Shadowstorm (27 page)

Abelar, Endren, and Regg stared at the smoke in silence for a time while the company geared up. Abelar’s hand went to his holy symbol. He chose to believe the smoke came from something other than the Corrinthal estate. He did not think Lathander would have granted the miracle back in the village, would have returned his father to him, only to have Abelar fail to reach his son in time. But belief did not chase his fears.

“Mount up,” he said to his father and Regg, then called Jiiris to him. Her green eyes mirrored his fears back at him. She understood what the smoke might mean. Everyone did. Abelar held onto his emotions and kept his voice level.

“Ride on to Saerb. We’re ahead of Forrin’s main force. Endren, Regg, Roen, and I will take two score men to investigate … the smoke.”

She nodded, reached as if to touch his hand, but stopped just short.

“I would rather accompany you, Abelar.”

He shook his head. “No. Take the company to Saerb and organize an evacuation. Regg’s father will be at Oakhaven, and he is ill. Send men to secure his safety. Then send word to the nobility that we are to muster on the western shore of Lake Veladon. Make sure they know that my father rides with us, that he is calling the muster.”

Jiiris nodded. “And from there?”

Endren put in, “Depends on our numbers. And Forrin’s. Once our forces are assembled, we’ll evaluate.”

Abelar said, “We will meet you there. Be wary, Jiiris. There may be raiders afoot.”

She lowered her gaze, nodded. “I am sorry, Abelar.”

He refused to acknowledge the implication of her words.

“Stay in the light,” he said to her.

She looked him in the eyes, firmed up. “And you, my lord.”

The company said its farewells. The bulk of the men moved east to Saerb. Abelar, Endren, Regg, Roen, and a score more headed northeast toward the smoke, toward the Corrinthal estate, toward Elden.

They pushed their mounts into a gallop. Abelar tried to keep alert for any signs of raiders but he could not focus. The grass and the trees blurred in his vision.

The men spoke little, and the silence was telling. Abelar felt numb, dazed. With each of Swiftdawn’s strides, he felt a little more of him shaken loose. He could not stop imagining one horrible end or another for his son. Tears wetted his cheeks and he gave Swiftdawn her head. She pulled away from the rest of the group. Abelar heard his companions calling after him but he ignored them. He had to see. He had to know.

And he had to be first.

The smell of smoke grew stronger as he dashed through the grasslands and woods that he knew well enough to navigate in his sleep. Clouds masked the sun. Abelar’s mouth went dry as he neared a familiar rise that would allow him to see the estate. He slowed Swiftdawn, topped the rise, and saw the destruction below him.

“No,” he said, and the tears started anew. He had expected it, but expecting it did nothing to prepare him for the sight of it.

He heeled Swiftdawn and she tore off down the rise and toward the estate.

The gates lay flattened on the ground, trampled underfoot. Dried blood spattered the gatehouse. Flames had consumed the manse and barracks. Both were little more than blackened skeletons of wood and stone. They still radiated heat. The village stood unmolested, but unoccupied and ghostly. The stables, too, remained, but they were empty of horses. Abelar halted Swiftdawn near the gatehouse. He saw no bodies.

Perhaps most of them had fled. Perhaps Elden was safe in Saerb even now.

“Hail!” he called. “Anyone!”

A murder of crows, startled by his shout, took flight from behind the manse. Their caws mocked his hopes. His heart climbed up his throat.

“Abelar!” Endren called from behind him.

The rest of his companions had reached the rise. They, too, saw the destruction, the crows.

“Wait, Abelar!”

His companions thundered down the rise and over the plains, but Abelar did not wait. He had to see. He whickered at Swiftdawn and she walked him around the ruins of the manse. Spots of churned earth dotted the grounds; blood stained the grass here and there.

His people had not fled. They had fought. And fallen.

He rounded the manse to see a pile of corpses heaped behind it. Dozens of them. Arms and legs jutted from the pile. Empty eyes stared out at Abelar. They had been cast into a pile like so much offal. Perhaps the raiders had thought to burn them but changed their minds.

Abelar felt lightheaded. He clutched at Swiftdawn s mane to keep from falling.

A few stubborn crows still worried at the corpses, poking at eyes, pulling at scraps of flesh.

Taken with a sudden rage, Abelar leaped off Swiftdawn, drew his sword, and ran at the birds. They cawed and took wing before he reached them, one of them with a grisly strip of flesh hanging from its beak.

