Chapter 14: Bar’vanaya

Smythe hobbled through the sprawling camp as fast as he could manage, using Lightbringer as a crutch, grounding the greatsword’s point in place of his missing leg. All around him, Dwarves scrambled to secure tents and weapon racks and picket lines against the rising winds coming out of the north. Smythe evaded them all, keeping his vala suppressed and his head down, though the latter was hardly necessary; nobody noticed a cripple.

He needed to be away from them all, away from Elaina and Elsa and everyone. He needed time to think, to get his head right. At least, that was what he was telling himself. You know what you’re going away to do, a sad voice in his head told him. You might as well admit it to yourself.

He cursed as a particularly sharp gust of wind pushed him off balance, forcing him to his good knee. He knelt for a moment, leaning on the sword. Never in his life had he felt helpless, even before his powers had manifested, but now any of these Dwarven soldiers scurrying about could best him. Shit, maybe even the cooks could.

Gritting his teeth, he forced through his fatigue and stood again, determined to get out of the camp. Careful to keep his bond with Elsa muted, he resumed his awkward gait. The afternoon sky above dimmed as thick clouds overtook the sun. There was no point staying to help; he was one of those who needed help, not one who could give it. That fact banded his chest with iron. Face hard, he pressed on, not noticing when the Dwarves who thought to offer him a hand shied away from his expression.

He was out of the camp a few minutes later, heading south toward the Emerin Forest, so engrossed in his own bitterness that he gave no thought to the fact the storm never arrived. There was a powerful surge of vala, too, as if every arohim in the camp was doing something at once, but whatever was happening, they could do it without him. His own vala beckoned to him, wanting to join the others pulsing back at camp, and offering him some strength despite his weakened condition, but he ignored it. What was the point now? A small part of his mind offered responses to that thought, good ones, but he shoved them away. Those were hope playing tricks on him. They weren’t real, not like a missing leg.

He hobbled along for two miles through the grass, mostly trampled flat by the recent passage of the army. His occasional glances behind showed nobody was following him. Good. As he was passing beneath a small stand of pine trees - a collection of a dozen or so that somehow hadn’t been flattened by storms - a familiar figure stepped out from behind one. He stopped at once.

Tall and darkly beautiful, Vayani watched him, brilliant green eyes moving over his form. Her head tilted when her gaze landed where his right leg used to be. Despite his sour mood, Smythe couldn’t help but look her over. Her only covering was a series of vines sprouting pretty flowers in pinks and blues and yellows that wound about her round, soft limbs and across her forehead as if they’d grown there naturally. Her hair was a vibrant carpet of long, green grasses. She looked exactly as she had when he’d first met her, except now there was a distinct roundness to her belly that had not been there before.

She put a hand on that bump as she swayed toward him, and a bosom that rivalled Elaina’s shifted in time with her steps. Shoots bloomed from beneath the carpet of dead pine needles on the ground, spreading away from her feet when they landed.

As lovely as she was to behold, Smythe wished the Queen of the Forests had chosen a better time. Grimacing more with embarrassment than effort, he knelt respectfully. Or at least, he tried to, but thick vines shot from the ground and wound around him, gently forcing him erect. The vines weren’t tight; they supported him more than anything. They lifted him up higher, so he was suspended a few feet above the ground as Vayani stopped in front of him. The way she was holding him like this made him think of the last time they’d been together. She hadn’t exactly forced herself on him, but had Smythe not wanted her attentions, he doubted the outcome would have been any different. Still, stunning as she was, he felt no love for her. Some affection, maybe, some desire for her beauty, but she was so alien that the very notion seemed impractical.

Her eyes were fixed on his stump, hidden beneath the dangling leg of his breeches that flapped impotently in the wind. “You are injured,” she observed, touching the place where his leg ended just above the knee. The sighing, breezy quality to her voice was almost soothing.

Smythe bit back a sharp reply. Best not to upset her. Just because she was carrying his child did not mean she wouldn’t take umbrage to disrespect. “Yes,” was all he said.

Her eyes found his. “How? You are not easy prey, arohim.”

