Firefly Island, an Epic Fantasy Page 14

  Spit bubbled on Hyan’s smile. “And we shall give her to him.”

  Wilon’s face went from pale to red. “Traitor! What has the stone tyrant promised you?”

  Hyan dabbed his forehead with an embroidered kerchief. “Enough worth storming your castle for, hum?”

  Despair filled Aeolia. Must she bring ruin wherever she went? Would anyone who helped her be cursed? Her belly knotted. Hyan wanted to storm the castle. With her life she could stop him. What was one girl’s life?

  “Let me go to him,” she whispered to Wilon.

  Wilon looked down at her, his eyes hazy. He opened his mouth, hesitating. Before he could speak, Talin did.

  “Wil, listen to me,” he said. “We must keep Lia safe. She’s the only one able to defeat Sinther and save Esire from his claws.”

  Wilon spoke carefully. “That is not Heland’s quarrel. Heland has always been neutral.”

  “All the Island has been neutral until Sinther arrived. Can’t you see, Wil? The five countries have always been balanced. But if Esire falls to Stonemark, if the traditional balance of power is disturbed....”

  Wilon nodded slowly. Even slower, he wheeled his destrier to face the bridge. Then, in a sudden movement, he kicked the beast so it bucked, and raised his sword overhead. He bellowed at the top of his lungs.

  “Today Greenhill goes to battle!”

  Shouting erupted, horses whinnied, armor clanked. Aeolia grabbed Wilon’s leg.

  “I’m not worth it!” she cried, tears in her eyes. “Let me go to him!”

  Talin grabbed her waist and pulled her back.

  “Tell him, Talin,” Aeolia pleaded as he pulled her away. “Tell him....”

  “Hush, Lia. We must get you to safety.”

  He pulled her through the village and into the castle walls. The courtyard was deserted, everyone gone to battle or into hiding.

  “Stay here behind the walls,” Talin told her.

  “Talin,” she cried, “I can fight!”

  “No! I can’t let them get to you. Stay here, in safety.”

  He turned to leave, then paused and looked back. For a moment he hesitated. Then he stepped forward, lifted his helmet’s beaver, and kissed her lips. It caught Aeolia by surprise, for he himself had spoken of such acts as sinful.

  “I love you too,” he whispered, left her dazed, and marched outside into the village.

  Aeolia slumped to the ground, dazzled. Behind her, a man was sending doves into the sky, notes tied to their legs. But it was too late for help now, Aeolia knew. Men were dying, and for her. She could hear them scream. She rose to her feet and paced the courtyard, the sound of battle like hammers in her skull. She stopped under the castle wall and stood still, staring upwards.

  After nearly fainting at the waterfall and in Yaiyai, Aeolia had sworn never to go near heights again. But then, breaking promises was nothing new to her. She must see what was happening. Slowly, she climbed the stairs up the castle wall. Her head spun as she stepped onto the wall-walk. She tightened her lips, clutched a merlon, and ignored the dizzying height.

  She could see the battle clearly. The dead were already piling up, most of them wearing the green. As Aeolia watched, the Redforts forced their way across the bridge and into the village. Aeolia wrung her hands. She couldn’t just stay here in safety while men died for her! Was there nothing she could do? What if Talin got hurt or... died.

  She grabbed one sentry’s arm.

  “Where’s the armory?” she asked.

  “Left room off the main hall, down the stairs,” the sentry said. “Why?”

  Aeolia did not answer, but scrambled down the wall, stumbling the last few stairs. She ran across the courtyard, dashed into the castle, veered left and scurried downstairs. The armory was empty.

  From a rack of weapons, Aeolia chose the thinnest sword, a silvery weapon with “Firefang” engraved into the blade and a firefly in amber upon the pommel. She used the blade to split her skirt down the sides. She tore the lace off her bodice and used it to tie her hair behind her head. Hurriedly, she rummaged through piles of armor. No breastplate seemed her size, but she found a small shield that wasn’t too heavy. She slipped on the smallest basinet. It wobbled on her head, but she decided it would have to do. To finish, she donned a heavy, green surcoat. With the helmet’s visor down and the surcoat slung over her, Aeolia was certain no one would recognize her. She suspected she looked ridiculous, but she didn’t care.

