The ground is rocky beneath Auris' knees.  The hematite beads of her japa mala, her prayer beads, warm quickly in her grasp as she holds them before her chest, one hand clasped around the other.

"O Tembor," she begins in a murmur meant only for the two of them, "O God of War, Golden Eagle, Thought of Conflict and Destruction, may you bless our forces and guide us to victory tomorrow."

The words feel too practiced.  Too hollow of meaning, of feeling.

"O Khalini," she tries, "Lady of the Afterlife, may you be present tomorrow only to receive our foe unto you; may you wait to recall any of ours to your side."

There's a crackling pop from the fire, the conversation she stepped away from continuing unabated in her absence.  And what is she doing here?  Her duty, she reminds herself.  Before her time!  She's done everything before her time.  This is when the Orzec and Ka'lesh started trouble again; this is when it was needed.

Auris draws a careful breath.  "O Miris," she says, "O Masked One, shield my intentions from view.  May your cloak settle about my shoulders, may you, in all your knowledge, guide me safely through the battle.

"O youngest of the Thoughts, reveal to me your knowledge, show me who deceives me, reveal to me the truth.  Allow me to discern the designs of my enemy, aid me in countering their every strike.

"O Honorborn, she who rules this world, bestower of nobility, creator of ignominy, grant me glory in my efforts, raise my name to immortality, and shield my name from stain.  Grant that I remember my honor tomorrow, that I may use it as a guiding star, that you become that star that will see me through this fight."

Her words fade to nothing, leaving only the still-continuing murmur of conversation.  How can they converse so calmly at a time like this?  As though no terrors await them, as though it were little more than a hunt?  She focuses herself, drawing her attention back, quieting her mind.  She looks at her japa mala—at her hands, holding it in a white-knuckled grip.  Auris exhales, carefully relaxing.

She does not sleep well.

❂

A loud cry brings Auris to her feet before she can say she's awake.  "They're coming, they're coming!  Awake, awake, the Ka'lesh are coming!"

Auris shakes her head, clearing it of the grasping tendrils of sleep, and casts about for her chain mail.  But a few minutes later, she emerges into the chaos of the camp.  She hesitates, and then there's a familiar face—Orchid is before her, and Auris looks up to meet her eyes.  "Come," says Orchid.  "You'll stand with me."

❂

Shield in one hand, axe in the other, Auris stands by Orchid's side, only two in the long line of warriors—and the Ka'lesh are upon them.  She barely has time to think when there's a flash of metal and instincts kick in—her shield's raised to catch the blow before she realizes what's happening, and the shock of the blow traveling through the wood to her hand, to her arm, brings her alive, and she readies her grip on her axe, pulling it back, drawing aside the shield just enough to swing, catching them on the arm, and the blade sinks in, its beard hooking on bone, and she pulls.  The orc stumbles forward, and Auris continues the swing full through, throwing the orc to the ground, the axe tearing free, and all she knows is the foe before her, all she knows is they must die or she will, and the axe rises and falls, and the body slumps even as they struggled to rise again.

No time to think.  Shrieks, shouts, noise from all sides!  A flash, and she whirls, shield raised to catch the blow, already swinging in return.  The orc grunts, swaying back to avoid, raising a sword to block—flick the wrist, hook the blade.  She yanks it down and jabs forward—they barely have time to scream, nose erupting in blood, falling to their knees, hands over their face...

Auris' heart stops.  She stares at the person before her, bathed in their own blood—blood spilt by her hand.  They claw blindly for her, still clutching their ruined face, and she steps back.  And back.  They've found their sword, struggling to their feet—why have none come to their defense?  Is there none to help them?  They rush her, and she barely ducks away, the wild swing careening from her shield.  I'm sorry, she wants to cry out.  How are they still standing?  Still fighting?  A flurry of blows, each more desperate than the last, and she falls back again and again.  I'm sorry.  The sword nicks her arm and she yelps, cowering behind her shield.  I'm sorry!  Why did she come here?  A squelch of flesh, air forced from her lungs—the sword is in her side, and she stumbles forward as the orc yanks back from the lunge—off balance!  Auris surges forward, shoving them down, and she recognizes the terror in the orc's eyes just before her axe lands, snuffing the light from them altogether.  I'm sorry.

She stands staring down at the body.  Bile rises in her throat, and she finally closes her eyes with a choked sob.

❂

"Gods, no, Sunwolf...  Sunwolf, listen to me!  Sunwolf—Silvertongue, listen to me!  Open your eyes..."

Auris furrows her brow, then slowly opens her eyes.  A dark form fills her vision, bright light behind them.

"Oh, thank the gods..."  The form leans in, and arms encircle her in a close embrace.

Something stirs in Auris' mind.  "Lys...  Lightfoot?"  The name is barely breathed, and her vision still won't focus.  There's an aching in her side and, slowly, she moves her hand to it.  The chain mail is sticky beneath her fingers, its fluid pattern interrupted just on the side of her abdomen.

The figure pulls back.  "Yes, it's me, it's Lightfoot.  ...What's the matter?"  A hint of the previous desperation reenters the voice.

Auris frowns, fingers exploring, touching wet fabric and—she yelps at the pain, her hand jerking away.  Drawing a ragged breath, she peers down at her stomach.  She feels woozy, lightheaded, but she forces her eyes to focus, and they...mostly obey.  The quilted fabric of the aketon she wears beneath the mail, already dark, is darker still where the mail is rent.

Lightfoot's hand is on her shoulder, steadying her.  "I see it, Sunwolf; rest easy."

But she does not, reaching toward it, and his other hand joins hers, hovering nearby, wanting to help but uncertain how, and she knows the look he's giving her, though her eyes remain on the site of the wound.  She picks at the padded fabric of the aketon, hisses when her fingers slip a moment.  "I...  I need..."

"Yes, yes, of course."  He's laying her down, and then his hands are at her waist, undoing the belt, and then he's lifting the mail, settling the weight of it further up on her chest, and undoing the fasteners of the aketon and lifting it from her stomach.  She hisses through gritted teeth as the padded coat peels away with her shirt from the half-dried blood, her hand instinctively moving to the wound, pressing it, holding it closed.

Auris breathes in, and it's as though she rinsed the wound in a stream, the cool water flowing over it, a moment of comfort unfurling in her mind.  She exhales, and opens her eyes, and stares up at Lightfoot.  There's a crust of dried blood above his left eye, and he's covered in sweat and grime, and his eyes are wide.

"What...did you just do?"

Auris frowns.  And realizes her breathing has eased.  And the ache in her side has receded.  She lifts her head—then sets it back again, her vision nearly going black just with that movement.  Auris rests a moment before trying the same again, slowly this time, reaching toward her stomach, looking on in calm amazement as she runs her fingers over bloodied, but otherwise unmarked skin.  That feeling of comfort...  She lays her head back again, smiling faintly.  "They listened...  Miris...is with me..."