The dead soldier's eyelids smoothed out under Tristian's uncertain fingers. Another one he couldn't save. His fingertips brushed along the man's face, painting a mental picture of sweat, blood, stubbles, saliva, young, broken skin. He imagined him to be peacefully asleep. Then he chased the image away. It was a lie. He couldn't afford to lie to himself anymore. There was no peaceful sleep on a battlefield.

  Harrim's rough hand yanked at his wrist.

  "Come, lad. The suffering is over for this one. We need to regroup with the others."

  Tristian scrambled to his feet and followed his guide with wobbling steps. Braving the Flintrock Grassland barefoot might have seemed a stupid idea, but it felt very effective as penance. He probably had to say goodbye to his wings for a full mortal lifetime, and couldn't be sure about the rest, either. However, his return to the right path had helped him embrace his mortality and everything it entailed. After recoiling from human existence for so long, it was time to experience it deeply, with special regard to the downsides. The insidious rocks in the ground, the mud churned up by hundreds of feet, the blood and other spilt bodily fluids that made the soil wet, slippery and fetid, the discarded or broken weapons that cut into his flesh. Although Harrim kept him safe and pulled him out of some tricky situations, Tristian claimed his share from the pain the fighting parties dished out to each other, all the while wondering how much of it was his doing.

  It must have been easier for Harrim. The prospect of the end of all things helped him cope with the horrors of the battle. Compared to the collapse of cosmic proportions that the dwarf's faith was all about, the Brevans, the Tiger Lords, the Nightvale and Varnhold troops were nothing but grains of sand tussling with each other in an hourglass. That idea was just as benumbing as a bottle of brandy sent down the throat. No wonder Harrim had replaced one addiction with the other. But numbness was another luxury Tristian couldn't afford.

  The dwarf dragged Tristian along, stumbling between bodies, dead or alive, tripping over shields, stubbing his toes a thousand times, amidst deafening din in his ears and complete darkness where his eyes used to be. Something caught his ankle, making him fall forward into the mud. It must have been a hand. A voice whimpered for help. A sickening thud was heard, then Harrim grabbed Tristian's arm and helped him up again.

  "Rest in peace, lucky bastard," he grumbled. "You get to meet Groetus sooner than I."

  Tristian shuddered. Had Harrim just killed a wounded ally?

  He didn't have to say the question out loud.

  "Not even you have endless healing powers, angel boy," grunted the dwarf. "Sometimes a quick kill is the most merciful act you can perform."

  They pressed on forwards without discussing the topic any further.

  Out of nothing, a body slammed into Tristian, knocking him off his feet. Or did the ground rise to meet him? He had no idea what was above and what was below. The only certain thing was a sweaty, hairy forearm across his throat, threatening to crush his windpipe, and a growling mouth somewhere above him, dripping saliva into his face.

  Well, Tristian didn't feel ready to meet Pharasma today. Not until he'd have atoned for at least part of his sins and righted some of the wrongs he'd done.

  As his hand flared up with Sarenrae's fire, he simply placed his palm on the aggressive elbow. The arm retreated with a scream, and Tristian's lungs filled with life-giving air, thick with the smells of roasted flesh and burnt hair. His relief didn't last long, though. Two big hands grabbed his head from both sides, ready to twist his neck.

  Thud. Thud. Thud.

  Something warm, wet and sticky splashed into Tristian's face with every blow of what must have been Harrim's flail. The body's weight rolled off him, and the dwarf grabbed his arm again, pulling him up.

  "You all right, lad?" He didn't even wait for an answer. "What in the Boneyard was this, anyway? Looks like people are going crazy... Come. I think I saw the baroness for a moment."

  So Tristian careened after Harrim again, trying his best to pick out clues from the general turmoil. Alas, he hadn't been blind for long enough to gain heightened senses. His brow creased with the mental effort as he racked his ears, listening for melodious Elven speech or animal growls, but there was no chance he could parse those from the howls, yells, shrieks coming from human throats. He sniffed the air, curling his upper lip like he'd seen Guelder do, searching for the ever so slightly different smell of elven blood, and praying he wouldn't find it. If there was any, it was lost in the olfactory caleidoscope that would from now on haunt his dreams.

  By the Dawnflower, how hard it was to live without eyes.

  Still, he finally became aware of something he couldn't place in the realm of the five senses. A beacon, a shred of Sarenrae's power. He could even tell that it represented her destructive aspect, and yet, as his heart resonated with it, he felt warm inside. What could that be?

