Blade of Erogrund

Chapter 26- Voices of the Dead

Mira's heart pounded. Every moment gave way to its relentless beating like the ferocious hammering of Dwarven blacksmiths she had grown so accustom to hearing in the forges. It sent a conspicuous tremor through her entire body as she leaned over, crouched on the floor in the row of books.

Naevir again had offered her solace when the rest of the city had proven cold and demanding. The smooth, flowing carvings of the formidable bookshelves cast sweeping blankets of shadow that welcomed her into their swaths of concealment. The sweet sent of aged parchment combined with the ever so small scent of must offered reassurance to her even when her eyes were closed in a desperate attempt to block out the visions of what had transpired. 

Whenever she opened them she was faced with the sickening red of the blood that soaked her hands. With her hair fallen around her shoulders it had become difficult to  even distinguish the lovely ginger from the ghastly scarlet. It occurred to her in these fragile moments that blood was in actually a beautiful color. The way it caught the torchlight while embracing the darkness of shadows was unparalleled. But the beauty was soured as soon as her mind fluttered upon the thought that not a day before it had been coursing through a man's veins, offering life, vitality, and strength to every one of his limbs. It was like a painting of remarkable beauty, cherished by its beholder until suddenly it was understood that it was only viewed by some irreversibly heinous payment.

Visions swam in her mind of all that had happened. Once the fighting had stilled everyone of whom had ever had practice healing, from apothecary to stable-hand, had been beckoned to the hospital wards.

With all frantic haste they had worked. For hours they had worked until the thick, irony scent of blood ran thick on the floor and its odor saturated the air. The moans of the dead and dying still called to her from the memories filling her recent thoughts. Even sharper were the ones that could not be saved, the ones so bloodied by their bravery or arrogance that no matter of herb or bandages could stanch the life that seeped from them.

Suddenly she heard footsteps in the aisle, breaking the chains that bound her thoughts.

"Mira," a soft voice called. "I see you there."

The cowering girl looked up into the eyes of a small, innocently kind face.

"Samantha," she replied, unsure of what to say.

The younger girl did not seem to mind the pointless greeting. Instead she stepped carefully, almost gingerly, toward where Mira was crouched and drew her short braid of strawberry blond hair off her concern-ridden face and over her shoulder.

"Are you okay?" Her voice was as delicate as her appearance and her cloudy blue eyes narrowed.

Mira's first thought was to answer yes, of course, but her mind overcame her will and she buried her head in her hands. "No." 

Samantha dropped beside her, hugging her legs to her chest and leaning back against the cold stone wall. "I know what you mean, I think. There were so many of them." 

The redheaded girl beside her wiped her blood-spattered cheek with what remained of the semi-clean sleeve that covered her left arm. "Yes. It's more than that though... Each of them were alive yesterday. Their hearts were beating strong and fast, faster even as they went to the very fighting that killed them. How can someone lift a weapon so cold and sharp against another and bring it down with such thoughtless violence?"

The younger girl cocked her head. "I'm not sure I understand. I'm only ten, so that might not be saying much, but I think there was plenty of thought in what happened. High Lord Caeros had planned for quite some time, I imagine, and it is not in the nature of Niron men throw their lives away without thought. Sobriety, on the other hand," she said with a small smile and the rolling of her eyes, "is another matter entirely. But not their lives."