Abelar stuck his blade in the earth and sank to his knees beside the bodies. He saw familiar faces among the dead—Erkin, Silla, Wrelldon, Mern, many others. He wanted to look away, fearing he would see Elden’s face staring back at him, but the pile drew his gaze like a lodestone.

“How could you allow this?” he said, and meant both himself and Lathander. “How?”

Endren, Regg, Roen, and the rest of the men rode up.

“Name of the gods,” Regg oathed.

Endren said nothing, merely stared, stricken.

Both dismounted and walked to Abelar’s side. Regg put a hand on his shoulder, Endren a hand on the other.

“Forrin dies for this,” Endren said softly. “By all the gods, he dies.”

Abelar nodded. His grief left no room for anger, but Forrin would die for it. He leaned on his sword and rose to his feet.

“We separate them,” he said to the men. “I want to see my son.

None of his men made eye contact. All nodded. Endren looked away.

As one, the men set about the grisly work of pulling apart the death-stiffened bodies. They grouped them into men, women, and children.

“Bastards,” Endren said throughout. “Bastards.”

The men took care to place the bodies in the sunlight and most murmured prayers to the Morninglord as they worked. Abelar did his share but he felt dead himself. His mind turned to everything he had not done with his son, everything he had never said.

“They are only hours dead,” Roen said.

Abelar had arrived hours too late. Hours. He nodded.

Regg said, “Brend, examine the tracks at the gates. Learn what you can.”

Brend, dark-haired and only a head taller than a dwarf, was the most proficient tracker in the company. He hurried off to the gates.

The men continued to disentangle the bodies. They called out the names of those they recognized. Abelar looked up sharply when Regg spoke Mriistin’s name. The old priest had served the Corrinthals and Lathander for over two decades. Abelar had first learned of Lathander from Mriistin.

Shaking his head to clear it of memories, Abelar turned over a woman’s body—Kaesa, Elden’s nurse. Her brown eyes stared up

at the sky. Blood stained her cloak and nightdress. He called out her name, his voice as dull and gray as the sky.

Endren looked up, eyes troubled, no doubt fearing Elden’s name would soon follow. He and Regg moved to Abelar’s side.

“Poor girl,” Endren said.

“Aye,” Regg said.

Despair sat heavy on Abelar’s shoulders. Kaesa had been like an older sister to Elden. She had been like a daughter to Abelar. He lifted her from the earth, carried her over to the rest of the dead, and laid her gently on the earth. He returned to the place where he had found her.

“Help me,” he said to Regg and Endren, and the three men searched the bodies for Elden. Abelar’s heart pounded with trepidation. Soon they had identified all of the dead.

“He is not here,” Endren said.

“Could he have escaped?” asked Regg, a touch of hope in his tone.

Abelar shook his head. Elden went nowhere without Kaesa. He looked at the burned manse, imagined his son dying in the flames. He could not bear it. Tears flowed anew.

Regg took him by the shoulder and held him up. “Abelar, he could have run away in fear. He is small. He could be hiding somewhere.”

Endren seized on the possibility. “Yes. Search the grounds. The stag woods are his favorite.”

Abelar said, “Call for him, Father. He will answer you if he is there.”

Endren looked at him curiously. “He will answer you, too. Come.”

Abelar shook his head. “I must do something else first. I will join you apace.”

Regg tapped Endren on the shoulder. “Come. We ride.”

Regg, Endren, and the men mounted up and Regg issued orders about where to search.

“Roen,” Abelar called.

“Commander?”

“Hold a moment. I need something from you.”

Roen looked a question at him but slid off his horse. Meanwhile, Regg, Endren, and the rest of the company galloped off.

“Elden is not in the stag woods, Roen,” Abelar said. The tall priest kept his face expressionless. “Nothing is impossible, Abelar.”

“No, it’s not,” Abelar said. “Pray with me, Roen.” “Commander?”

Abelar’s eyes welled but he did not care. “Pray with me. We are going to ask Lathander whether Elden lives. I will have the word from him. Now.”

Roen’s expression softened. He put a hand on Abelar’s shoulder.

“I will pray with you, Abelar. But I am unable to cast so powerful a spell as will allow me to commune with Lathander. I—”

Abelar knocked his arm down and gripped him by the shoulders, more harshly than he intended. “I am not asking you to cast a spell, priest! I am asking you to pray with me to our god for my son.”

