“It sounded like Ulian!” Elodie added as Ulian himself broke from the brush followed by two other fauns, who stopped at the sight of Torden and the girls. Both fauns looked unkempt: the male had a long, untrimmed beard, and the female’s hair was tangled and matted.
“They’re not from Watersmeet, are they?” Abisina asked.
As the centaur and the girls approached, the two new fauns bolted. But Ulian grabbed the male’s arm before he got away, crying, “There’s nothing to worry about. They’re with me!” The male faun stopped struggling. The female ran off several paces before halting, unwilling to abandon her mate. “Really, they won’t hurt you,” Ulian urged, and Torden, Abisina, and Elodie threw down their weapons to show they meant no harm.
The female took a few steps toward them, tugging on her dark hair. “The tales are true, Darvus?” Her eyes darted from face to face. “They are here together—fauns, centaurs, and humans?”
“And dwarves and fairies!” Ulian added so vigorously that the female retreated again.
“Then you’re not with the White Worm and his army?” Darvus whispered, peering around furtively as if Charach hid nearby. “It’s
him
we’re running from. We thought you were one of his captives. Erna and I were trying to rescue you,” he told Ulian.
Ulian had to fight a smile. “No, we’re not with them,” he reassured the new fauns. “In fact, we’ve come over the Obrun Mountains to stop the White Worm.”
“Erna! It’s the stuff of legends!” Darvus cried. “An army from the other side of the mountains!”
Darvus and Erna were the first of a stream of fauns, dwarves—and a few centaurs—refugees from Charach, each with a new story of his terror.
Charach and the Vranians had been moving steadily northeast toward the Low Col, destroying the country as they went, and driving before them the folk who had once called the forest their home. One dwarf explained that the White Worm’s skin oozed a poison that wiped out anything living on the land. “We’ll never be harvesting roots there again, my friend,” he said to Haret, shaking his head sadly. “And the creatures with him! Minotaurs driven by hags, huge wolves that can walk on their hind feet, trolls—great, scaly things that ten men keep in chains so they don’t gorge on the creatures who are supposed to be their allies!”
A centaur brought tales of Icksyon and his band. They had taken up with Charach’s army, fanning out to capture deserters who tried to slip into the trees. “I know what the Vranians have done to us, destroying our sacred places”—the centaur shook his head—“but I don’t see how my brothers and sisters can join the Worm.”
If any of the folk from Watersmeet still believed that Rueshlan’s forces should simply defend the Col, the refugees changed their minds. Watersmeet was now united in the belief that Charach must be destroyed, and some even questioned Rueshlan’s offer of clemency to the Vranians. If they could stand with Charach, how could they be forgiven? The fairies encouraged this line of thinking, but Rueshlan stood firm against it.
Once the stream of refugees started, Abisina spent as much time as she could at the dwarf ruin with those who needed rest and healing. Here, she kept her hands busy and her mind off the coming confrontation. Abisina spent hours making comfrey poultices, wrapping wounds, and offering yarrow tonics to those whose nightmares kept them from getting the rest they needed. The work didn’t just keep her worries at bay; it felt good to twist a bandage or brew a tonic as her mother had taught her. As she fell asleep on their fourth night at the battlefield, her hands smelled like Sina’s.
Abisina was at the ruin showing Meelah how to tie an arm sling when one of Alden’s cousins bustled up to her and insisted she come with him immediately. She agreed—indeed, the dwarf refused any other answer—but no matter how many times she asked him why she was needed, he only said that Haret sent him and it was supposed to be a surprise.
She followed him back toward the main camp where a familiar voice rose from a cluster of folk: “. . . saw them coming and hid in a thicket till they passed. Had my axe, of course, but didn’t think it was wise to take on all six. Four, I could’ve done!”
“Hoysta!” Abisina cried and ran forward, slipping through the crowd.
And there she was—standing next to a beaming Haret in the center of the circle, an enormous axe tucked in her belt.
