder, smiled at Roen, and passed close to Abelar, though she did not touch him.

Abelar caught her gently by the arm. “You have performed a good service here.”

She colored, nodded, smiled gently, and exited the cottage.

“Await us here,” Abelar said to Roen. He and Regg entered the sickroom.

Five hay-stuffed mattresses lay in the room, along with chamber pots and blankets. The smell made Abelar’s eyes water. A scarecrow-thin woman lay on one of the beds, her mouth flecked with blood, her face drawn and sweaty. Four children—all

girls—lay on the other beds, all wrapped in blankets, all pale. The collective respiration in the room sounded like a rasp over wood.

“Five,” Abelar said softly.

“And it has already spread,” Regg said.

Abelar and Regg could channel Lathander’s grace only in small portions, and they needed time afterward for their own souls to heal. They could not heal everyone before leaving.

They walked to the bedside of the mother. Their boots clunked loudly on the floorboards. Abelar knelt and put his calloused hand on her brow. Her green eyes opened. She opened her mouth to speak but it turned to a coughing fit that wracked her entire body.

Abelar spoke softly. “We are healers, goodmadam. Servants of Lathander. We are here to help.”

Her eyes softened and she smiled. She raised a hand, weakly, to gesture at her children. Abelar understood. She wanted them to help her children first. He nodded at Regg, who moved from child to child, comforting them, humming a song the while.

Abelar stroked the mother’s dark hair, slick with sweat. “Hear me, now. We can cleanse this disease but not for all of you. Only for four. That is as far as our gifts go for a time, and we must leave tonight. If we are tardy in our task, many others will die.”

She stared at him, unmoving, and he did not know if she understood. One of the daughters broke into a wet coughing fit that left her struggling for breath.

“What do you want us to do?” Abelar asked her.

Her eyes closed, opened, and she parted her bloody lips to speak. Abelar knelt in close and she said in a broken whisper, “My daughters.”

Abelar leaned back and looked into her eyes. His eyes, and hers, welled with tears.

“Who will care for them if you are gone?”

The tears spilled down her temples and she looked away. She closed her eyes, bit her upper lip, and shook her head. Abelar

understood. There was no one. But she would not choose one of her daughters to die. A coughing fit shook her.

Abelar looked at his hands, cursing the weakness of his own flesh.

He would not choose one of them to die, either. He stood and looked at Regg, who was holding the tiny hand of one of the little girls. He nodded at the doorway and they exited the room and gathered with Roen.

Outside, Abelar said, “I will stay. Take the men—”

“Stay?” Roen exclaimed.

Regg shook his head and chuckled. “I knew that you would say those words. No. I will stay and manage the plague here. When the village is cleansed, I will ride after you.”

“We need you both,” Roen said.

Abelar ignored the priest and studied his friend’s craggy face, saw the sincerity of the offer. “No, Regg. This is my duty to perform. Besides, your father is in Forrin’s path.”

“As is your son,” Regg answered.

Abelar felt a flash of doubt but pushed it down. He could not abandon the village.

“Go get them both,” he said to Regg. He looked to Roen. “Go get them both.”

Regg and Roen stared at him for many heartbeats, and both finally nodded. Regg took Abelar by the arm. “The Light is in you, my friend. It shines brightly.”

“And you,” Abelar answered. He indicated the sick room. “Let us do what we can for them now.”

Abelar and Regg entered the room and placed their hands on the daughters in turn. They prayed aloud and pulled the divine energy of the Morninglord from their own purified flesh and channeled it into the young girls. Immediately, the girls’ breathing eased and they fell into slumber.

Unable to do more, Abelar went to the mother’s bedside. “Your daughters are well.”

The woman smiled, said in a whisper, “I want to see them.”

“You will,” Abelar said. “They are sleeping now. Listen to me. I will not leave you. But you must fight for a few days more, then I will be able to heal you as I did your daughters. Do you understand? You must fight until then.”

She nodded. Tears flowed anew, but not tears of sadness. She touched Abelar’s hand and Abelar squeezed her fingers. He had taken lives in Lathander’s name, many lives, but he never felt more about his god’s work than when he used his hands to heal.

“I am… sorry that I put you to that choice,” he said. “It was inexcusable. My own son is in danger and it clouded my judgment.”

She shook her head and smiled, coughed.

“I understand,” she said hoarsely. “And you should go to your son.

“I will,” Abelar said. “But not until you are well.”

She stared into his face, nodded gratefully. Regg knelt beside them, put his hand on her brow.

“Be well, goodmadam. May Lathander watch over you and the dawn bring you hope.”

Abelar and Regg stood, regarding each other.

Regg said, “Stay in the light, Abelar Corrinthal.”

“And you. I will follow after as soon as I can. You and Roen have the company.”

Regg nodded and they parted.

Abelar watched through the cottage’s open shutters as Regg and Roen led the company off. He imagined Elden at the end of Forrin’s blade and the mental image almost caused him to mount his horse. A coughing fit from the sickroom pulled him back to his duty. He laid down his sword beside the hearth and went to his chosen task.

For hours he drew water, cooked broth, and spoon-fed it to mother and daughters. The daughters mostly slept, while the mother mostly coughed. Still, the smiles and clear eyes of the daughters in their waking hours reminded Abelar of why he had taken Lathander’s rites.

