Greendaughter (Book 6) (24 page)

The barbarians were strong and determined, but they had had no thought that the forest itself might rise up against them. Many fled; those who did not, fighting the vines that clung to them and the wild beasts that assaulted them, were easy targets for elven arrows or swords, once the elves realized that the forest’s attack was not turned against them. The barbarians were forced back far more quickly than they had advanced.

Chyrie divided herself yet again,
reached
back toward the city. There was far less to work with here; there were few growing things except in the grounds of the keep, and most of the city’s animals were secure in pens or stables.

But that could be changed.

Wooden fences and stable doors shattered at the determined attack on them. Horses, cows, sheep, goats, and pigs trampled the invaders under their hooves, kicked or bit at them. Barbarians on stolen horses tumbled screaming to the mud as their mounts turned savagely on them. Even chickens and messenger birds fluttered from their coops to peck and tear as best they could.

Accompanying the success of the attack, however, was a backwash of incredible agony as vines and branches - were slashed or trampled, attacking animals wounded or killed, elves and humans dying. It took all of Chyrie’s resolve not to pull back from the terrible pain and the knowledge of what she was doing, forcing these creatures to their deaths as no beast-speaker would ever do. Their blood threatened to drown her. Only a little longer—

It came first as the faintest of rumblings, almost lost under the crash of the thunder and pounding rain. Slowly the rumbling grew, grew until soldiers froze in midmotion, until the animals shied, until the clash of battle tapered to a sudden breathless silence.

The rumble became a growl, and the growl became a roar, as the earth came alive.

The tower shook ominously under Chyrie, and she realized quickly that the structure was already of dubious solidity after the hit it had taken. Once she could have climbed down it, but not with the confusion in her head, not bruised and battered and belly-swollen as she was. Checking to make sure that the shivering Weeka was safe in her tunic, she snatched her pack and Valann’s and paused for one last look at her mate’s still face.

(There is no need to grieve over empty flesh,)
Valann told her gently.
(Hurry, love, and save the lives you carry.)

The tower trembled even more as Chyrie crawled down the ladder as quickly as she could, and she took the stairs at a pace rather faster than safety dictated. Not stopping at the halls of the keep, Chyrie continued downward, dragging the packs after her. She could see through the windows that the front grounds of the keep were choked with humans, some battling but most stunned to stillness, and she chose instead the back doors of the keep. There were a few humans on the back grounds—some city soldiers, some barbarians—but she easily crept past them, distracted as they were by the shaking ground and by each other, and made her way to the wall at the northeast edge of the keep’s grounds.

The roar had grown louder, and Chyrie could now hear screams throughout the city. She wondered what was happening, but there was no way to see from where she stood. She received several confusing images of crushing pain and crumbling stone from animals in the city, but shielded herself from those images as best she could, as they distracted her almost too much to walk.

(We will have to go over the wall,)
Val thought
. (There will be too many humans near the gates. Can you make the climb?)

(I need not,)
Chyrie replied.

Not far ahead of her she could see how the barbarians had gained access to the inside of the keep: a heavy rope, tied with knots, hung over the wall from large metal hooks anchored at the top. Several humans lay unconscious or dead at the bottom, but Chyrie had no time to spare for them, and hurried to the rope. The heavy cable was almost too thick for her hands, but she was too skilled a climber to be daunted by that. She tied her packs to her own rope, and hauled herself painfully up the knotted rope as quickly as her painful and ungainly body would allow, pulling the packs up after her with considerable difficulty.

At the top of the wall were more corpses—city soldiers, this time—and another rope, this one hanging on the far side of the wall. Chyrie paused, despite the shaking of the wall, to look out over the city, and gasped at what she saw there.

Many buildings had already collapsed, including two of the wall towers and several sections of wall in addition to the gaps the barbarians had caused. In other places in the city, the very ground seemed to have collapsed in great, gaping pits. Fires were burning in several places, and most of the few thatched buildings were aflame. From what Chyrie could see, there was very little fighting still going on, but only part of the barbarian force had actually left the city as of yet.