“Dearie!” she cried with a now toothless grin. It was clear that the last few months had been rough on her: she had bruises on her face—some old, some newer—and a gash on her leg. Her animal-skin tunic was rubbed bare in places, her boots were tied on with a bit of rawhide, and she stooped more. When Abisina threw her arms around the old dwarf, Hoysta felt thinner, but she held Abisina as tightly as ever. “Now don’t cry, dearie,” Hoysta said, patting her back. But it was too late.
“Let me look at you,” Hoysta said, holding her at arm’s length. “Grown so tall! You’d hardly fit in our entryway now. Not that any of us will be able to return to that dwelling.”
“Destroyed?” Haret asked.
Hoysta grimaced. “Charach and his Vranians came through early in the raids, killing any creature who crossed their path. Had gone to offer my axe to folk northwest of us, but by the time I got there, they had already left. When I got home, the Worm had ripped out that tree—the one right at the entrance—and its roots pulled up the entry tunnel. Wanted to dig in and save anything left, but it was soaked in
his
poison.” Hoysta ran a scarred hand under her nose and sniffed in disgust. “Nothing left for me there, so I took up with the other dwarves moving east, looking for any chance to take a stand against the Worm.” She reached out to Haret. “Had to trust that somehow we would find each other, if we survived—and here we are! You made it to Watersmeet, dearie, and you found your father!” Hoysta looked from Haret to Abisina, smiling broadly.
“Is this the Hoysta I heard so much about?” Rueshlan’s voice rolled over the group, and the folk stepped aside to let him pass. He was in his human form, and Hoysta’s eyes widened as they traveled up Rueshlan’s body to his face. “Oh, dearie,” she said to Abisina, “you’re going to be
very
tall!”
Laughing, Rueshlan got down on his knees and took Hoysta’s grimy hands in his. “Thank you,” he said, his voice shaking, “for saving my daughter and sending her to me.”
A flush crept up Hoysta’s cheeks. She had just drawn in a great breath to launch into her response when Kyron galloped up, his flanks in a lather. “Rueshlan! We’ve captured some Vranians!”
Rueshlan jumped to his feet. “Soldiers?”
“Deserters,” Kyron said. “But they put up a good fight. We couldn’t convince them we wouldn’t hurt them. Granfeur took an arrow in the shoulder. It was the centaurs that really set them off. They calmed a bit when Neiall showed up, but one of them kept screaming ‘Outcast!’ at him.”
The blood drained from Abisina’s face. Her father’s hand was there to steady her, but she stood strong. “Go, Father,” she urged. “Find out what they know.”
As Rueshlan followed Kyron, Abisina called out, “Wait! Bring Findlay with you!” Her father glanced back questioningly. “He looks Vranian,” she added.
Abisina and Haret led Hoysta to the ruin for breakfast and so Abisina could tend to the hot, red cut on the dwarf’s leg. Hoysta said she longed for a true cave after “weeks crawling on the surface,” but appreciated at least having stone walls around her. She told them about her journey east in detail. Abisina struggled to concentrate on the old dwarf’s words, thinking of the Vranians now somewhere in the camp. Were any from Vranille? Kyron said that they were deserters, but what if they were spies? Would they take Rueshlan’s offer of clemency?
“Human!” Haret shouted.
“What?”
“I said, ‘Why don’t you go to them, since that’s all you can think about anyway.’”
“No. No,” she said hastily. “Father will tell me who they are when he returns.”
“Then go back to the main camp and wait for him.”
“Go, dearie,” Hoysta added as Abisina hesitated. “Haret will look after me.”
But going back to the camp proved worse. With Hoysta and Haret she had some distraction. Now, she simply waited, and waited alone. Findlay had gone with Rueshlan, Elodie was at the ruin, and Abisina was too agitated to talk to anyone else. Finally, she headed to the archers’ rise where she could pace back and forth on the hilltop.
And it was there that Rueshlan and Findlay approached her, climbing the slope as if they carried a heavy weight.
She searched their tired and grim faces. “What did they say? Are any from Vranille?”
“A few,” said Rueshlan. “In fact, we wouldn’t have gotten anywhere without one young man from there. . . . His name is Corlin.”
“Oh!” Abisina’s hand went to her mouth.