Smythe didn’t want to answer. The last thing he wanted was to relive what had happened. His own stupidity, and the steep price of it. How many thousands were dead? His leg was the least of it. Despite his feelings, his mouth started moving, and the words spilled out. Vayani’s face grew hard, and by the end, her full lips were pressed together so tightly they were white instead of brown. Eyes the colour of spring grass flashed threateningly. Smythe almost opened his vala to try and protect himself, but the vines around him didn’t tighten; she wasn’t angry at him.

“Enough!” she snapped, cutting him off. She closed her eyes and faced the sky, the dark clouds from earlier were now dissipating, oddly enough. Sunshine broke through from the west at that moment, bathing them in the gold-orange light of late afternoon. “Too long have I sat aside,” Vayani said softly, as if to herself. “Too long.”

When she looked at Smythe again, he felt very glad he was not the source of what he saw in those eyes. Even with his vala suppressed, he sensed her emotion. Deep, colossal wrath. Something was about to happen. Something momentous.

“You will not do what you intended, this day,” she told him, her face impassive. “The land needs you, arohim. I will not allow it.”

Smythe realised she was talking about the thing he had not yet admitted to himself. He had been running away to die. Falling on his own sword was a far more honourable death than wasting away as a cripple, always on the sidelines, never in the fight. He sighed. It would have been so easy, just finding a quiet place and falling forward, letting Lightbringer pierce his heart. He would have released Elsa first, of course, so she would not have felt the pain of his death. “I cannot fight,” he told Vayani. “Look at me!” He was angry, he realised. And he had just shouted at a world guardian. Well, if he wanted death, she could do it just as well as his sword.

“This,” she flicked a hand at his stump dismissively, “is nothing.” The vines around him changed, winding around his severed leg. He watched wide-eyed as green shoots sprung forth from those vines, braiding together and taking shape. They solidified into something impossible, something he had not dared to dream about. Heavy bark spread across the new growth, smooth yet hard, and pale like his skin.

“I...” words were lost to him as Vayani lowered him, until his feet touched the ground. His feet! From his thigh, something had grown to replace what was lost, made of vines and bark. He tested his weight on it, feeling the strength and flex he’d had before, perhaps even more.

“He is called Bar’vanaya,” Vayani said, watching him try out his new foot. “He is strong, and loyal, and will always grow back if cut off or damaged.” The way she was talking about the appendage meant it was its own creature, alive.

“Vayani,” Smythe breathed, “thank you.” This time he did kneel, before she could stop him.

“You were foolish to think your life was forfeit,” she said. “Perhaps Bar’vanaya will help you realise the truth.”

Smythe nodded, bowing his head, feeling no small amount of shame. He had almost thrown his life away for nothing. He owed a great debt to Elaina, Elsa, all of them. When he raised his head, Vayani was striding away into the trees. She vanished behind the trunk of a pine. He didn’t bother to follow her; she was already long gone.

“Wouldn’t want to be a bloody Herald today,” he muttered as he pushed himself to his feet. Wasting no time, he took up his sword and hurried back to camp.

Rodric Eames stood in his spacious square tent, eyes closed, thumb and forefinger pinched tightly to the bridge of his nose. Through the yellow canvas walls, he could hear the urgent but concise orders being shouted as Heralds erected the rest of the camp in the late afternoon. After the colossal blunder near Ironshire, he’d pushed his soldiers hard, urging them north as fast as they could without killing the horses.

His hand trembled as he lowered it from his face and opened his eyes. Fire and fury, he was tired, but thankfully alone in the tent that served as both a headquarters and his personal space. A small collapsible desk and chair sat against one wall, and a larger round table in the centre where maps were spread, the corners held down by small marble figurines of men and horses, their polished surfaces glimmering in the light of the lanterns hanging from hooks above.

Despite his resolve not to look at the map again, his weary eyes wandered that way. A small cluster of yellow stones marked his force, due east of Maralon and heading north, aimed for the Dawnguard. Behind, a few leagues to the south, a much larger force was marked with a spread of multi-coloured stones. Ahead of the yellow was another spread of black stones, not as large as the coloured one, but still enough to cause worry.