A horrible roaring groan was growing from the earth itself. Chyrie stared unbelievingly, for a moment stunned to utter stillness, as the center of Allanmere’s market split slowly open like a huge, gaping maw. The wall quaked and jumped under her, but Chyrie was far too horrified to move, and even Valann did not prompt her.

The gigantic crack in the stone widened slowly, and Chyrie could hear the screams as the small, dark forms near it toppled in, silhouetted against an orange-red glow coming up from the pit. Citizens and invaders alike fled hastily from the marketplace, dropping their weapons in their terror.

But the greatest abomination had only begun. As Chyrie watched, a monstrously huge hand, sheathed in red-gold flames, slowly rose from the crack, flailing about as if groping blindly for something. It extended slowly upward.

The gargantuan hand was the final blow. Too terrified even to scream, the barbarians turned and ran, trampling soldiers, animals, and each other heedlessly in their haste. Most dropped their weapons in their flight; others tripped and fell upon them. Many fled headlong into the cracks and pits that had opened in the streets. Those that made it to the walls were easy prey for the few soldiers with enough presence of mind to attack them.

For a moment Chyrie was unable to move, frozen in horror at the flaming hand reaching searchingly from the pit. In the end it was not her courage or even Valann who saved her; it was Weeka, chattering and scratching at Chyrie’s taut belly, that made Chyrie once more aware of where she was and how utterly dangerous her position on the stone wall was while the ground still quaked beneath her. She hesitated only a moment, thinking of Sharl and Rivkah, but her unborn children kicked painfully, and she turned away.

A roar of anger gave Chyrie only just enough warning to throw herself painfully to one side, and a huge, double-bladed axe struck sparks from the stone where she had stood. Chyrie drew her sword even as she turned, realizing as she did so how puny a weapon it was against the great axe, realizing that her pregnancy had largely negated any advantage her speed might have given her. She turned to see the barbarian’s axe upraised over her, his mouth wide with fury—then that fury changed to dull amazement, and blood dribbled from his open mouth. Then he toppled slowly, revealing the sword in his back and the figure behind him—Rom.

Rom dropped to his knees beside Chyrie, and Chyrie smelled the blood on him before she saw the wet stain covering his right side. He gazed at her a moment, then laughed hoarsely.

“So it’s you,” he gasped. “Where’s your mate, little elf, the mate who thought your life was worth more than my Ria’s?”

Chyrie struggled for words, but his pain, pain of body and soul, overwhelmed her. She turned and pointed mutely to the tower, where smoke still rose.

“So he’s dead, too,” Rom said, laughing bitterly again. “So you know how it feels, little elf, to lose everything that makes life worthwhile.”

He coughed, and blood bubbled at his lips.

“Ria died so
you
could live,” he gasped. “Now I think I’ll join her. I’m the lucky one, little elf.” He leaned back quietly against the wall, coughed again once, and was still. The pain from him ebbed away, slowly, gently, into peace, and for a moment Chyrie’s mind cleared.

“Fair journey,” she whispered.

Chyrie sat by his side until another tremor shook her from her stupor. She turned and searched for the hook of the rope hanging on the outside of the wall; to her relief, it was firmly anchored. Awkwardly she slid down the rope, groaning as her feet thumped jarringly to the earth on the other side.

Once out of the city, the swamp’s odor was overwhelming, but it’s very malodorousness gave Chyrie an anchor against the confusion in her mind. There was still dying going on in the city and in the forest, and each life that flickered out wrenched through Chyrie like a spear through her vitals, but she stumbled onward, heading instinctively to the forest with no more thought or direction than a wounded beast seeks its den.

Crossing the moat was simply but horribly a matter of climbing over the charred and bloody corpses that filled it, but nothing could shock Chyrie now from the chaos in her mind. The ground between the walls and the forest was littered with corpses and soaked with blood, and the ground strewn with caltrops and riddled with pits; here Chyrie had to force some conscious thought and pick her way more carefully. It took hours for her to cross the short strip of land, creeping painfully along and dragging the heavy packs, but Chyrie heard the sounds of battle dying out, both because of distance and because the barbarians themselves were retreating farther south with every moment. The earth still shook occasionally, but slowly the tremors, too, were fading away. The rain also slowed and stopped, and Chyrie hoped that meant that Rivkah and the other mages in the city were alive and able to stop the rain.