  Sword and shield in hand, she rushed outside and into the stables. Only one horse remained, a sorrel filly with a pink nose. She was no warhorse, but Aeolia knew that little, frightened females could sometimes beat the fiercest foes. Only after the stable boy had saddled the horse and Aeolia set her feet in the stirrups, did she realize she had no idea how to ride. She took a deep breath, mustered her magic, and linked to the filly.

  The link confused the horse. She bucked and snorted. The double eyesight frightened her. She had never seen color before.

  It’s okay, Aeolia thought to her soothingly. I know it’s scary, being in two heads. I’m scared too. We’re going to do this together.

  The horse calmed slightly.

  Good girl, Aeolia thought. Now, please take me outside into the village.

  The horse obeyed, gingerly trotting out into the courtyard, under the portcullis, and into the village. The battle raged around them. Riders and footmen thundered between the houses, children screamed, peasants fought with pitchforks. Archers crouched in thatch roofs, shooting an incessant rain. Knights in carmine torched granaries and houses. Black smoke billowed skyward like devils unfurling from slumber. Aeolia’s horse whinnied, rolled her eyes, and pawed the air. Next to the huge destriers, the filly seemed smaller than a pony.

  It’s okay, it’s okay. Aeolia tried to allay the horse’s fear. Be a brave girl. You can do this.

  She spotted Talin fighting fifty yards away, and her heart skipped a beat. Talin’s armor was splashed with blood. She had to reach him! Aeolia urged the filly onward. The horse took hesitant paces.

  Before she could reach Talin, a Redfort rider came charging toward Aeolia, brandishing his sword. Aeolia reared her filly and raised her shield. The Redfort’s sword slammed into the wood, nearly dislocating Aeolia’s arm. She wobbled in her saddle, breathless. The Redfort lifted his sword again.

  Hurriedly, Aeolia severed her link with the filly and linked to the Redfort’s warhorse.

  Turn around! she thought forcefully.

  The great beast spun around. Aeolia sliced its rider’s stirrup.

  Jump! Aeolia commanded.

  The warhorse jumped, and the Redfort hit the ground. Aeolia linked back to her terrified filly, and before her foe could rise, she ran him over. He lay still.

  Talin still fought ahead. Aeolia drove her filly onward between a swarm of footmen. She parried attacks, sliced at footmen, wounded one by nearly severing his arm. She did not allow the horror to overwhelm her; she had to reach Talin. At last, winded and shaking, she did.

  She urgently examined him. He was covered in blood, but he sat straight in his saddle. The blood wasn’t his. Aeolia breathed in relief.

  “Rather small for a soldier, aren’t you?” Talin asked her grimly.

  “Talin, it’s me!” she said.

  Talin’s mouth fell open. “Lia!” he whispered. “What are you doing here?”

  “I’ve decided to come fight.”

  “You don’t know how to fight! Get back inside.”

  Aeolia shook her head. “Sinther may stay in his fortress while others fight for him, but I will not.”

  A Redfort soldier came snarling between them. As Talin engaged his sword, Aeolia turned away to fight. Fight.... She looked at the blood around her and suddenly felt hesitant. Could she truly fight? How did one exactly—

  A footman slashed at her, and Aeolia reared back. The soldier’s sword sliced through her filly’s breast. Aeolia screamed in pain, clutching her own chest, and hurriedly released the link. Her hors
e bucked madly, and Aeolia hit the ground.

  The soldier stood above her. He swung his bloody sword. Aeolia parried, and the two blades locked. Before the soldier could attack again, she kicked his groin. As he whimpered, she stood up and ran him through.

  Once more, she drew blood. Once more, she had killed. Aeolia stifled the guilt. No time for that now. Wildly, she looked around her. Her horse was gone. Talin was far away. The Redforts were undoubtedly winning. Dead Greenhills sprawled around her in pools of blood, stiff hands reaching up like tombstones. The smoke of the burning village filled her helmet, burning her eyes. She coughed violently.

  “Into the castle!” she heard Wilon bellow behind her. “Into the castle!”

  The rout caught her like a current, sweeping her through the castle gateway into the courtyard. Slowly, the portcullis began to descend. Aeolia noticed in alarm that there were still green soldiers outside.