It had been such a beautiful plan. His name would have been sung among Heralds for generations to come; the Lord Captain who had outmaneuvered Dwarves and Elves and arohim and pinned a tide of darkspawn to the southern Dawnwall, ready for slaughter. His only choice now was to move west and take refuge in Maralon or be swept aside by the army approaching from the south. There was at least one point of solace in all this: his efforts in the Northguard were proving fruitful. More than a dozen arohim in custody at last report. A dozen! He had never hoped for so many. Despite the grimness of the day, he smiled.

A scream from out in the camp brought his head up from the map. Had someone had an accident? There was another yell, frightened, and another, then a chorus coming from every direction. Had their enemy already crossed all that distance from the south? Cursing, he hurried to the tent entrance and pushed the flap open. Violent, impossible chaos greeted him. Everywhere he looked, vines were shooting from the ground, whipping at his men, snaring their arms, legs, necks. Those vines had thorns, and red bloomed wherever the vines found flesh.

Men and horses ran in every direction, terrified. Heralds brave enough to stand and fight were quickly felled by the deadly tendrils. What demon’s magic was this? “Hold, you cowards!” he shouted above the din. “Fight!” One soldier skidded to a halt a few feet away from Eames, his eyes wide with fear in his youthful face. Still, he turned and drew his sword, searching for something to attack. A sturdy vine snaked from behind Eames’ tent and took the boy around the neck. There was a snap, and he fell limply to the ground.

With an oath, Eames darted from the tent and ran through the camp. If he could get to a horse ... The neat and orderly rows of yellow tents were now in a shambles, many collapsed or halfway to it. His hopes of escape were smashed as he saw the ten-foot wall of blackthorn bushes rolling slowly over the camp. A glance behind showed him the same; a ring of spiky death, fencing in any who might evade the vines. His stomach turned as he saw yellow-cloaked figures caught inside those bushes, struggling against the thorns as their skin was cut to ribbons.

A vine wound around Eames’ throat, constricting. He gasped for air as his eyes bulged, his fingers scrabbling against the knotted vine, gouging themselves on the thorns. His vision darkened quickly, but not before he saw the face of a beautiful, brown-skinned woman with hair of brilliant green.

Aran fell out of the night sky, hitting the ground with a thud, bending to take the force of his landing with one hand braced against the hard-packed earth in the village square of Korrin, his birthplace. Squat, thatch-roofed houses surrounded the square that was filled with long tables during feasts and celebrations, though none were here now. He righted himself, dusting his hand on his breeches as he turned a slow circle. The village was deserted, as he had expected. Most of the other villages and farms across the Sorral Plain would be the same. His vala told him no souls remained here, and thankfully, there were no dead bodies. His shoulders relaxed a little; by some miracle, the darkspawn had not come here.

Nostalgia filled him as he walked from the square and up the small lane that led to his old house. His mother’s marigolds were still there, in the front garden behind the low stone fence. With a sense of both fondness and sadness, he pushed the gate open and took the few steps along the narrow garden path to the front door.

Inside was just as he remembered; a cozy front room with a fireplace on the right wall, a round timber table with four matching chairs almost directly in front of him. The kitchen was opposite the front door, the curtains above the small window looking out onto the back yard shifting slightly in the breeze. The two bedrooms were down a short hallway on the left. The house was empty, quiet, as if all the life had been drained from it.

His memories were alive, however. He could see them as if they were happening before him right now. His mother, standing before the hearth and lecturing him over playing with the fire and nearly setting the house alight. The corner where he used to play with his toys. He and his mother eating their meals together at the table. He searched the house while he reminisced, looking for a clue as to his mother’s whereabouts. She was a thoughtful woman; she would have left him something to follow. Unless she didn’t want you to. The thought was discomfiting, and he pushed it aside as he poked around his bedroom, looking for a note, or something to point him in a direction. His vala was not much help; more useful for finding living things than small items like pieces of paper.

