Brightly Burning

hard to sleep.

They'd gotten a full eight candlemarks of sleep in a complete camp with tents and fires at their last pause, though it had not made them into fresh men, just less exhausted ones. Now, with four candlemarks of marching to bring them to the pass before them, their energy dared not flag. They daren't come up exhausted, when no one knew what they'd face at the end of the march. Pol knew that the Commanders had some hope that they'd be able to get more rest at the unnamed pass itself, but the Karsites had put on an unexpected burst of speed, and now the army was marching at a desperate pace to meet them. The only creature with any hope of standing between the Karsites and Valdemar was Lavan Firestorm.

The Karsites were expected to reach the pass about now—early morning. The Valdemaran army hoped to arrive before noon. That was a lot of time for something to go wrong; a lot of time for Lan to exhaust himself or be captured—

:Lan will not be captured,: Satiran said firmly. :Kalira would never allow it. He is holding the pass with surprising skill. The limiting factor is the amount of fuel for his fires.:

If Lan exhausted the fuel, could he still hold the pass?

:Kalira learned strategy from me—Lan learned it from you. We have to assume they won't do anything stupid.:

Pol wished he had Satiran's self-assurance that what he had taught wasn't flawed.

:How long?: he fretted. :How long until we're there?:

Satiran raised his head from the trail, and pointed his long nose at one mountain among many piercing the clear morning sky. :That's the peak that Lan is on; I think we will be there in two candlemarks or thereabouts. Look! See the smoke?:

Lan's fires produced very little smoke, burning as hot as they did, but through Satiran's eyes, Pol saw there was a haze of smoke around the north side of the peak.

:He's holding a barrier across the narrowest part of the pass.:

Pol nodded; that was what he would have done. Depending on how long Lan could hold that barrier, and how much he had to move it when the fuel was gone, he could keep the Karsites back for more than the couple of candlemarks it would take for the army to reach him.

Candlemarks! That was too long—too long! He had to force himself to ride easily and not strain toward that far-off goal. What wouldn't I give for a way to get us all there now!

:I can't reach Kalira.: It was Satiran's turn to fret, and Pol felt his muscles straining for a couple of strides, until he realized it would be foolhardy to try and outrun the rest of the army.

:You already knew you wouldn't be able to,: Pol reminded him. :If he's holding something that large, she'll have all she can do to keep him under control. I wish they'd put Tuck up there with him, though.:

Satiran's sides heaved beneath his legs as his Companion groaned. :But when the Karsites start breaking through—and they will—Tuck is more use down with the scouts.:

Every horseman in the cavalry had a bowman up behind him, and these troops, with the Heralds (also carrying double, with the exception of Pol), were the vanguard of the army. They were already making the best pace they could. Horses would break down under the pace a Companion could set.

'Pol. I want you to relay an order to the Heralds,' the Lord Marshal said, cutting across his thoughts and fretting.

Pol turned his bandaged eyes obediently towards the Lord Marshal riding on his right. 'Sir?'

'Send the Heralds and their archers on ahead. I know that the Companions can make better time than this —and it may be that a few men in place early can do more than many men arriving too late.' The Lord Marshal paused, and then continued, 'You may go yourself, if you wish.'

Oh, he wished, oh—how he wished! But blind as he was, he would be useless as a fighter, for not even Satiran could help him aim a bow—while here at the Lord Marshal's side, he would be able to relay messages directly to the leader of their forces. 'No, my Lord. My place is with you. But allow me a moment —'

:Heralds!: he called, his mind-voice given strength by Satiran. :The Lord Marshal commands that you and your Companions ride ahead, carrying your archers, to hold the line until the rest of us arrive.:

A ragged cheer greeted his order, and all across the front of the great mass of riders, silver-white Companions, and blue-clad archers leaped ahead like arrows speeding from bows. There were a hundred or so Heralds racing on ahead, with as many additional archers riding pillion behind. It was a thrilling and beautiful sight, the Companions flying smoothly over the white snow with shimmering manes and tails streaming behind them. They hardly seemed to touch the snow as they ran, with their Heralds and archers bent closely down over their backs. Those archers were the finest master marksmen in Valdemar, and instead of baggage, they all carried extra quivers. As they vanished into the trees, Pol and Satiran yearned after them, sending all the strength they could spare to speed them on their way.

*

LAN gnawed his lip in anger and frustration, tasting blood but feeling nothing but rage. 'Leave!' he shouted at the tiny milling specks below. 'Why won't you leave?' He sneezed as a wisp of smoke tickled his nose. He'd already shed his cloak and gloves; he wasn't cold anymore. Far from it; he didn't need the fire at his side to stay warm anymore.

He'd held them in this narrow passage for as long as the fuel for his fires was there. He couldn't burn air— well, he could, but not for long—and they still weren't giving up! He knew now to the thumb's length the size of the barrier he could hold, and if he moved it either farther back or farther forward where there was more fuel, some of them would be able to get around it.

Damn! He sensed the fires below beginning to flicker, and prepared to move them—