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“What was that?” Ipid asked in sudden excitement. He heard Eia gasp, calmed himself, and slowly repeated, “Did you see that flash of fire? What was that?”
“I saw it.” Eia replied patiently. “I felt it to. It was a Belan using the gift of Hilaal.”
“But, Arin said. . . .”
“Be still.” Eia did not raise her voice, but her cold hands pressed his.
“Arin said that the te-am’ eiruh would not participate in the battle.”
“It was not one of our order.” There was concern in Eia's voice. “It came from someone on the field, from one of your people.”
“That’s not possible.” Ipid kept his emotions bound, remained calm. “No one in our lands knows how to use your powers.”
“That was my impression as well. Unless . . . but surely not here.”
“What is it?”
“The Belab mentioned that he had sensed the presence of another belab on this continent. I know that is confusing, but belab is not a name, it is a title. That is why we call him ‘the Belab.’ It is a title that denotes one who does not need to learn to use our powers, one who can naturally draw upon Hilaal’s gift and use the power with his mere thoughts. It is an incredibly rare gift, one that occurs only every hundred or more generations. The Belab is the only known man with such power. If there is another on this continent, that would explain why the Belab has been so troubled.”
“Why would he be trouble?” Ipid felt his hope rising. “Because this one is on our side, because we might stand a chance in this fight.”
“No!” Eia left no doubt. “An untrained belab is extremely dangerous to both himself and those around him. The power generated by the battle below would be enough to turn your city to ash in the hands of a belab. Without training, your young hero will not know how to control his powers and could easily do horrible damage with little more than an errant thought.”
“Oh,” Ipid gulped. “What will Belab do about it?”
“This person, if he is what I suspect, must be handled with great care.” Eia was reverent in her appraisal. “I am certain that the Belab is looking for a way to restrain him, to show him the need to be trained. The problem is that if he confronts the boy now – and surely he is a boy or his powers would have been revealed long ago – in the middle of a battle such as this, with so much power at his disposal, there is no way to predict what he will do. Countless lives could be lost; the very balance of the world could be jeopardized. . . .”
Ipid did not understand, but the certainty in Eia’s words left him too stunned to ask anything further.
They fell silent after that, but the battle continued for what seemed like hours. Ipid looked to the cloud-obscured blur of sun often but did not have a hand to measure its progress. He looked back at the field where the city folk fought. The strategy they had devised had worked better than he had hoped. The stoche had given way to the Darthur and other units of the invaders, and a fair number of men were still standing. Their lines gave gradually, retreated under cover of the archers then reformed. The narrow stack of men meant that only a fraction of the invaders could strike the city folk at any one time. But they were running out of room. Already the distance to the river had shrunk to almost nothing, and the Darthur still brought units around from their huge flanks to strike at the middle of the formation. It was only a matter of time before those strikes divided the defenders into isolated pockets that would be readily absorbed by the numbers of the invaders.
Despite what Eia had said, Ipid was encouraged to see occasional burst of magical fire on the field below. Those burst appeared to be one of the few advantages afforded to the defenders, and they had saved the city folk from several near disasters. Yet every time a burst appeared, Eia flinched as if she had been slapped and tightened her grip with obvious worry.
Ipid was looking to the sun again when he caught something happening on the field below. Several of the Darthur broke from the battle and charged up the hill where he watched. They came into view, and he recognized Arin followed by the Darthur te-ashüte. When they reached the top of the hill, they turned to the field, surveying their handiwork. Arin looked at the other members of the Ashüt with a huge smile that mirrored those around him, held his hand to the sun, measured off three hands, and nodded toward Thorold. He pulled the horn from the side of his horse and blew it for all he was worth.
It sounded to Ipid as if the horn had been blown into his ear. His head rang and his ears ached, but he was more relieved than he had ever been. That sound meant that the battle was over. The horn was followed by others, and the invaders fell back. The city folk let out a cry of victory as if they had just routed their enemy. Ipid wanted to scream with them, but he remembered his promise to Eia and held his emotions in check.
His heart thumped nonetheless as he looked back toward Arin. The young leader was talking in a tight group with the te-ashüte. “We are agreed then,” he concluded the conversation. The other men nodded and turned to the field. In that field, the invaders were pulling back. The defenders were cheering and moving toward the protection of the city. Surely, this is the end, Ipid thought. He glanced at Arin. There was a grim smile on his face. Something isn’t right.
There was another blast from Thorold’s great horn. Again it was echoed by a cacophony of others, and in a wave, the invaders charged back into the battle. A cry of anguish rose from the city folk in such decibels that it was audible from the distant hill. Ipid looked back at Arin in disbelief. He could feel Eia clasping his hands, nearly crushing them in her own; he was losing control of his emotions.
The te-am’ eiruh suddenly appeared on the hill next to Arin. The young leader nodded toward Ipid – he must be watching through Belab's eyes. The view turned to the te-am' eiruh, a few hundred in all, as they began chanting. At that same moment, the horizon behind the hill exploded with the black shapes of winged creatures. The things, hundreds of them in every size and shape, rose in a black sheet and swooped toward the city.
That was all that Ipid or Eia could take. She released his hands and clasped her head, gasping for breath.
“He swore to me!” Ipid yelled. “He swore. By the Order. By the cursed bloody Order, he swore. That bastard. That order-cursed bastard.” Ipid raged at Arin then turned on himself. “And I believed him. Like a child, I believed him. Stupid! Stupid! Stupid! I am a fool . . . a fool for the ages. An order-cursed idiot.” His head was spinning with fury the likes of which he had not known since Counselor Torpy had told him the terrible news twelve years gone.
“And you!” He turned on Eia. “You and Belab! You had me convinced that this test was for real, that it mattered. And it was all a trick. By the Holy Order, it was a trick!”
“Please, calm yourself,” Eia gasped. “Trust me. We had nothing to do with this. I have never seen its like. Would I have allowed you to see this if I had known, if I wanted to deceive you?”
Ipid took a deep breath but his fury would not subside. He pounded his fist into the ground until it hurt then used his head until he finally left it there. “That bastard!” he repeated through his sobs. Never again, he promised himself. From now on, he knew better than to trust that monster. From now on, he told himself, this was war.
Chapter 40