  Then it all clicked into place as he remembered Sunbeam, the spear made for Guelder by the Tatzlford bowyer as his introductory gift for his ruler. How could he have forgotten it? He'd never felt its power so clearly before. Was it his hidden senses compensating for his blindness? Or was it that he'd got a tiny step closer to Sarenrae?

  "Tristian! Harrim! Here!"

  Yes, it was Guelder's voice, and Tristian could tell something was wrong.

  "It's Hazel," commented Harrim helpfully. "You do it. I'll keep an eye out for anyone trying to intrude upon your privacy."

  And indeed, Harrim's rough guidance was replaced by Guelder's gentle but firm (and even without eyes, unmistakable) touch as she ushered Tristian to her friend. Hazel's voice sounded near hysterical as they were arguing with Guelder in Elven. They had some difficulty shaping the words, which probably meant they were holding a piece of soothbark between their teeth.

  "They took an axe in the thigh," explained Guelder, keeping her voice low. "Heavy bleeding, splintered bone. I think they are in shock, and I have spent my best spells long ago."

  She turned to Hazel again and put them in place in her best voice of authority. Tristian didn't understand a single word, but he was pretty sure it was about him.

  "Guelder, if they don't trust me, perhaps it's better to call Harrim," he ventured.

  "I do not give a rat's arse what they think!" snapped the baroness, oblivious to her position. "And you should not, either. I trust you, and I want the best healer for Hazel. End of story."

  Guided by Guelder, Tristian's right hand felt out the tourniquet and the makeshift bandages that replaced the trouser leg, and sensed the nervous tension in the ranger's muscles in response to his touch. His left hand reached out tentatively, and Guelder directed it to Hazel's cold, clammy forehead. Best not to waste more time.

  Tristian mouthed a quick prayer to his goddess, and tapped into the holy power. It felt so much cleaner and healthier since he'd left Nyrissa's service. Hazel's body convulsed from the sudden influx of energy, then relaxed with a wholesome shudder.

  "Thanks, Tristian," they muttered, finally in Common. "It is good you did not die in the Tors, after all."

  "What the hell are you on about, Hazel?" wondered Guelder.

  Heat suffused Tristian's face. He didn't blush quite as often as before, but the memory of his fumbled rock climb still embarrassed him deeply.

  "It must be the blood loss speaking," he said. "Give them something to drink, and keep an eye on them."

  Stolen novel; please report.

  "Can I get my trouser leg back?" inquired the ranger.

  "No," said the baroness. "For the moment, you are stuck with these very impressive and heroic-looking bandages. Next time take better care of your clothes."

  Tristian could tell she was smiling, though. There was a glub-glub-glub sound as Hazel was given a canteen of water, and some struggle as Guelder helped them up.

  A big, furry body brushed against his leg, making him jump and yelp.

  "As you might have guessed, Pangur is back," announced Guelder. "He will lead us to Darlac. If I am any judge, the tide is turning."

  Well, Tristian was in no position to confirm or refute that opinion. And yet, during their quest to find the General, there was no more incident. No bumping into isolated groups of people still at each other's throats, no formless attackers coming from the dark to take out the last of their rage on guileless-looking priests. Even Tristian's battered feet felt lighter on the ground. He suspected Guelder's hand in that.

  "There!" exclaimed the baroness. As if that helped. "Follow me!"

  In a moment, Tristian couldn't feel Sunbeam's presence anymore. Of course. Why would the baroness approach on two feet, when four feet were at least twice as fast?

  "Nothing like chasing leopards in mutilated trousers," growled Hazel, and immediately put the efficiency of Tristian's healing to the test by dashing after Guelder.

  Harrim was not a great runner, so he and Tristian settled for a light jog, while the dwarf relayed to him what there was to be seen.

  "Looks like the Surtova are back. I can see their banner. Their crossbowmen, too. Ah, and there is our General and her halo. The Tiger Lords are making their last stand at the path leading up to their camp."

  Tristian wondered how this dwarf could talk so smoothly while running. He was already out of breath himself, even with Guelder's thoughtful spell making him lighter on his feet. His lungs were burning, his side stung, and Harrim continued his report.

  "The baroness is already there, giving a piece of her mind to the Surtova commander. Apparently, she wants to try for peace."

  That word – peace – filled Tristian with renewed strength. Guelder might need Sarenrae's guidance to convince the enemy to surrender. A couple more lives could be saved. That was worth some pain in the lungs.

  They arrived just in time to hear Darlac's proclamation.

  "Tiger Lords! You fought well today and I'm sure you've made your Lord in Iron proud and satisfied. Let us not spill more blood and squander more lives in vain. Admit to your defeat and lay down your weapons, and there may be hope for a reasonable peace."

