XVIII. Vade

Holland had fought many people over the course of her long life. She knew how to watch people, how to anticipate moves, and how to immediately get a sense for what damage someone could both give and take. But more than that, she knew how important every movement was and how a fraction of an inch could make or break someone. She had flirted with disaster and kissed death more than once. Maybe that was what made her admire what the orc was doing so much—Khagra was a pleasure to watch in action.

The axe split the air where Khagra's head had been a fraction of a second ago, the orc rolling out of the hit in one smooth movement that brought her spearbutt cracking into the dwarf's helm. For all the brutish reputation of orcs, the dragon-rider had excellent balance and distance sense. She was not a creature who rushed into the thick of combat. She circled like a wolf and probed her enemy's defenses with a definite cunning calculation to every attack. She was maneuvering the armored dwarf for something amongst the shouts of his people, weaving patterns in the air with the tip of her spear. There was a certain serpentine grace to the orc. She moved like an adder, coiled and fluid as she prepared her strike.

Granted, she was a little less graceful with that wound to her side, but the orc had taken it like a champion. The axe hadn't bit deep enough to kill, from what Holland could see. From the way Ardashir had grimaced, the penitent might have thought he was the one who'd been hit. Now, Khagra was ignoring the blood staining her armor and the lightheadedness that had to be plaguing her, focused precision still ruling her every action as Olon swung at her again and again. She wasn't exactly losing ground, as she always went in angles from the strike rather than straight backwards. Constantly moving off line made her harder to counterattack at.

Vladan was, fortunately, keeping his peace. He seemed to know better than to distract the orc with stakes like this.

Holland watched Khagra watch Olon, reading the future in the lines of the orc's face. The penitent was relatively certain that her friend had a plan. Khagra seemed oddly calm, considering the racket the dwarves were making as they watched and the bellows Olon was letting out.

Step, swing. Step, step, swing. Swing, step. Swing step, step. The rhythm was forming. Then, it happened. Just as Olon made his swing, Khagra abruptly broke the tempo. She lunged inside of his reach rather than recoiling back. The haft of the axe slammed into her side, but the head mercifully missed—if Holland had to guess, she would have said that the orc had been trying to judge the distance since the fight started, with pitch perfect accuracy. A painful blow, but far from a lethal one. Khagra drove her spear not through his shoulder, where he had been expecting it and had turned to take the blow, but through his knee. The dwarven tip punched through the poleyn that protected the joint, breaking bone and severing vessels as it passed through. Olon let out a cry and fell.

Khagra ripped the spear out and bashed his helmet with the butt of her spear for good measure, then kicked his weapon aside.

"Finish him!" Vladan bellowed with enthusiasm.

The orc definitely seemed to be considering it, watching the dwarf on the ground bleed with that same calm severity.

"Khagra, the wound is avenged," Ardashir called to her. "Honor is satisfied. You won. Taafr Thir is Forge-Tender. There is no need to kill him."

Holland saw her friend glance up at the hooded knight and mutter something under her breath, probably in Orcish. The penitent was tense now, just like the dwarves watching. Whatever Khagra decided to do, it would set the tone.

Khagra stabbed down, breaking the rest of the poleyn off of his armor. Then she tossed her spear to the side and crouched, reaching into the wound. The dwarf cried out and struggled as she did...something. "Shut up, vok," she snapped irritably. "I'm healing your miserable carcass. Ardashir, bag!"

Holland and Ardashir both relaxed. Vladan looked supremely disappointed as the hooded knight brought Khagra her bag. The dwarves seemed suspicious of this display, but relieved at the same time. For all his faults, Olon was one of theirs. "How is it?" the penitent asked as she approached.

"If I am as good a healer as Vladan is a fight-monger, he will walk with a cane," the orc said, ignoring the struggles of her patient as she pinched off the worst of the blood flow. She'd thoroughly destroyed his knee—this would be significant work to repair. Khagra looked up, yellow eyes fearsome. "You two with the beards, come hold the fool down."

"Could you give him something for the pain?" Ardashir asked.

"Perhaps some of his gas?" Khagra muttered darkly. "Give him some leather to bite on before he snaps off his idiot tongue."

"Khagra," the hooded knight said reproachfully.

The orc huffed, which made Holland grin. "There is some papaveris in that bottle," she said. "Try to drown him when you pour it down his throat."

