Chapter 25

Gillen coughed slightly as she came out of her daze. There was a cloud of smoke and dirt around her making it difficult to catch her breath. As she lay on the ground, stunned, she could feel a hot wind wash over the exposed portions of her skin and bits and chunks of hard objects were bouncing and pinging off her armor. She raised and shook her head, still struggling to draw breath. Briefly, she moved her arms and legs and then, finally, her torso. She seemed to be unhurt except for a possible bruise here or there. She got to her knees and then slowly to her feet, something not altogether easy to do in plate mail. Bremer, Rooft and a few of the Viscount’s Guard made their feet before she did. Sir Givens was still struggling to rise though Bremer was moving to help him.

She turned to where the explosion had come from and couldn’t help the gasp which tore from her throat. A cloud of dust and dirt roiled, cutting off her view – but what drew her surprise wasn’t what she could see, but rather what she couldn’t.

The Town Hall was just ... gone.

Where it had once stood was a low, shattered outline of broken boards and fallen debris. It resembled nothing so much as a large maw of two- to three-foot high broken teeth. The fire and smoke billowing from between and behind those teeth made it look eerie and ominous, with a dark, treacherous voice of hissing and crackling from boards being consumed by the fires. It was as if a giant or devil had opened its evil maw and consumed the two-story building. The random flickers of yellow, red and orange licking up behind those rotten teeth of splintered boards were dozens of tongues of fire relishing their meal.

A large, misshapen mass of bronze lay but feet away from them, buried half in and half out of the building beside them. She recognized the smouldering, misshapen metal as having once been a bell – the bell from the steeple. The two groups had been inordinately lucky; the bell would have ended anyone it struck.

As the dust and dirt started to settle, she could see fragments of boards embedded in the buildings surrounding the Town Square – buildings twenty yards and more from the epicenter of the explosion. The buildings themselves were cracked and one building on the far side looked like its wall had just caved in. Windows were shattered and roofs were caved.

All around her, nothing lay untouched – not even the troops.

She was lucky again; the plate armor covered her entire body so the debris from that awful explosion had done nothing more than produce a few minor dents in the ghost-steel. She could see the same of Sir Givens, his older armor looking much worse for wear – but then retired knights had to turn in their ghost-steel armor for armor of plain steel. Many of the men and women around them weren’t faring nearly as well. Chain mail didn’t provide near the protection full plate armor did. Rooft and five of the Viscount’s Guard – men and women whose names she should have taken the time to know – were down with various injuries, at least one of them permanently.

She glanced over at Rooft, who was kneeling next to one of the dead. She remembered Fabren Rooft from happier times; when she was a recruit studying under Sir Givens. The man was not a warrior; he was a rancher. He raised goats and the occasional chicken. His skill with a bow came not from idle practice but from hunting; he supplemented his goat meat and chicken meat with venison, squirrel and, when he could, the odd boar. She knew he didn’t belong here, fighting the Red Guard, but she had need of him and he had volunteered. She also knew he really had nothing more to live for.

She remembered him as always being happy, always smiling, playing pranks, telling jokes. That was before, though. She had seen no smile on Rooft’s face since she entered town.

Bremer had shared the man’s history, sad as it was. His wife had died of consumption five seasons earlier. His son, his son’s husband and wife, and his only grandchild had died in a fire two seasons later. Since then, he’d continued in a thoughtless daze, tending his ranch for no reason other than he knew nothing else. Bremer thought he was just marking time, waiting for when he could re-join his family in his god’s gentle embrace.

Still, he’d volunteered for this fight gladly. When she’d asked why, he hadn’t held back. He was certain this was Tyln’s way of allowing him to rejoin his family with honor. She hadn’t had the heart to dissuade him – and she wasn’t altogether sure he wasn’t right in his conviction.

She staggered over to the man. She wasn’t hurt, just bruised – but it felt as if she were bruised everywhere.

“Why?” Rooft was saying softly. He heard Gillen walk up and looked up at her. “Why him? Why not take me? I’ve nothing to live for – and yet I keep going on. Do you suppose Tyln has even more in store for me? How much more pain can I take?”

The dead man’s eyes were staring in surprise at the sky, a huge chunk of metal skewering him through the middle of his chest. He was young – but then, all of the Viscount’s Guard were young. They were just starting out in life – and now life was over. Whatever the man might have become was over now.

The metal through the dead man’s chest was a testament to the violence of the explosion. The man was wearing chain mail and the metal – it looked like a brace or rail of some kind – had cut straight through it and him. It would take a powerful force to drive a piece of metal through chain mail like that.

“Chaos take it,” Sir Givens swore as he stood above Rooft and the dead man. “Thames. He was – he was barely seventeen.” Givens shook his head. “He was a good man. Chaos take it.”

“How many?” Gillen asked quietly as she approached.

“Besides Thames?” Tergin asked sourly. “Roofen likely won’t make it without help and Bronn, Buldh and Roidell can barely stand.” He looked down at Rooft’s leg, a long shard of wood about the thickness of an arrow sticking out and shook his head. “Add Rooft to that list; that wood had to have hit bone.”