“There are about thirty of them. They wouldn’t talk. I told them again and again that we had no intention of hurting them. I asked the centaurs to pull back into the trees, and Kyron went and got a few more humans—those who looked most Vranian.” Rueshlan sighed. “I felt like one of their Elders, choosing people for skin and hair color! I had to move back myself––even though I was in my human form. When it was just Findlay, they started to talk. But let Findlay tell you. . . . He actually spoke to them.”
“I spoke to Corlin,” Findlay said. “None of the rest would say much. And Corlin was nervous, too. He didn’t give me details. Mostly, he wanted to know what was going to happen to them. I explained that we wanted to help them, that we had come to defeat Charach, but I’m not sure he believed me. Abisina . . . I think you should talk to him.”
“Me?”
“He knows you,” Rueshlan urged, “and they may know something about what Charach is planning. It would give us an advantage. And more important, if we can convince them that we want to help them, we’ll have a better chance with the others.”
“But they hate me! They wouldn’t talk to me in Vranille. Why would they talk to me now?”
“This is all so frightening for them. You’re someone they at least recognize—”
“Yes, recognize as a demon!”
“Please, Abisina,” said Rueshlan. “This Corlin could be critical to our success. I know how hard this is for you, but it’s our best chance to save lives.”
Abisina felt the fear hammering in her chest. Would she never be free? Would she always be tied to these people? But if it could save her father, save Watersmeet . . . she had to say yes.
Neiall and several other pale-skinned men—the Vranians ignored the women—had guided the thirty refugees to a clearing close to the dwarf ruin: a ragged group of skinny, unkempt people huddled together, casting fearful eyes toward the trees. The majority were men, with a few women, and some boys between ten and fifteen winters. There were no younger children. No girls.
Abisina barely recognized Corlin as he approached her and Findlay. He had a cut down the right side of his face, his blond hair was matted with dried blood, and he walked with a slight limp.
When he reached them, Findlay spoke first: “You remember Abisina, I think?”
Corlin nodded, without looking at her.
Abisina wanted only to get away, but she had a job to do. “Corlin, my fa—Rueshlan and all of us are here to try and stop Charach. Isn’t that what you want?”
“Yes,” Corlin said, still without looking at her.
“We need to know everything you know about him—and about the army. Rueshlan—my
father
—” She said it firmly this time.
Corlin’s head snapped up. “Your father? You mean—”
“Yes.” Abisina persisted. “My father doesn’t want to kill Vranians. Charach is our enemy. We need to know if there are other Vranians who would fight against him.”
Corlin sighed and touched the wound on the side of his head gingerly. “We didn’t see it at first. Not clearly. We—I—” Corlin dropped his head.
Is he ashamed?
Abisina wondered.
“I was blinded by his strength and his promises. We thought he was Vran.” Corlin glanced toward Abisina then, to see if she understood. She remembered how she had felt when Charach first began to speak at the Ritual. He had described the “bestial” centaurs, the “demonic” fauns, and the “repugnant” dwarves so convincingly, her own stomach had churned in revulsion. For an instant, she too had suffered from Corlin’s blindness. Corlin may have seen a glimmer of understanding in her face because he went on. “It got bad very quickly. First the killing of the outcasts, your mother—”
His eyes flitted to hers again, but this time there was no empathy there. “You’re not telling me
that
changed people’s minds, are you?”
“No,” he said quietly. “For a while it even seemed to prove what we all wanted to believe—that Charach could bring us power over our enemies. We thought with Charach we would become what we’re supposed to be . . . the Children of Vran.” He shuddered as if the words tasted bitter. “He promised us an end to all the suffering—the hunger and disease. He was so sure! How could we not believe him?”
He looked directly at her, pleading.
He wants forgiveness
, Abisina realized, and she was thrown into confusion.
He saved me once! Don’t I owe him forgiveness? But the rest of them . . .
He looked away as if he knew her answer.
“My mother didn’t believe him,” he said dully. “Not even that first day. She actually tried to shelter an outcast. Do you remember Delvyn? For years my mother had been helping her however she could. My mother tried to hide her. But she was discovered. And my mother had to feign happiness at her capture. It almost killed her. She would have died with Delvyn, but she didn’t know what would happen to me—”