Roen looked at him wide-eyed, nodded. “Of course. I am sorry. Of course.”

Abelar removed his hands. Softly he said, “I’m sorry.”

“It is nothing,” Roen said. “Come. Let us pray.”

Together, the two servants of Lathander kneeled in the grass, under a gray sky, in the shadow of ruins and death. While the men of Abelar’s company scoured the grounds calling for Elden, Roen and Abelar clasped hands and prayed to their god. Abelar laid his shield in the grass beside him, the rose facing the sky. They recited the traditional prayer together. “Dawn dispels the night and births the world anew. Morninglord, light our way, show us wisdom, and in so doing allow us to be light to others.”

Roen continued. “Let your light shine through the darkness of the deeds done here and illuminate the hearts of your servants. Your faithful follower Abelar Corrinthal would ask you about the fate of his son.”

Abelar squeezed his eyes shut. Tears leaked between the lids and flowed down his cheeks, into his beard.

“Please give us a sign, Morninglord,” Roen said. “Show us whether Elden Corrinthal is alive or … not.”

Abelar, head bowed, felt as if he were awaiting an executioner’s axe. He dreaded a sign, but he had to have one. If Lathander could send a miracle to a village to heal a plague, surely he could spare a sign for one of his faithful.

Nothing.

“Morninglord,” Roen said. “Your faithful servant humbly requests some small token—”

“A sign,” Abelar said, his voice too loud, his tone too demanding. He opened his eyes. “Give me a damned sign. I have dedicated my life to you and asked for nothing.”

“Abelar…” Roen said.

“Is he alive?” Abelar slammed his fist on the face of his shield. “Is my son alive? Tell me!”

“Abelar Corrinthal,” Roen said, and put a hand on his shoulder. “Times of crisis are a test of our faith.”

“My son is not a plaything for tests!” Abelar shouted.

Roen merely looked at him, held him by the shoulder.

The priest’s unwavering touch and steady voice calmed him. Abelar remembered his words to Denril at the Abbey of Dawn. He had condemned the Risen Sun heretics for wanting Lathander to change the world for them instead of changing it for themselves. His voice broke as he said to his god, “I am not asking you to do my work. Please, Morninglord. I am asking you to show me the way. Please, show me the way!”

Roen said, “It is not always clear …”

The clouds above them parted and sunbeams drenched Abelar’s shield, lit up the battle-scarred rose enameled on it.

“Look, Abelar,” Roen said, his voice hushed. Hope pulled Abelar to his feet.

The rose flared and the scars of countless combats vanished. It was made anew.

“Blessed light,” Roen breathed, staring in awe.

“He is alive,” Abelar said, and looked to the sky, to the sun. “Where, Morninglord? Where?”

A peal of thunder rumbled the sky to the east.

“East,” Abelar said.

Roen stood, speechless, his hand on the holy symbol at his throat. He shook his head. “I have never seen…”

Abelar held the priest by the shoulder with one hand and held his sword aloft with the other. He caused it to flare with white light, bright enough to summon his riders.

“To me!” he shouted. “Now, to me!”

He lifted his shield and kissed the rose as his men tore back to him at a gallop. They gathered around him, questions in their eyes. Abelar looked into the eyes of his father, his men.

“Lathander has shown me that my son lives.”

“There is no question,” Roen said, a touch of awe in his tone. “I saw it myself.”

The men murmured, whispered supplications and thanks.

“The sun rises,” Regg said, and the men all nodded.

Abelar searched their faces for Brend. “Brend, speak of what you learned.”

“Four score,” the tracker said. “Perhaps a hundred. All mounted. They rode—”

“East,” Abelar finished, and sheathed his blade.

“The tracks are less than a day old, Commander,” Brend said.

Abelar nodded. “Eighty of Forrin’s men have Elden. They must. And they may have others. No doubt they intend to rendezvous with the rest of their army as it approaches Saerb.”

He paced a circle amidst his men, holding the gaze of first one man, then another. “I intend to stop them.”

Nods around.

“I intend to rescue my son.”

He looked at the burned ruins, at the bodies, and his heart hardened. “And I intend to punish every one of those riders for the crimes they have committed here.”

More nods, scattered, “Ayes.”

“We are only a score of men.”