“Tyln save us,” Oovert whispered under his breath next to her. He had staggered up behind the two.

“Sweet mother, I hope someone does,” Gillen muttered. She looked over at the smithy, not more than forty yards away. “We’ll have to leave someone to tend to the wounded. Who’s your best medic?”

“Bremer,” Sir Givens snorted. “She’s also our only archer left.” He looked around. “Senton can do it; Molinare’s better – but she’s a better sword, too. I think we’ll need the sword more than they’ll need a medic and Senton is ... adequate.”

“Oh, gods!” Gillen heard Bremer cry. “Teran!”

She and Tergin Givens looked over at the younger girl, hearing the anguish in her voice. Bremer was staring back at the remains, her hands pressed to her cheeks, her shoulders trembling. Gillen looked back but saw nothing – literally. If the girl had still been in the building...

She knew how the younger woman felt. She’d lost so many during this trip – and now, at least two more. She thought back to the smiling young girl with the blonde hair, certain she’d never see her again. She ground her teeth in frustration; so much lost potential.

She didn’t cry, though. She had no more tears. Days of continual loss had dried up her well of tears.

Instead, she drew a deep breath. “We need to move forward,” Gillen remarked, tamping down the hopelessness and agony running through her. “Ardt and Yren aren’t going to hold out long against the Reds.”

Bremer turned, tears streaming down her face. Her eyes were haunted and her shoulders were trembling. She closed her eyes and drew a deep breath. When she re-opened her eyes, they were still haunted but there was also a bit of resolve to them. Her jaw firmed and her shoulders stopped shaking as the young woman swallowed hard.

“We sure didn’t,” Tergin snorted in disgust – but he nodded. “There’s not enough of us left for two squads. We’ll have to combine units.”

The people in the smithy, both above ground and below, heard and felt the massive explosion. The people hiding in the cellar of the smithy stumbled without falling but the blast knocked Yren and Ardt to their knees and shattered most of the glass windows in the front shop.

“Gods!” Ardt heard the princess’ muffled cry. “What was that?”

“Shh, your highness,” Ardt heard one of the knights cautioning the princess. “They’ll let us know – if it’s safe for them to do so.”

Ardt’s hand found one of the shelves near him and gripped it tightly. He’d been standing near the door heading into the house, intending to check yet again that it was locked. He used the shelf to lever himself to his feet, though just pulling himself up was a chore. He felt bruised.

“Is everyone down there alright?” he asked, as he picked up the hammer from where he’d dropped it.

“Yes,” came a voice. It sounded like one of the knights, but he couldn’t be sure. “What was that?”

“I don’t know,” Ardt responded, his voice hoarse. “Let me take a look and I’ll let you know.”

He could see Yren struggling to stand. He knew his son was strong, but the armor was new to the boy. Yren was still learning how to move within it. He moved into the shop, rolling his shoulders a bit because they felt stiff. He walked towards Yren, his eyes noting the shattered windows and his steps crunching loud beneath his hard-soled boots. The room was certainly a mess. Most of their display pieces had fallen over if not fallen completely off the shelf. He wondered offhandedly how long before they could clean up the mess then shook the thought off when it became whether they’d even be alive to clean up the mess.

He moved to Yren’s side. The young man waved him away, but Ardt stopped and offered his large hand. Yren grabbed it and used it to pull himself to his feet.

The two made their way outside – but neither said a word when they looked to the north. All they could do was gape at the slowly dissipating cloud of dust, dirt and soot settling around the area where the Town Hall had once stood. Neither man could believe the destruction could be so complete.

“Teran!” Yren cried, starting to move to the north. Ardt grabbed him, stopping him.

“Tergin’s there; she’s probably with him,” the blacksmith reasoned hopefully. Hope was all he had.

“I’ve got to go see,” Yren snarled urgently, trying to shake off the older man. “I have to make sure she’s alright.”

“Yren, you can’t,” Ardt replied, his voice breaking. Ardt’s heart was thudding in his chest, his eldest daughter’s smile racing through his head. In his mind’s eye, memories of his eldest filled him: the wonder of holding her as a baby, the joy of watching her draw her first bow, the tenderness of their union on her majority. His heart felt like lead at the thought of never seeing her again, but he had to believe she’d made it. He had to believe she was with Sir Tergin – he couldn’t bear to even think about what it would mean if she wasn’t.

He had a job to do, though. He had two other daughters and his wife to protect. Like it or not, he had to put away his agony of what might be to take care of them. “We have to stay here. We have to make sure the rest of our family is safe.”

The last line broke through to the younger man, stopping him. He tamped down the slowly burning anger inside of him, pushing the hate back into its corner. He closed his eyes as the bile rose to his throat. He had to know. Gods above, he had to know!

He also had to save his family. He had been too young, only five seasons old, when his last family had died. He couldn’t allow himself to lose another. He glanced at the mound of rubble in the distance and swallowed hard. There was no good choice – but he had to choose the certainty of life over the question of death. He didn’t like it – but he had to accept it.