At last Chyrie reached the forest, only to face an even more horrible sight. She had stumbled uncaring past the corpses of barbarians and citizens of the city, but now mingled with the human corpses were the bodies of elves, hewn and mutilated with savage ferocity. Here and there a few still moved feebly, elves and barbarians alike.

Chyrie saw movement from the corner of her eye and melted into the bushes, her Wilding instincts serving her where conscious thought failed. The figures she had seen, however, were far too small to be barbarians—Blue-eyes, Chyrie realized. They moved silently among the fallen, tending the elves or giving grace to those without hope with a single dagger stroke. Each thrust speared agonizingly through Chyrie, and she bit back screams; she had not realized how much greater the pain would be when she was close to them.

(It is not only their pain,)
Valann thought, pulling her back to her own awareness
. (Your time is coming. It is a little early, but no matter. Come, we must find a safer place.)

It took several attempts before Chyrie could gather enough concentration to coax a deer into the carnage at the edge of the wood. More difficult was sneaking past the Blue-eyes to meet it, and clambering onto the shivering stag’s back was the most difficult of all. She clung there blindly, too distracted for a time to even direct the creature, letting him go where he would as long as it took her deeper into the Heartwood.

It seemed a miracle that no one stopped her, but Chyrie had no thought for anything but the pains tearing through her. There was no hope of reaching the altars, or even Inner Heart; Chyrie had wished at least to reach the clan of one of Rowan’s allies, but she quickly realized that she would never be able to ride long enough to pass through Blue-eyes lands. There was nothing to do but to find shelter as quickly as she could.

Finding a hiding place, to Chyrie’s surprise, was far easier than her other endeavors; she simply focused her attention on one of the many bears in the area and quested through its thoughts for the location of its den. The stag, of course, would not approach this area, but once Chyrie slid from the deer’s back, she coaxed the bear itself to guide her. The den was in the hollow of a huge tree, and the bear settled itself ponderously outside the entrance while Chyrie spread her furs on the ground and made a small nest for Weeka. By the time she had finished, she could barely snatch a breath between the pains.

(At last we will give these little warriors the freedom to kick as they will,)
Valann thought joyously.

(Well for you to say so,)
Chyrie thought sourly
. (It is not you they kick. Would that you were here to help me through this.)

(But I am here,)
Valann reminded her.
(I can no longer direct the healing energies, but my knowledge and skills are with me. No, do not lie down. Drink a little water if you can and stand for as long as you are able. Walk, if there is room.)

There was no room, and the cramps in her belly would not have let her walk if she had had the whole of the forest to stroll in. Instead she crouched miserably near the entrance of the den, inhaling the welcome scent of the huge, dirty bear and the fresh, rain-wet smell of the forest, both equally sweet and familiar to her.

Rain fell again, then stopped. Chyrie grew unbearably hot and threw off her tunic and trousers, already wet with birth waters. The bear moved restlessly when Chyrie bit back moans, snuffling worriedly at the entrance to the den. Weeka chattered distractingly in the corner, ignoring Chyrie’s silent order to hush and leave her be. At Valann’s direction, she shuffled through his pack until she found the pouches he wanted, stirring some of their contents into a cup of wine. The bitter potion did not ease her pain, but it gave her renewed strength.

Over and over she squatted, sweat running in rivulets down her legs, straining to push the younglings from her with every bit of strength in her body and will. Then the wave would pass and she would sit back and rest for a few precious moments before the next wave came.

She had seen a few births in the Wilding village, and more in their quarters at Allanmere’s keep, and as the time passed, her fear grew. What if Jeena had been wrong and her children were awry? What if she perished in childbirth and left her children alone to die without her? Who would cut them from her body if she could not bring them forth?