Neither was his inner sense of direction offering any clarity; for a change, there was no pull in his gut trying to drag him somewhere. Where did you go, mother? he asked silently as he sat at the round table. He placed his hands on the surface, noticing the thin layer of dust. Mari had been gone some time; she never could stand any dust in her house. That’s when he sensed it, so tiny he missed it before. Pushing his chair back a little, he felt with his fingers along the underside. There were words carved shallowly in the wood.

Please don’t follow. Important.

Shaking his head, he stood. Every instinct was telling him to do the opposite, to find her, but Mari Sunblade was no fool; if she didn’t want to be followed, she must have her reasons. Taking one last look around his old home, Aran walked back outside, carefully closing the front door behind him. “Well, so much for that idea,” he muttered to himself as he stared up at the night sky above. “I hope you are safe, mother. I will see you soon.” The myriad stars twinkled back at him as if asking him what he was to do next.

The notion made him think for a moment. The Druids were on their way to join the Orcs, who were themselves on the way to the main force further west. It was an army of proportions unseen for a thousand years, but was it enough? Aran had seen Maloth’s greatships in amathani. If Maloth had enough fighters to fill those ships, the outcome of the impending battle was uncertain, even without the Titans on Maloth’s side.

No. It had to be enough. Sadani was on the side of good, as was Ranada. They would make worlds of difference. His next destination suddenly became clear to him, and a fond smile crossed his face. It was time to visit his people; it had been far too long.

Smythe lay on the bed in the big tent the arohim used as something of a quarters, a place to meet and talk privately when necessary. Staring up at the peaked roof above, he breathed deeply, the rising of his chest lifting the heads of Amina and Elaina where they rested against him, each woman nestled beneath one of his arms. If only life could be this way all the time, he thought contentedly as he softly stroked the silky skin in the hollows of their waists.

In the five days since Vayani had mended his leg, his energy had returned to its full strength, as had his lust for life. Such a fool he’d been. He’d vowed never to repeat that mistake, even if he lost his other leg and never got it back. Also in those five days, the army had moved further north on its inexorable march toward Maralon, the last city south of the Northguard. From here, it was maybe a day’s hard ride to Maralon, though an army this size travelled much slower.

Sensing movement outside the tent, he sat up, careful not to disturb the women, though it was futile; they awoke immediately, sitting up beside him.

“What is it?” Elaina asked drowsily as the tent flap was pushed open directly in front of them. Noah entered, offering a quick bow in respect, probably more for Amina than anyone else, but the bushy-bearded hunter could be very formal sometimes.

“The scouts found something unusual,” Noah said at once, keeping his voice low. “Not far north of here. I investigated myself and ... Well, I’m not sure what to think.”

“What is it?” Amina enquired, echoing Elaina, her sapphire eyes glinting softly in the low light from a lantern hanging nearby.

Noah hesitated. “I think perhaps you’d best come take a look, Priestess.”

An hour later, Smythe, Elaina, Noah and Amina drew rein at the crest of a small rise as they reached Noah’s destination. Smythe stared incredulously down into a shallow hollow, a bowl in the earth with a nearby stream that would have made an ideal campsite for a moderate force, except for the fact it appeared to be filled with brambles, a giant mound thirty feet high and ten times as wide.

“What in-” Elaina cut herself off short as she opened her vala. Smythe and Amina did the same as Noah heeled his mount way, off to scout the area further. “Are those blackthorn bushes?” All three arohim felt into the mound at the same time, and they gasped as one. There were bodies in that monstrous tangle. Thousands of them. Judging by the state of the corpses, they had not died quickly.

“I think we’ve finally caught up to the Heralds,” Amina said quietly. She glanced at Smythe thoughtfully, then her eyes flicked down to his new leg. “It would seem your new friend has done us a service, Henley.” After a moment, she added, “If a grim one.”

Smythe didn’t know what to say. A part of him thought it was an awful way to die. Another part thought the Heralds deserved it. “I didn’t ask her to-”

A shake of Amina’s head stopped him mid-sentence. “I would not believe you did,” she assured him. “The World Guardians do as they will, as they always have, but I’ve never heard of one who sought vengeance on behalf of a mortal.”