Abelar learned the girls’ names: Lis, Nissa, Sill, and Dera, the eldest. He obtained new bedding for them, and sang to them, as he often did to Elden. He smiled when they smiled, learned their laughs. They hovered around their mother and their love for her touched Abelar.

Throughout the day and early evening, their mother deteriorated. Abelar did not know if she would sifrvive until he could heal her. He tried to think how best to prepare the girls for such a loss, but he could think of little. He saw the fear in their eyes.

When the girls slept, he spent the hours in meditation and prayer at the mother’s bedside, holding her hand, asking Lathander to heal her, and to help Regg reach Elden in time. He kept vigil at the mother’s bed throughout the night and slept little. He sensed the approaching dawn.

The creak of floorboards in the adjacent room drew his attention. He rose in silence, so as not to disturb his patients, took up a small clay lamp, and crept into the room.

He saw no one.

He started to return to the sickroom when a small flash of red on the floor caught his eye. He stared at it for a long while, to ensure he was not imagining it. He was not.

A single rose petal lay on the floor in the center of the room.

He walked to it, kneeled, gently held it between two fingers. It was fresh, as smooth as velvet. It could not have been tracked in. He had seen no roses in the village.

It was a sign. Warmth suffused his body.

“Thank you, Morninglord,” he murmured.

Dawn’s light, as pink as a rose, radiated through the slats of the closed shutters. Abelar rushed to them and threw them open. Rose-colored light bathed the room. Its touch warmed Abelar, calmed him. The light washed over the entire village, casting it all in a pastel glow.

Outside, brilliant reds, oranges, and yellows painted the eastern horizon. Abelar knew its meaning.

“Thank you, Morninglord,” he said excitedly, and hurried to the sickroom. “Up, girls! Dera, get them up! Now, girl! Open every window in the house! Get your mother into the light.”

The girls rose groggily from their beds and did as Abelar bade them. Meanwhile, Abelar ran outside and through the village, shouting. “Up and outside! Everyone, now! Stand in dawn’s light! Do it now!”

Faces appeared in windows, bodies in doorways. Abelar pulled out anyone he could reach and ordered everyone else outside. In short order, the entire village stood outside, marveling at dawn’s light, at the eastern sky.

Abelar hurried back to the cottage to find the girls crying and embracing their mother, who stood on shaky legs in the rosy light filtering in through an open window. She met Abelar’s eyes and sobbed.

“You are healed,” Abelar said, and his words were not a question.

She nodded through her tears. “Thanks to you, goodsir.”

Abelar shook his head and smiled softly. “No. Thanks to Lathander.” He hurried across the room, embraced her, kneeled and embraced the girls. “Tell everyone what has happened here. I must go. Be well.”

“What has happened here?” asked Dera.

Abelar stood. “The Morninglord has blessed us all. Farewell.”

They called their thanks after him as he hurried from the room, collected his weapon, and rushed outside. He whistled for Swiftdawn and she galloped to his side. He swung into the saddle and the boys who had taken his shield the day before ran over to him, carrying it between them. He took it up, smiled at the boys.

“Are you going to slay a dragon?” the taller of the boys asked.

“Yes,” Abelar said. He put his heels into Swiftdawn. “Ride!”

Malkur sat upon his leather-barded warhorse at the side of the hard-packed road, flanked by three of his commanders, Lorgan, Reht, and Enken. With them were Vors, the war priest of Talos, and one of the company’s battle mages, Mennick. All had shed the markings of their mercenary company and instead wore the gold-wheel-on-green of Ordulin.

Malkur took care to position himself in the sunlight. Since the attack on his men by the shade in service to the Hulorn, Malkur kept light about him as often as possible.

The column of his cavalry stretched along the road, a ribbon of steel and flesh. A rolling cloud of dust, creaking leather, and the chink of armor accompanied their travel. The men saluted him as they rode past, but held only rough formation. Teams of outriders rode a quarter league to fore, behind, and on the flanks, reporting back on the half-bell. The supply train, escorted by four-score riders under Gavin’s command, brought up the rear of the column. The supply train slowed them, but that could not be avoided.

“The men are eager for a fight,” Reht said.

“They will have one soon enough,” Lorgan answered.

Enken fiddled with one of his many knives and said, “Perhaps. Or perhaps we’ll find naught but an empty city and nobles cowering in their manses. They will evacuate when they learn we are corning.”

All but Vors chuckled. He said, “If a ride halfway across Sembia does not have a battle at its end, I am killing one of you in Talos’s name.”

The men laughed still harder. Vors did not even smile.

“See to your units,” Malkur said to his commanders. “We ride past dusk and into the night. We reach Saerb within five days, or you answer to me. Reht, Lorgan, and Vors, you three remain.”

Enken and Mennick saluted and galloped off to rejoin their units. They shouted orders as they moved up and down the line.

“Commander?” Lorgan asked.

“Take a force and angle south of Saerb. Take three hundred

fifty men. Ride hard and sweep wide. We will attack Saerb in five days. Be in position by then, but stay low before that.”

Malkur wanted Lorgan to cut off any residents of Saerb or its environs who might try to flee before his army toward Selgaunt. Lorgan understood the purpose of the order.