From Darkness Won - Jill Williamson [35]
Please, Arman. Let him be well.
Vrell crouched and scanned the ground under the vines. She counted three bodies at various distances away. I will find him, Anillo. Vrell bounced back up and ran to the road. The tunnel’s entrance was not far. “Come, Gren. There are more wounded.”
Vrell’s heart pounded as she jogged down the road, scanning each row for the next body or the scrap of fabric that marked the trapdoor to the secret tunnel. She spotted a downed man and ran to him. It was not Achan, however, but an enemy soldier—dead from an amputated leg.
Vrell backpedaled, bumped into Gren, and darted past.
Gren cried out, “He’s dead too?”
Vrell turned back and gripped Gren’s shoulders. “Gren, please. I am sorry that you are seeing this, but we must keep moving. Besides, he was one of the enemy.”
She sniffled. “How can you tell?”
“He is wearing a New Kingsguard cape. Black. Not red.” Vrell jogged to the road and waved Gren to follow.
Gren stumbled after her, sobbing. “I didn’t even notice his cloak. I’m just so sad for that other soldier. He was so excited to be a guardsman. I don’t even know his name.”
“Arne.” Vrell gripped Gren’s hand, tugged her along.
Gren panted. “How do you know?”
“Anillo told me. I bloodvoiced him to ask him to send someone for the body.”
“Oh.”
Down the next row, a leg stuck out from under a clump of vines. “Wait, Gren. Here is another.” Vrell ducked under a broken trellis and made her way down the row. The vines on her left were a mess. Some had come loose from the trellis and hung like fallen garland. Some were broken and hung like the branches of a weeping willow.
The man lay on his back, arms spread out as if he could fly. His body appeared to have knocked down the trellis, for pieces of wood and bunches of red grapes lay on the ground around him. His head, covered in a gilded helm, was turned away. The helm was twisted slightly and dented with the star-like imprint of a mace.
Vrell stopped, dumbstruck by the etching on the glided breastplate that had once belonged to Moul Rog the Great.
Achan!
6
Vrell knelt at Achan’s side and studied the dent in his helm. Only one spike had pierced the steel. A thin trail of blood trickled through it. There did not appear to be an abundance of blood on the grass.
She carefully pulled off the helm. Some of Achan’s black hair frizzed, wanting to stay with the wool cushioning of the helm. The rest was stuck to his temple with blood. An odd tingle started in her belly and ran up to her head. She could almost hear the sound of his voice saying, “We need you as much as you need us. If not for you, who would patch us up when we’re half dead?”
Indeed. She parted his hair with her fingers, looking for the wound near the large lump on his head. Only a small hole had been pierced in the flesh, just above his ear. The spike could not have gone too deeply.
She cupped his cheek and turned his head. Tears flooded her eyes, blurring his face. She leaned over him, placing her cheek in front of his lips.
She could not feel his breath. She needed to get his armor off so she could see his chest. “Gren, help me!”
Footsteps crunched over leaves, and Gren knelt on Achan’s other side. “Oh! ’Tis Achan.” Gren grabbed Achan’s shoulders and shook him. “Achan! Wake up!”
Vrell seized Gren’s wrists and squeezed. “Stop! You could make him worse shaking him like that. Help me untie the points on his breastplate. We must get it off.”
Gren let go. Vrell began to untie the points on Achan’s right side. Gren stared for a moment, then mirrored her movements.
When Vrell finished, she looked to Gren. “Almost done?”
“No! I-I can’t do this. My hands are shaking.”
Vrell stood and stepped over Achan to his other side. She crouched beside Gren and loosened the points. As she untied the last one, the waist of the backplate fell to the grass. Vrell reached across and grabbed both sides. Gren leaned over her shoulder.
“Back up, please, Gren. I need some room.”
Gren’s