Page 51 of Bound By Blood
We move together through the pre-dawn darkness, following paths carved by generations of my ancestors. The stronghold awakens around us—warriors emerging from sleeping quarters,weapons being distributed, defensive positions manned by grim-faced fighters.
The clan's war-leader approaches, his scarred face set in familiar lines of concentration. "Chief. The eastern watchtower reports at least sixty raiders, maybe more. They're moving in coordinated groups."
"Disposition?"
"Heavy infantry in front, archers providing cover. They've learned from their last attempt." His gaze flicks to Eirian, question clear in his expression.
"Lady Thorne fights with us," I state flatly, forestalling any objection. "She tends the wounded where battle dictates."
The war-leader nods, accepting my decision without comment. Good. Unity of command matters more than personal opinions when death approaches.
The eastern battlements overlook a narrow pass between two cliff faces—the most likely avenue of attack. Our defensive positions take advantage of the terrain, forcing attackers into a killing field where our superior knowledge of the ground provides tactical advantage.
I position Eirian behind the main defensive line, close enough to reach wounded quickly but shielded from the worst of the fighting. She surveys the arrangement with a tactical eye I didn't expect from someone raised in noble comfort.
"The secondary fallback position," she says, pointing to a sheltered alcove twenty yards back. "If the line breaks, wounded will retreat there first. I should prepare supplies in advance."
Smart, battleplanning comes naturally to her, despite her lack of formal military training. Perhaps healing and warfare require similar strategic thinking, anticipating where the greatest need will arise.
The sun clears the eastern peaks just as enemy voices echo from the pass below. Harsh shouts in dialects I recognize buthaven't heard in months. These aren't desperate bandits seeking easy plunder. They're organized fighters with specific objectives.
"They want the peace totem," I realize aloud. Word of our discovery must have spread beyond the clan. "And they want you."
Eirian's hand finds mine, her grip strong. "Then they'll have to go through both of us."
The first arrows whistle overhead, falling short of our positions but announcing the battle's beginning. My warriors respond with disciplined volleys, their aim true despite the range.
Below in the pass, enemy shields lock together as they advance up slope. Professional formation, coordinated movement—someone with real military experience leads them.
"Drokhan." Eirian's voice cuts through the growing din of combat. "Whatever happens, don't let fear make you reckless. I need you alive."
I turn to meet beautiful eyes one final time before chaos claims us both. In them I see a determination that rivals my own, love that burns deeper than any clan loyalty.
"Stay close," I growl, raising my war-axe as the enemy reaches optimal range. "We fight together."
The battle cry erupts from three dozen throats as one, a sound that echoes and announces our defiance to any who would threaten what we protect.
11
EIRIAN
The first wave crashes against our defenses like storm surf against unyielding cliffs.
I crouch behind the stone barrier, hands unwavering through the chaos erupting around me. Three wounded warriors already sprawl at my feet with arrow wounds, sword gashes, one with a spear point lodged between his ribs. My fingers work without conscious thought, applying pressure, binding wounds, calculating who needs immediate attention versus who can wait.
"Healer!" A desperate shout from the left flank.
I snatch my satchel and sprint toward the cry, keeping low as arrows hiss overhead. A young warrior, barely past his first battle-marks, clutches his shoulder where crimson seeps between his fingers. Clean entry wound, missed the major vessels. He'll live if I can stop the bleeding.
"Hold still." I carry the authority of someone who's navigated countless medical crises. The totem pulses warm against me as I work, its energy flowing through my hands into his torn flesh.
Strange.The healing happens faster than it should, tissue knitting with unnatural speed. The warrior's eyes widen as strength returns to his injured arm.
"By the ancestors," he breathes. "What did you?—"
"Get back to your position." I push him toward the battle line before he can finish the question. No time to examine the totem's effects now.
The morning sun climbs higher, painting the battlefield in harsh contrasts of light and shadow. Our defensive line holds, but barely. The enemy adapts quickly, using grappling hooks to scale the cliff face where our archers can't target them effectively.