Elaina was looking at him as if she’d never seen him before. “She did this? Vayani?” Her gaze drifted back to the small mountain of brambles filling the hollow. “This is ... Terrible.”

“What they did in Ironshire was terrible,” Smythe said in a hard voice. He realised he was gripping his reins tightly as he remembered the explosions. Elaina nudged her horse closer and touched his arm, her expression compassionate.

“What is done is done,” Amina stated with finality. “I would not have chosen this for the Heralds, but it was not our decision.” She dismounted and strode forward, pulling her sword free of the sheath on her back. The steel glinted in the moonlight.

“What are you doing?” Elaina asked as she swung from the saddle. Smythe followed suit, frowning at the Priestess’s back.

“I doubt Vayani was interested in more than killing the Heralds,” Amina replied without looking back. “I intend to find out what has been left behind.”

Elaina shot him a searching glance before dismounting and lifting Shatter from the loop on her saddle. The deadly spiked mace gleamed softly in the moonlight. Smythe hurried after her. Amina was already at the huge wall of brambles, lifting her sword to start cutting through, but as Smythe approached, they tangle began to move all on its own.

“What in-” Elaina started to say as the thorny vines shifted and parted in a crackling rustle, creating a tunnel just large enough for the three arohim to enter. Smythe had wondered if this would happen. Now he knew.

Amina lowered her sword. “Interesting,” she said softly. Again, she glanced at Smythe’s new leg. “Henley, precisely what is your connection to Vayani?” Her sapphire gaze demanded an answer, one that he was hesitant to give. Why, he could not say.

“This happened that day in the Emerin,” Elaina said on his other side. “The branches of the trees moved for you. I was going to ask about it, but then Burin died, and in all the chaos, I forgot.”

He took a deep breath. “Vayani is ... Carrying my child.” For the first time ever, he saw Amina’s mouth fall open in shock. Elaina’s gasp accompanied the Priestess’s discountenance. Two sets of big, pretty eyes regarded him in the night, stunned.

“That is impossible,” Amina breathed. “You must be mistaken.”

Smythe rubbed the back of his neck and grimaced. “I wish that were the case, sometimes,” he replied. “But, well, the evidence is clear.” He moved his hands in an arc over his middle, mimicking a swollen belly.

“Henley!” Elaina barked, slapping him hard on the shoulder. “How could you? She is a World Guardian!”

“I am thinking the same thought,” Amina added firmly.

“It wasn’t my bloody idea!” he shot back, raising his hands defensively. Amina looked about to do more than just hit him. “She was the instigator!”

Elaina scoffed as she moved around in front of him, so now the two women were side by side. “And you were helpless?”

He blushed. It wasn’t completely true, yet at first, it had been that way. “She’s ah ... Not an easy woman to say no to.”

“She forced you?” Amina asked, her tone disbelieving.

“Not exactly,” Smythe answered after a moment. He wished they’d stop looking at him like that. He hadn’t bloody done anything wrong! “But in a way...”

“Tell me what happened,” Amina demanded. “Every detail. You speak of something that has not occurred in the entire history of the world.”

There was no arguing with Amina when she was like this. Well, there was no arguing with her ever, usually, but to try now would probably end with him tangled up in the blackthorns with the Heralds. Sighing, he told them the story.

“You have possibly changed the course of everything,” Amina said when he finished. She’d sheathed Eternal in the scabbard on her back and begun pacing gracefully as he’d told his story, back and forth along the opening in the brambles.

“Bloody incredible,” Elaina added, staring at him still, though now there was a small smile on her face. What she could find amusing about all this he could not imagine. He was sure he’d find out soon enough.

“The child could be a powerful arohim, one of our best,” Smythe offered, trying to see the best in the situation. He’d said the same thing to himself many times.

“Or it could be a freak,” Amina countered, glaring at him. “A monster that wreaks havoc across the land as it sees fit.”

“But Aros’ power surely would not be available to it in that case,” Elaina said.

Amina tossed her hands up. “Can you be sure? Aros can withdraw his grace from us if we lose the right to wield it, but this is something new altogether.”

“I do not think that will be the result,” Smythe said, going out on a limb. He did not know how he knew, but he was sure. Well, almost completely sure, anyway.