  “Talin!” she cried. Her feminine voice drew puzzled stares, but Aeolia didn’t care. “Talin, into the castle!”

  Green soldiers surrounded her. Aeolia was too short to see who was entering the gates. She heard the portcullis slam shut. She elbowed through the crowd, seeking Talin. If he had not managed to enter.... But finally she found him atop his horse, and she rushed toward him. He dismounted and she clutched him.

  “I thought they locked you outside!” she said.

  Greenhill archers were already shooting off the walls. Through the portcullis’s spikes, Aeolia glimpsed Redforts fall dead.

  “Come,” Talin said. “We must help.”

  Aeolia gripped his hand, and they climbed the wall. On the wall-walk, soldiers were preparing cauldrons of boiling oil.

  “Here, help me with this!” one soldier called to Aeolia, tilting a cauldron between two merlons. Aeolia helped him pour the oil, then watched it sizzle over the Redforts, like the goulash had sizzled over her master. Someone handed her a torch, and Aeolia tossed it over the battlements. The oil burst into flames. Redforts screamed, burning, pierced by arrows. The survivors tried to organize an escalade, but Aeolia was now tumbling boulders, knocking the invaders down like skittles. The green soldiers hooted and waved their fists.

  Over a hundred Redforts died that morning at the wall, forming a heap of bodies. The several dozen survivors, seeing new oil pots ready to spill, spun on their heels and fled. The Greenhills roared and rushed down the wall. Five strong men began winching the portcullis open.

  “What’s happening?” Aeolia yelled.

  “We’re going after them,” Talin said.

  “They’re retreating. Must we truly butcher them?”

  Talin’s eyes shone. “We cannot live in fear of them forever. Now we will destroy Hyan Redfort once and for all.”

  “Then I come too.”

  “No, and this time I mean it. You’ve done your share, now stay here in safety.”

  “But I’m worried about you.”

  “I’ll be safe; the real battle is over.”

  He hopped onto a horse, brandished Stormshard, and joined the army storming out the gates.

  Aeolia watched him leave. Soon the courtyard emptied of soldiers. The silence was eerie. A cold wind whistled. Dry leaves skittered over the cobblestones and flurried around Aeolia’s feet. She was alone.

  She gazed through the open gateway at the pile of dead Redforts. So many of them, seasoned warriors, fallen to peaceful farmers like ants to cruel boys’ heels.... Aeolia shakily climbed up the wall. She saw Wilon’s army chase the Redforts out of the village, into the golden fields.

  Suddenly she started. Something was moving below. She glanced down, her pulse racing. But it was only some of the Redforts, shifting and groaning. Aeolia rubbed her temples and took a deep breath. They were dying. No reason to be afraid. She was just skittish after the battle, she told herself.

  But the Redforts kept moving, undulating like a heap of snakes. Then one soldier stood up. Then another. Aeolia shook her head, her jaw unhinged. Before her eyes, half the dead bodies rose to their feet: fifty healthy Redforts, who had all played dead.

  Aeolia was too terrified to scream.

  The portcullis was open, and she alone. As the Redforts approached the gateway, Aeolia dashed down the wall. She slashed Firefang several times, severing the rope that held the portcullis. The iron spikes slammed down, impaling one Redfort and blocking the rest.

  Aeolia panted, trembling. She forced herself to take deep breaths, to calm down. The portcullis was sturdy. The Redforts could not pass through it. She was safe.

  “I have nothing to worry about,” she told herself shakily. “Talin will be back soon. All I have to do is wait.”

  She climbed back up the wall, praying Talin returned soon. She gazed into the fields, where the Greenhills were catching up with the fleeing Redforts. There, in the wheat, she saw something that froze her blood.

  As one, the Redforts stopped fleeing and turned to face their pursuers. From the tall stalks, a thousand more Redforts rose to their feet. The Greenhills were surrounded.

  Aeolia watched helplessly as Wilon’s army crumbled. The wind slammed the screams against her. Some of Wilon’s riders broke an opening through the entrapping Redforts, and the green soldiers began routing back toward the castle. Aeolia saw Talin riding at their lead, clutching his wounded chest.

  Tears flowed down Aeolia’s cheeks. The wind was blustering, and she covered her ears, but still she could hear the Greenhills’ cries.

  “The portcullis is down!”