The field surgery went on for some time. Olon did relax and stop screaming once they'd dosed him up with draught. He twitched slightly as Khagra worked away, repairing bone and mending flesh. The dwarves watched, many of them fascinated. The cursing orc did little to discourage their gawking, at least until Khagra demanded they be removed for blocking the light. All Vladan had to do was reach for his great-maul, which sent the dwarves scattering.

At the end, the orc bandaged the leg that she'd had Holland strip of armor. "Nothing good will come of letting him live," Khagra muttered. "Should cast him into that blasted fire."

"And yet you stayed your hand anyway," Holland said, lifting the leg so Khagra could wrap linen around it. Ardashir and Vladan were a short distance away, talking with the Forge-Tender. She couldn't help a small tease. "It's almost like you let a certain knight rule your course of action."

Khagra glared at her. "Funny," she said irritably. Once the wrap was finished, the orc waved over the dwarves. "Take him to where he can see your healers. If the wound starts to smell, drive a knife in his throat and he'll thank you in the next life."

"Your bed-side manner could use a little work," Vladan said with a chuckle as he approached. "Try smiling when you say it."

Khagra bared her teeth at him savagely.

"Better," Vladan said, even more amused.

"Now can we see that wound in your side?" Ardashir asked less patiently.

Khagra put a hand to her side and then checked her fingers. "Eh, bleeding's stopped on its own. Sharp axe, clean cut. Wash it out, put some salve on it, check for infection...should be fine," she said. When she saw Ardashir frown, she shrugged. "We've all had worse."

"I'll help," Ardashir said, kneeling down next to her. The orc grumbled and tried to swat him away, but relented when he gave her a look.

Holland hid her smile behind her fist as he helped Khagra unbuckle her breastplate so he could see the wound better. She turned to the approaching dwarf. "Well, it seems you're in charge for certain, Taafr," she said to the dwarf, adjusting to use his real name rather than the one he had initially given her. "It doesn't look like anyone else wants to force the issue."

"Your friend is a capable warrior and a better healer," the dwarf said. "She has my gratitude. I am not certain what Olon will say or do when he wakes up. I cannot even promise that he will be pleased with her mercy. But Tek has spoken through the orc: Dhir Daral will follow you."

"Thank you," Holland said. She offered him a small smile. "You will have to forgive us if we don't stay, but even with her wound, I think my friend would rather be on the surface."

"Understandable," the Forge-Tender said as Ardashir applied salve to the orc's wound. Khagra hissed and grimaced, but she didn't make too much noise. "Good fortune to you and yours, Lady Penitent. When the war-horns blow, we will be there."

After a few more words, Holland handed the dwarf an envelope. "This needs to make it to the Queen as well," she said quietly. "I'm trusting you, Taafr." After that, she bowed to the dwarf before returning to her friends. "We're leaving whenever you're ready, Khagra."

The orc stood up even though Ardashir was still pulling out a fresh roll of gauze for her wound. "About damn time," Khagra said. "Let's go. I want sky overhead."

"I can't bandage you while we walk," Ardashir said firmly.

The orc huffed again. "Well, get on with it then," she said, holding still when Ardashir reached around her to wind the gauze.

"Are all orcs so crotchety underground or just you?" Vladan asked with a chuckle.

Instead of dignifying that with an answer, Khagra snapped her teeth at him. She looked particularly wild in the light of the fire, dark hair hanging in her face. It was menacing enough that Vladan left her alone, even if he was still grinning. Ardashir was quick about his work, though it was far sloppier than Khagra would have done. It would still hold, but it would be winning no pageants.

Holland wrapped up her new sword in the oil cloth and tucked it under one arm as they walked. She wasn't wearing it on her belt—it would draw too much attention, at least until she could smoke the blade and the hilt. It was criminal to hide the gleam and the patterns, but she was a pragmatist at heart. She let Ardashir and Khagra lead the way out, covering the rear in case the dwarves had a sudden change of heart.

Zajar was waiting for them at the gates despite Khagra's instructions to stay out of sight, his tail lashing. Terrified horses pulled at their bridles to get away, though Maël and Ardashir's mount were less horrified by him. The golems were quiet and immobile, currently sleeping on their feet despite the hissing, furious drake in front of them. The dragon let out a loud cry when he saw Khagra and bowled the orc over, butting her fiercely with his nose.

