The Gates of Winter - Mark Anthony [18]
“I can't possibly do this alone,” Grace said, taking in the sight of the wounded. Her words weren't despairing, but rather factual, frustrated.
“I'm here, sister,” Lirith said, touching her arm. “I'm not so skilled a healer as you, but I'll do what I can.”
Grace met the witch's dark eyes. “I'll also need help with triage—someone to sort and prioritize the wounded.”
“Tell me how, and I'll do it,” Sareth said.
Falken nodded. “And I.”
Moments later the two men picked among the wounded, determining who was alive, who was dying, and who was already dead. Grace bent over a blackened form, and Lirith grabbed a guardsman, instructing him to fetch supplies they needed—cloth, water, needle, thread, and wine. Melia, holding Tira, rushed after the guard to make sure the order was filled swiftly.
Travis hesitated, unsure what to do. This wasn't a task he could help with. After all, his power was not about healing, but about breaking. To his surprise, he found he was not alone. Aryn stood beside him, her blue eyes filled with sorrow, but with conviction as well.
“If there are men trapped beneath the rubble of the guard tower, they will be difficult to find,” she said. “Beltan, Durge, and the others will need help sensing where they are.”
Travis understood. Healing wasn't Aryn's strength either, but she had other abilities, just as he did. He exchanged a look with the young witch, then together they raced toward the listing tower and into the archway where Beltan, Durge, and Tarus had vanished minutes earlier.
Dust and smoke closed around them, blinding and choking them. After three steps, Travis lost all sense of direction. He groped, trying to find a wall to guide him, then a slender hand closed around his wrist, and a shimmering green net of light appeared, outlining floor, walls, ceiling.
This way, said a voice in his mind.
Next to him, the green threads spun themselves brightly around the slim figure of a young woman. Aryn. Was this how she and the other witches saw the world with their Touch?
After a dozen paces, they reached a cavernous space. The smoke was thinner here, escaping through the large breach in the tower's shell, and Travis was able to see even after Aryn released his wrist. All of the tower's upper floors had collapsed into a mountain of rubble rising up from the cellar. Beams stuck out from the wreckage at odd angles like broken bones.
Beltan, Durge, and Tarus had heaved one of the fallen beams into place, creating a makeshift bridge to the mountain of debris, and now they picked at the rubble.
“They're looking in the wrong place,” Aryn said, opening her eyes, her face white with dust. “The men are trapped beneath the other side of the pile, down deep. I can see their threads, but they're already getting dimmer.”
“Beltan!” Travis called, cupping his hands around his mouth. “Stop!”
The blond man stopped and turned. Travis and Aryn scrambled to the beam the knights had wedged into place. Travis edged over slowly, trying not to look down—there was a deep crevice between the mountain of rubble and the cellar walls—but Aryn raced across lightly, holding her gown up around her ankles.
“What are you doing here?” Beltan said when they reached the other side.
Travis glanced at Aryn. “You're digging in the wrong place.”
“You have to get to them,” the young witch said. “They're trapped in a—Durge!”
Stones shifted beneath the knight's feet and he lost his footing. He would have gone tumbling down the slope along with several tons of rock if not for Tarus's grip on his arm.
Travis bent and laid his hands on the stones. “Sar,” he murmured, and the rubble shuddered to an uneasy halt. The stones knew their ancient name.
He could feel it—the broken stones wanted to sink down, to rest against the ground. However, there was a hollow space within the mound—that must be where the survivors Aryn had sensed were trapped. Crossed beams pushed the rocks up, while the