  “Spirit, pull it up!”

  “The rope is torn, we’re trapped!”

  The Redforts were cutting them down one by one. Blood splashed against the castle walls like waves against a pier. Aeolia could not bear to watch. She trembled from guilt and horror. Because of her, because of her....

  She tore the helmet off her head. She ripped the lace from her hair. She tossed off her surcoat.

  “Here I am!” she cried. “You want me! Here I am!”

  They could not hear her; the battle was too loud. Is all lost? Aeolia wondered... and then the fireflies emerged. They swirled around her, haloing around her head. She glowed above the battlefield.

  Both armies turned to stare, and for a moment the battle froze. The wind was the only sound, streaming through Aeolia’s hair. I must be brave like Taya, she told herself. She shut her eyes.

  “Take me, but spare my friends,” she said. “I give myself to you....”

  Wreathed in fireflies, Aeolia spread her arms to her sides. The wind whipped at her sleeves, flapped her torn skirt, roared in her ears.

  Why, Joren, why have you betrayed me?

  She jumped off the wall.

  Chapter Ten

  Stonemark, Ten Years Ago

  Joren sat on the stone floor, waiting for his father to return with supper. The silence hurt his ears. Only a week had passed since Sem had sold her, but a week was a long time for an eleven-year-old, and this week of silence had been an eternity. Joren missed Aeoly’s laughter so bad he ached.

  Hunger had also ached. There was always food now, of course: fresh bread, fish, turnips, salty shallot soup. But last week there had been none, and the memory of hunger was still ripe in Joren’s mind, so vivid he could almost understand his father. Not forgive, not accept. Understand. As long as he brought food.

  The door slammed open and his father stepped in.

  Something was wrong, Joren saw at once. Sem’s hair was disheveled, and his clothes were torn. A bruise covered his left eye, and his face was puffed a drunken red. And he carried no food. He carried no food.

  Joren rose to his feet. “Father, are you all right?”

  Sem ignored him and began pacing the room, clutching his head and mumbling to himself. “Damn thief... I’ll show him.... Cheating at dice.... Stealing people’s hard-earned money....”

  “Father! Is the money—”

  Sem backhanded him. “Yeah, the money’s gone, are you happy?” He shoved Joren to the floor. “I bet you are, y
ou ungrateful bastard.” He kicked Joren in the ribs. “You didn’t like me selling her, did you?”

  Sem grabbed Joren’s collar. He lifted him so their noses almost touched. Joren winced smelling his father’s drunken breath.

  “I sold her for you, boy. Better one child with food than two without, huh?” He threw Joren to the floor. “Now get out of my sight.”

  Joren scrambled up into the loft, tears blurring his vision. He crawled into his bed of straw. Both his food and his sister—gone. Joren gazed at the straw pile beside him, where Stuffings now lay alone. She had lost the doll when the monster grabbed her. Would she ever see it again? The loft was so cold and empty without her, yet Joren could almost hear her laughter, see her smile.

  Six years ago he had found her, while visiting his dying grandmother in southern Stonemark. Drawing water from the river one evening, he saw a crib floating toward him, fireflies hovering over it. A pink little creature lay inside: an Esiren baby, a note tied to her leg, sent from the Esiren hell while her parents awaited execution. The child was half dead; it was a miracle she had survived so far. Joren warmed the baby, fed her milk, and when his grandmother died he brought the child back to Grayrock. Sem wanted to give her to an orphanage, but Joren cried and begged till his father agreed to adopt her.

  But that had been before Sem lost his job, before he surrendered to the drink. He had been a different man then. Suddenly rage filled Joren: against the war, the poverty, the soldiers who had killed Aeolia’s parents. But mostly, Joren raged against his father, a father who did not bring food, who had sold his daughter, who had gambled away the money she had fetched. Swallowing his tears, Joren fell asleep. He dreamed a sweet dream, that he was adopted like Aeolia, and that his real father was a handsome prince.

  * * * * *

  Next morning, Joren climbed downstairs to find Sem holding a knife.

  Joren cowed back, his chest pounding.

  Sem smirked. “Don’t worry, son. It’s not you I’m after. It’s the dice-cheater I’m going to kill.”

  Grim determination in his eyes, Sem stepped out of the house.