  Booing and hooting came as an answer.

  "One of them listens, though," said Harrim softly. "Perhaps he will set a good... No."

  Tristian heard the all too familiar sound of a blade thumping into flesh and bone, a laboured final breath, a body falling into the mud. Just this once, he could have done with duller senses.

  "Shove your peace up your juicy ass, redhead!" exclaimed someone from the enemy in heavily accented Common. "The mighty Armag will lead us to victory!"

  "The mighty Armag?" sneered Darlac. "You mean the big guy who ran from me with his tail between his legs, back to the safety of his camp? I wouldn't be surprised to learn he has made himself scarce altogether. Make no mistake, Tiger Lords, you are on your own. His glory belongs to him alone, just as your defeat belongs to you. He'll want no part in it. You deserve better than that."

  Guelder joined in, and Tristian whispered another prayer to support her efforts. This was a great time for Sarenrae to gain glory. Surely she wouldn't stay away from a just cause like this!

  "As the Baroness of Nightvale, I take it upon myself to mediate between the Tiger Lords and the state of Brevoy. This battle has been hard on your people, and I have no wish to see your demise. All you need to do is distance yourselves from Ar –"

  Tristian flinched as he felt a strong, menacing presence appear through the enemy lines. He recognised it immediately. One of Nyrissa's Sisters. Yet, it somehow felt out of place, insecure, even a little frightened.

  "What the hell," muttered Harrim. "They must be desperate if they drag a Defaced Sister here, with a bag over her head."

  Dozens of crossbows creaked, ready to fire... then some of them were dropped to the ground or released randomly. Harrim swore in Dwarven and let go of Tristian's wrist. Darlac's horse danced in place, stomping its hooves and grunting, heedless of its rider's soothing words.

  "What's going on?" whispered Tristian to Harrim. "Does she have Guelder?"

  Only a whimper came as an answer, but based on the helpless snarl replacing Guelder's words, it had to be a yes.

  Steel grated on steel.

  "Let her go!" screamed Darlac, quite a bit less threatening than intended, what with being trapped astride her spooked horse.

  Tristian couldn't tell what was affecting the others so badly, from the leaders to the last rank-and-file soldier. He remembered something about a Sister trying to outstare Jaethal, back in Silvershield Fortress. Well, if some of their abilities required eye contact... that meant a blind man stood a good chance against them.

  He took a step forward. The second one came easier. The third easier still. All he had to do was follow the small shred of Sarenrae's light.

  The Sister finally noticed him. He sensed some of the threat being redirected at him.

  "You...?"

  "Me," he said with his most compassionate smile. "The Skylark can't fly anymore, but he walks free. Do you not want to walk free, Sister?"

  "How dare you show your face here?"

  "How many centuries have you spent serving a cruel mistress? Despoiled of her heart, she took your face, your name, your friends, your warmth, your laughter, made you into a tool to serve her will. What do you hope to gain from serving her?"

  The Sister's voice trembled.

  "Enough!"

  "You serve her because you want things to return to how they used to be. And this is where you're wrong. There will be no reward or remedy. You will never get your face back, nor your name, nor your life. You will remain her tool, until you break and she discards you as useless. Come, Sister. Walk free. Even if her chain snaps your throat after the first step, it's better to die free than to live in eternal servitude. If anyone, I should know."

  The Sister broke into an ear-splitting wail. People squealed in agony, fell to the ground, dropped their weapons... but to Tristian, it didn't feel like an offensive use of an ability. It was a genuine cry from a dead heart, carrying millennia of soul-grinding agony, a torment much like his own, only a thousand times worse.

  Thud.

  Reaching out to the Sister, Tristian had stopped keeping tabs on Sunbeam, and so he couldn't follow how it ended up in Darlac's hands. Now, however, Sarenrae's mercy (or retribution) pierced the Sister's heart, cutting off her grief for herself and liberating her from Nyrissa's yoke.

  "Don't take this personally," said Darlac triumphantly through the little sounds of her foe's dying. "Our work here is crucial for the survival of our respective tribes and countries. I cannot allow you or your mistress to interfere anymore."

  "Rest in peace, Sister," whispered Tristian. "By the Dawnflower's grace, you are released from your servitude."

  "Also, Tiger Lords," added Darlac, quickly, before the enemy would recover from their surprise. "Before you make your last suicidal attack to avenge your fallen oppressor, turn around, check the palisades of your camp, and tell me what you see there. From where I stand, it looks very much like a white flag."