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seized the husk and, finding it holding firm in the ground, dragged himself a few paces forward, knowing
that the fire moved far more quickly than he could.
All conscious thought submerged; he had but one single-minded task, to crawl in any way he could,
out of the burning forest and back to the Filidic Circle at the Great White Tree where they had been a
few days before. Surely there would be help to send after her.
Slowly, agonizingly slowly, the General stretched and reached, dragging himself by vegetation when
he could grasp any, by the strength of his fingers and elbows when he could not, hauling himself with
almost imperceptible success through the smoking leaf matter and other burning detritus of the forest
floor.
Cime passed with a cruel sluggishness. The inferno around him grew hotter, brighter, at the outskirts
of his vision, but Anborn paid it no heed, focusing instead on the few handsbreadths of ground before
him, pulling himself arduously along, to find himself doing it all over again, and again, moment by brutally
painful moment.
After what seemed like forever, he came across the body of the archer who had shot Shrike, a
crossbowman with his stonebow still beside him. He took the opportunity to rest and catch his breath for
a moment; he rolled onto his side, wincing at the crushing pain in his ribs, and tore off a rag from his shirt
to stanch the bleeding in his hands, wrapping them in the makeshift bandage, then looked around again.
Within arm's reach the burning skeleton of a horse lay, its high-backed saddle melting in the heat. A
battered cutiass lay next to it, reflecting the fire. Anborn reached for it with a hand that shook violently,
not feeling the pain in his back.
The bodies of all the other attackers must have already been consumed by the fire through which he
was crawling; he had been breathing their ashes, inhaling their remains and their souls, on his crawl along
the burning forest floor.
Even Shrike's.
For the first time since entering battle he thought of his friend and mentor, a humble sailor who had
served on the crew of theSerelinda- , the last ship to leave the Island before it sank beneath the waves,
transformed by the journey across the Prime Meridian into a surly, immortal soldier. He had been a loyal
if sometimes reluctant follower of Gwylliam, Anborn's father, then of Anborn himself, for almost fifteen
centuries between them, and had always given a perspective that could only have come with the wisdom
of someone who had lived through the death of two worlds.
As he lay on his side, Anborn felt grief creeping in, a grief the likes of which he had not known for
centuries. He closed his mind to it, held it at bay; it would only serve to divert him from his overwhelming
task.
Once rested, he crawled to the body of the archer and, after spitting in its lifeless face, he seized it by
the jaw and dragged it along with him, knowing he would need it for his purposes.
Above his head, the massive limb of a towering tree crashed through the canopy, roaring with flame,
then collapsed to the ground nearby. Anborn shielded his nose and mouth from the ash and burning
leaves that rose in its wake.
His lungs, already stinging with the caustic cinders he was inhaling, began to burn.
When finally he began to choke, gagging blood from the creosote and fire residue that had thickened
the air to the point of being black, Anborn had to acknowledge that if he was alone in his effort, he was
not going to succeed.
It was time to give in to the one last lifeline he had.
For a moment the world around him hummed with a destructive static, too loud and full of noise to
hear anything. Impatiently he rubbed his ears, cursing his useless legs, and tried to block out all noise, all
clamor save for the gentle song of the wind.
It took him a long time to hear it, but finally a tiny breeze picked up, perhaps generated by the fire
itself. Anborn listened for the fluctuations in it, the subtle whine as it changed directions, whisding with
power.
The General summoned all his strength, lifted his head, inclining it to the west, and spoke the call that
he had answered but never put onto die wind himself until this moment.
Leuk, the west wind, the wind of justice, hear me, he rasped in die Ancient Lirin tongue, the only
words in the language he knew, his voice thick with smoke and pain.By the star, I will wait, I will
watch, I will call and will be heard .
As he spoke the call of die ancient brodierhood of soldiers, he thought back to the last time he had
answered it, a clear, soft cry on the wind of a snowy forest in the black of a storm. He had followed the
source to discover a woman, shivering in the cold, leading a freezing horse over which an unconscious
gladiator was stretched.
A woman who had become the Lirin Queen, the Lady Cymrian.
A gladiator who she had taken into the realm beyond life and death and left there. He had returned to
be chosen by the Scales as the Patriarch.
He winced at the irony of it all now.
He had thought then he was rescuing her, rescuing them both, though at the time he had wanted to put
the brute to death. When he felt the pull, the intrinsic magic, wrap around him and transport him on the
back of the wind to where he was needed, he believed he was going off to save a fellow Kinsman. He
knew now that in doing so he had actually rescued himself, been absolved for his crimes in the Cymrian
War that had haunted his dreams and his waking moments.
He had finally been able to sleep after that.
And now she was gone. He had failed her, had broken his oath to his nephew to protect her, to keep
her, and their child, safe. The agony was too great to be borne.
From deep within his viscera another cry came forth. He called to north wind, die strongest of die
four, in hopes that it would carry his cry farther, for Kinsmen, as he had noted to Gwydion Navarne,
were few and far between.
'By the star!" he shouted, inhaling more of the smoke, "I will wait, I will watch, I will call and will be
heard!" He coughed from the depths of his lungs.
The towering walls of fire roared in response.
No other sound could be heard.
Anborn struggled to fend off the despair that hovered near the edge of his consciousness, whispering
to his doubts. Not all Kinsman calls were answered, he knew; he himself had thought he heard two only
a few weeks before, had listened, stood ready to go, but the doorway in the wind never opened to him.
He had not been able to find the one who was calling for help.
Just as now, perhaps, there was no one to answer him.
Jahne, the south wind, most enduring, he rasped, his voice beginning to give out from the smoke.
By the star, I will wait, I will watch . He swallowed, trying to force the sound from his throat.I will call
and will be heard .
Time seemed to expand around him, twisting on the heat of the fire like glass in a blower's hands.
The smoke was sinking now even to the forest floor, the ground on which Anborn's head now lay.
The General buried his face in the crook of his arm, trying to breathe, but it had become laborious to do
so.
No one was coming.
The General rolled onto his back and stared up at the blazing orange sky above him, punctuated by [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

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