Smythe strode back and forth along the short row of villagers, eyeing them critically. They stood in a crooked line across the Chapel's training yard, spears and pikes dug up from Elaina's basement held haphazardly before them in uncertain hands. A few held lances retrieved from the bodies of Heralds that no longer required them. The steel tips of the lances shone in the bright morning sun, while the rest of the weapons were dulled with age and rust.
Tarien had taken the Elves back to Ildernass yesterday, with the exception of Induin and Liaren, whom were a short distance away teaching another group of Rostiners how to shoot a bow. From what Smythe could see, the Elvish twins were having about as much success as he was.
Kedron was leaning against the northern wall of the Chapel, watching the proceedings with interest. He looked better than he had, but his youthful face was still a little pale. His vala was not yet developed enough to heal him any quicker, but still he was recovering well considering he'd taken an arrow to the chest. Nasty business, that. Could have killed the lad on the spot.
Lena and Imella were by Kedron's side, as always. The three were effectively inseparable. Smythe was keeping a careful eye on that; it was bad enough the lad already had one meldin before being fully trained. Another one would only make things worse.
For the tenth time that morning, Smythe silently -- and sarcastically -- thanked Aran for haring off on another adventure and leaving him with the job of training farmers how to fight and nursing an injured par'vala.
"Steady it," he grunted as he stepped up next to an ageing fellow with hair more gray than brown. Smythe grasped the spear firmly, just above where the man's hands held the haft. "Keep the butt down here. That will keep the tip at the right angle."
The fellow nodded and set himself again. Some of the others tried to copy him, most of them unsuccessfully. Smythe wanted to shake his head in disgust, but Aran's instructions -- delivered on the Plane last evening -- had been clear: wait at the Chapel until further notice, and teach the Rostiners to fight. Sooner or later, an angry swarm of Heralds was likely to come marching down from Maralon, and every able body would be needed.
Smythe adjusted a few more stances and angles before stepping to the middle of the line and back a few paces, so they could all see him clearly. "Right!" He barked, tucking the tip of his boot beneath the shaft of a lance he'd left lying on the dirt. He kicked it up to his hand smoothly and set himself in the stance he was teaching the Rostiners.
A few of them jumped, startled by his shout, while others made impressed sounds at his display. "This is how you form a pike line, or the beginnings of one, at least. When you are being charged by an enemy, you kneel and ground your spear like this," he demonstrated by doing so. "And you hold it firm. The enemy will have no choice but to try and run over the top of you, or to abandon the charge."
"And what if they have horses, my Lord?" One man -- Bandry, Smythe thought his name was -- asked nervously.
"Then you hold it tighter," Smythe replied flatly as he rose from his kneeling position. Bandry swallowed. "I am teaching you as much as I can with the time I have," Smythe told them firmly. "These are dark days, with ulunn on the rise and the Heralds even madder than usual. You are better off knowing even a little about fighting than knowing nothing at all."
They all nodded agreement at that. A moorhen's call from the northern border of the Chapel grounds brought Smythe's head around. A second, closer call followed, but this time from a snow raven. He'd taught some of the younger, more agile boys how to whistle like certain birds -- birds that weren't native to the Emerin Forest -- if anyone approached the Chapel. Up in the treetops, the boys had a good view of anyone passing beneath them.
A moorhen's call meant more than fifty men. A snow raven's meant the newcomers may not be friendly. Smythe cast his eyes over the ragtag line of villagers. Fifty men could do a lot of damage to these simple, peaceful people, even with Smythe to protect them.
"Remain here and practice what you've learned this morning," he told them, dropping his lance and loping off down the grassy incline toward the northern wall. As he approached, a boy came scrambling over the mossy stone and raced to meet him.
"Master Smythe!" the boy said excitedly. "There's a man out there wants to meet with you!"
Smythe frowned. "Did he ask for me specifically, lad?"
"Yep!" The boy piped, still catching his breath. "He said he wants to see whoever is in charge, and that's you!"
Smythe had tensed for a moment, but then relaxed. Whoever this visitor was, he wasn't asking for Smythe by name. "Thanks, lad," he said, ruffling the boy's hair. "I'll take it from here."
The boy scampered back up the yard toward the Chapel. Smythe headed for the wall, easing Lightbringer in the scabbard on his back before vaulting the tall stone barrier and landing lightly on the other side.
A man awaited him about twenty paces away, dressed in country clothes under a rough jerkin sewn with steel discs. He had a sword belted around his waist. Smythe accessed enough of his vala to assess this fellow's intentions. Surprisingly, he appeared to be decent of heart.