"Gently!" Khagra yelped from the ground, overwhelmed by the sudden affection. People were staring their way, but not many. Most had fled away from the dragon who had been there for who knew how long. "Gods, I survived the hole just to die to my own dragon."

"Off," Ardashir said, pushing Zajar away so that he could help Khagra up. The drake hissed at him, but didn't bite.

Holland went over to her horse, reassuring Maël by running her hands over his arched neck. "You're alright," she said soothingly. He calmed, though his dark eyes were still wary and he flicked his ears nervously. "I know, I was gone a while." Just the sound of her voice seemed to be doing him good.

Eventually, they grouped together again. "I'll see you all when we make camp," Khagra said, easing herself up into the saddle on Zajar's back. "We'll do some scouting of the area. Sorry I'm not well enough to walk and talk."

"It's fine," Holland said. "Be safe, Khagra. You've taken enough risks for one day."

"Right," the orc agreed. She whistled and Zajar launched them both up into the air with one powerful push of his legs, wings unfurling in an instant. He raced up into the sky, relieved to have his rider back.

Holland had to admit, even though the brightness of day was stinging her eyes, it was wonderful to be back on the surface. She looked over at Ardashir, whose face was still turned to the sky. "She'll be alright," the penitent said quietly. It was too soon to say what the knight thought of things, but she'd certainly recognized the way Khagra had acquiesced.

The orc was a little fond of him. Holland felt a sympathetic twinge behind her breastbone. She knew what that was like, certainly.

By the time night fell, things had returned to normal. Occasionally as they traveled, they saw Khagra and Zajar dipping down or circling above. The two rejoined them at sunset when they set up camp. Soon they would be on the other side of the mountains, on the edges of the land of the Năluci. Holland was too relieved at the moment to dread it. Even thoughts of Deus were far from her mind. They had accomplished something. Maybe, just maybe, resisting the Imperium wouldn't be as impossible as she'd thought.

Sparks flew as she brought flint and steel together, coaxed into flames with the skill of someone who had been on the road a very long time. It was not as easy as with spark-twigs, but it worked. Zajar landed with a thump and Khagra slid off his back.

"How are you?" Ardashir asked.

"Stiff, but whole," she groaned. "Holland, there are riders coming up the road. Might be travelers. I didn't see colors, but we didn't duck down enough to get a good look. Didn't want them to know we were watching. They could be your Immortals."

Vladan stilled. "I hear them," he said after a moment.

Holland blinked, shifting her vision. She could see the crackles of white light. They weren't far and they were approaching relatively quickly, though not at a full gallop. She let her vision return to normal with a few more blinks. "We'll find out," she said, drawing her old blade. She stood up and called into the darkness as the riders approached, "Who comes?"

There were five, though they were not heavily armored like an eastern knight. Holland felt her stomach tighten when she failed to see the gleam of armor at all. It was that flat, matte black that she recognized. Scouts? Instead of charging, the leader held up a hand, stopping the group. "Saluto, travelers," a female voice said. The knot in Holland's stomach took on a life of its own.

"Pera?" Holland said weakly.

The lead rider pulled off her helmet at the sound of her name. "How do you—" Holland recognized her easily in the firelight. Pera was an athletic woman with the smoothly angular face of her elven mother, long dark hair braided. There were streaks of gray in it. Lines had collected themselves at the corners of her eyes and mouth, marks of life and laughter acquired over the past twenty-five years. She was still beautiful, though.

"Pera, it's Ilex," the penitent said, holding up one hand. She didn't set down her sword, but she did lower it.

The helmet hit the ground. "Ilex?" Pera said, almond-shaped eyes going wide. Before Holland could explain, the woman bailed out of the saddle and collided with her, wrapping her arms around the startled figure of the penitent. "You...you...you're alive!"

"Small world," Vladan said with a chuckle, though he was eyeing the other riders who had stopped in their tracks. "They smell strange. They are not from the east."

"Pera, what are you doing here?" Holland said, disentangling herself from her old friend.

"What am I doing here?" Pera demanded. "By the seven princes, Ilex, what are you doing here and not at the bottom of the sea?" She stopped abruptly, immediately looking contrite. "I did not mean that as a wish you should be gone."

"I am hard to kill," Holland said wryly.