Amina was suddenly standing inches away from him, her gaze intense. “How can you know?” she asked him quietly. The world around them seemed to disappear, until it was just him and her and nothing else. She could do that when she wished. “Look at what she did.” She threw a hand back, toward the spiny mountain of vines. “That is not a power I wish to test, Henley.”

He felt Elaina’s hand slip into his and squeeze comfortingly. Love radiated from her. It did from Amina, too, but there was also anger, and some fear. That last was not something he’d sensed from her often.

“She was protecting me,” he replied just as softly. “She is good. I believe it. Or at least, she’s not evil. She is as ancient as the hills and just as hard to read, but she wants balance for the world, and she is not claimed by Maharad. Of this I am certain.”

Amina searched his face for a long time, and he felt her vala pulse in him like a rush of warm honey in his veins. He held to his resolve, letting her feel his heart. Finally, she nodded. “I trust you.” She touched his face briefly before whirling around and striding into the bramble tunnel. “And I very much hope you are right,” she added without looking back.

Elaina smiled up at him. She was still holding his hand. He could feel her relief, and also a streak of amusement. “We’d better follow her,” she said, releasing his hand as she started forward. “Just try not to fuck any more Guardians tonight, if possible.”

“Don’t have to tell me twice,” he muttered as he followed. Once inside the vines, the tunnel shifted and lengthened as they walked, occasionally dropping the body of a Herald as it came free of the tangle. Smythe’s mouth twisted in distaste as he stepped over a severed head. Other detritus littered their path; discarded weapons and clothes, tents shredded to strips of yellow canvas, pieces of camp furniture, arms and legs torn from bodies. Vayani had not been gentle. It felt too quiet in here, like a graveyard in the Edincairn at midnight.

“At least she spared the horses,” Elaina whispered from beside him. Smythe realised she was right; he had not sensed or seen any dead horses either.

“She wasn’t mad at the horses,” he replied quietly.

Amina walked a few paces ahead in silence, her head swivelling as she searched with her vala. She avoided bodies and other obstacles alike with her usual flowing grace and not so much as a murmur of discomfort. After a few minutes, she pointed off to their left. “This way, Henley.” The vines did not move for her, but when Smythe got a little closer and faced that direction, the tunnel began to expand that way. He couldn’t sense much down there except for more of the same, but Amina had keener senses. Sure enough, about thirty paces on she stopped where the body of an older man hung from his neck on the side of the tunnel as if by some dark ritual, a thick vine wound around his throat. His ragged cloak was bloody, but Smythe could sense the red knots of rank on his shoulder. This man had been a commander. A very high rank among the Heralds. Despite the rank and the particularly gruesome display, Smythe couldn’t tell why Amina had led them here.

Elaina grunted sourly as she regarded the corpse’s bulging eyes and bloated tongue. “Almost too harsh a death, even for a Herald.”

Amina slipped a hand in behind the commander’s cloak and pulled several slips of paper from a pocket. “The contents of these may be interesting, though I will need light to read them.” She tucked them away in a small pouch she kept at her belt. “Lead us away from here, would you Henley? I have had my fill of this place.”

That sounded like a bloody fine idea to him.

In the early hours of the morning, Aran landed before the gates of Ironshire, his eyes wide. Where before the tall log gates had stood proud and strong, they were now smashed down, blackened and burned, lying in splinters, some as thick as a man. The town walls were in bad shape, too, the heavy stone buckled in some places, or simply gone in others, leaving gaping holes.

The smell of char hung thick in the air as he stepped into the town, though the fires had long gone out. Many of the houses and shops and taverns were in similar condition. Piles of bones and ash awaited him as he walked the deserted streets, remnants of bonfires made up of darkspawn bodies.

Sadness welled in him as he passed the market where he’d first met Rayna, now a mass of ash and rubble and dried blood. The feeling only grew stronger when he reached the street where Smythe’s house was. Or what was left of it. Half of the two-storey red brick building was collapsed, showing the ruined interior of the place Aran had once called home for a brief time, one that seemed so long ago now. Another life entirely.