"You are in charge of this place?" The man asked.
"I am," Smythe said simply, studying the fellow. Only a year or two older than Aran, he was tall and fit, but he looked uncomfortable in his jerkin, as if wearing it were new to him. Despite the risk, Smythe kept his vala expanded to about a hundred feet into the forest. He didn't want any nasty surprises. From what he could sense, he and Garen were the only people this side of the wall within that radius.
"I am called Garen," the man said, walking forward with a hand extended.
Smythe folded his arms across his chest, ignoring the offered hand. "What are you doing here?" He asked directly.
Garen looked confused for a moment. "I... don't really know."
Smythe felt a scowl coming on. "You don't appear to be a trouble maker, Garen," he began. "But if you don't answer my questions to my satisfaction, I will treat you as one."
Garen paled a little, and his eyes went to Lightbringer's hilt sticking up over Smythe's shoulder. He began to talk, and Smythe listened intently. It didn't take him long to work out that Aran's efforts prior to the fight against the Heralds had yielded results. Garen and the hundred men he had waiting a mile back in the forest had felt Aran's vala and abandoned Stallen in the night, unable to follow the mad Herald any further.
What would have happened had five hundred men come over the wall instead of four? Smythe doubted a positive outcome; an extra hundred men would have most likely tipped the scales the wrong way, and Berrigan Stallen would be alive, even with Aran throwing around that massive power of his. Could even Aran have handled a hundred more?
"Go and get your men," Smythe told Garen once he'd finished explaining. "Bring them to this spot. I wish to see them."
Garen ran off into the forest at once and returned almost an hour later. He was trailed by a collection of men and women as awkward-looking as himself. They filled the small clearing and stood facing Smythe in an arc three men deep.
A distant rumble reached Smythe's ears. Terrific. Another storm. He hoped it wasn't one of those northerlies, but his gut was telling him otherwise. The newcomers shifted nervously at the sound; they knew how bad the storms had been getting.
"You are all farmers, tradesmen?" Smythe asked them as he searched them with his vala. By the grace of Aros, they were all goodhearted people. He got a multitude of nods in reply. "Are there any fighters among you?" To a man, they shook their heads.
"Heralds scooped us up from our villages on the Plain," Garen said. "Lumped us all together, put weapons in our hands and taught us which end is the pointy one before dragging us down here, to the forest."
"The pointy end," Smythe repeated flatly. "Excellent." Thunder again, a little closer, this time.
Suddenly, an echo resonated through Smythe's vala from one of the younger men. A boy no more than eighteen, Smythe realised as he looked closer. Tall and lanky, the lad had a shock of fair hair and deep, dark eyes. More importantly, he possessed the vala.
Yet another arohim appears, yet would there be enough time to train the boy? "We do not have long," Smythe said, raising his voice and addressing all present. He wasn't sure if he meant the approaching storm or the larger, more threatening problem. "Follow this wall behind me east and you will find a gate. I will meet you there. Welcome to the Emerin Chapel of Aros."
*
Smythe stood inside the open wrought-iron gate and watched the newcomers file through. They had hurried back for their horses, and Smythe was pleased to see they had provisions for travel stuffed inside their saddlebags. The Heralds had seen to that much, at least.
Thunder sounded regularly in the distance, growing closer every minute, yet the sky remained clear of clouds and the late morning sun shone bright and warm.
Induin and Liaren had wandered over to enquire what was happening, and Smythe had quickly filled them in. They stood next to him, looking as beautiful as always, even in simple breeches and tunics of deep forest green. No few of the men in the large party eyed the twins with interest as they entered the Chapel grounds.
Induin and Liaren felt different than usual, in the last few days. Or at least, they did to Smythe. Something had changed in them; he could feel it. There was more of a glow about the pretty twins than even their Elvish heritage could account for. Smythe was willing to bet he knew what it was, too.
He reached out a hand and grabbed the blond boy as he trudged past, snatching him out of the line. "You," he said to the startled youth. "What's your name?"
"Uh, Dern, sir," the lad stammered. "Ostin Dern. From Elkershire."
"Elkershire, ey?" Smythe repeated. Elkershire was one of the more northern villages on the Sorral, not too far from the Karvanis. "Come and see me later, and I'll help you with that problem you've been having."
That remark got Smythe a few strange looks from those close enough to hear, but a light of understanding shone in Ostin's brown eyes. Smythe was willing to bet the lad's vala was causing him all kinds of trouble, especially with girls.
"Yes, sir," the lad said. He stepped back into the line and moved up the white cobblestone path toward the Chapel.