"So it seems," Pera said, unable to stop smiling. "The Divine Princes sent a legion's worth of celeres to scout the terrain ahead of the army, Ilex. It's...you have to see it for yourself. The Aeterna Pacis...the end...we get to be a part of it!"

"Holland," Khagra said tersely, gripping her spear. "Are these Imperials?"

"Tesseraria, what is this?" one of the other riders asked, shifting in his saddle.

"This, soldier, is the Divine Prince's Invicta, alive and well," Pera said with a grin. "Aptly named, as it would seem."

Holland's thoughts were a thousand miles away from her companions. They were fixed on the promise band in her saddle bags. "Pera, you need to sit down," Holland said. "I have things to say to you and you're not going to like them."

Pera laughed. "Like you could, Ilex—"

"Galeo is gone," Holland said. "I saw him on the battlefield in the east."

Abruptly, the smile vanished. She could almost see the light in Pera's eyes dim. "Gone?" Pera said, paling as if she'd been slapped.

"Dead," Holland said softly. "Pera, I have his promise band and his knife. I thought..." What she didn't say was that she remembered her friend had always been sentimental. At the time, she had found it pointless. Now? She understood perfectly.

Pera's lips parted as she processed this information. After a few moments, she nodded. "Show me," she said calmly.

Holland retrieved the golden band from her saddlebag along with Galeo's knife and then held it out to the woman. "Here," she said.

Pera ran her fingers over the band, holding it as if she felt it was as fragile as a feather. She was still and silent for a long moment, just holding it. "Was it a good death?" she asked quietly.

"He fell in battle, sword in hand," Holland said. She could still feel the blade in her hands, sinking up beneath his chin. "There is no better death."

Pera took a deep breath. "The world is cold," she said quietly. "It gives with one hand and takes with the other."

"Non est ad astra mollis e terris via," Holland said by way of answer.

"You never did have a poet's heart," Pera said, looking up at her old friend. "It is strange to hear you speak with one's tongue." She cleared her throat and looked away to avoid tearing up. Grief did not become an Imperial. Pera would choke it down and numb herself to it within hours. That was the way of things. Holland hated it.

"Tesseraria—" the rider tried again.

Pera glared at him. "Tace!" She did seem to regain herself. "Ilex, the Divine Prince will want to know what happened to his century. Do you have a horse? The sooner we ride, the better."

"I am Saraqael's no longer, Pera," Holland said.

The expression on Pera's face was as though Holland had said the sky was green, supremely disquieted and non-comprehending at the same time. "What?" Pera blurted out after a half-second of confusion. "But...I...what?"

"I will not be returning with you," Holland said. She knew her companions were beginning to get incredibly uneasy. All three had their hands on their weapons. "I am not Invicta. I am not Immortalis. I was cast into the sea. You were there."

"Ilex, what madness has stripped you of your senses?" the woman asked. "You say these words, but I swear that you do not know what you are saying. It is nonsense."

"I made a choice," the penitent said.

"Choice?" Pera echoed in confusion.

Holland tightened her grip on her sword. "Go, Pera," she ordered. "Return to whence you came. If you stay, nothing good will come of it."

Pera looked her up and down, gauging her seriousness. "Ilex, this isn't you," she said. "I do not recognize you in who I see before me."

"Ilex drowned in the dark waves," Holland said quietly. "You may tell the Divine Prince that when you see him, Pera. Now go. I do not want to hurt you."

The Imperial woman was frowning now, but she broke eye contact with Holland to reach down and pick up her helm. She tucked the band into her saddlebag, then looked back over at her old friend's hazel eyes. "Truly," she said finally. "Because there is a stranger in front of me." Pera swung herself up easily into the saddle, like a woman born into it. "Vade!"

The soldiers obeyed without a second thought, urging their horses into motion. Pera hesitated for a moment, still staring at Holland, but then followed them into the night.

"We're just going to let them go?" Vladan demanded.

"Yes," Holland said quietly.

"What did you say to her?" Ardashir asked. "Non est ad—"

"Non est ad astra mollis e terris via," Holland repeated. She translated quietly, "There is no easy way from the earth to the stars."

"I could catch them," Khagra said. "Holland, if they get word of us to a larger group of them or Immortals..."

"Let them go," Holland said. Suddenly, she felt exhausted. "We can burn that bridge when we get to it."