Leaves of Flame

by Benjamin Tate

  The Well stood in the center, its edge rising from the flat stone to waist height. There was nothing else in the plaza, although when he had been here last, Colin had found evidence of other structures built on top of the stone, their foundations still visible as outlines on the surface. The strange trees surrounded the plaza on all sides, their branches draping over the edge of the platform in places.

  “How can there be trees?” Aeren asked. He whispered, but his voice breaking the near silence still made some of the Phalanx start. “No sunlight can reach down here.”

  “The Well,” Colin said, moving out from the edge of the platform toward its lip even as he spoke. “The Lifeblood keeps them alive.”

  The group reformed, Colin drawing up to the edge of the Well to stare down into the depths of the perfectly flat water, the bluish light washing up over his face, the rest hanging back. He could taste the Lifeblood now, wanted to reach out and drink it down, feel its coolness in his mouth, slipping down his throat and suffusing his body with warmth. The need was an ache. When he reached one hand forward, it trembled. He stared at it, the skin pale, nearly translucent, the marks that had pulled free of the cover of his sleeve a hideous black in contrast.

  “I need to see if I can find out what has happened through the Well,” Colin said. “I won’t be aware of what’s happening around me as I work.”

  Eraeth immediately ordered the rest of Aeren’s Phalanx to spread out, halfway between the Well and the trees. Vaeren grudgingly did the same, sending Siobhaen, Petraen, and Boreaus to join them. Both Vaeren and Aeren remained close to Colin, who turned his attention completely on the Well and the pulsations of light.

  With a small sigh of regret, he leaned forward and dipped his hand into the water, bringing it to his lips. He drank as little as possible, enough to connect him to the Well and no more. The tingling cold fire of it burned as he swallowed.

  He leaned forward onto the stone lip, then closed his eyes and sank to his knees at its edge, as if in prayer in one of Diermani’s churches. He nearly crossed himself in reflex—­shoulder, shoulder, heart, waist—­but halted the gesture mid-­motion with a small smile and a shake of his head.

  Then he sank into the Well.

  He dove deep, through the pulsating light and into the depths, even though he knew his body remained behind, at the lip of the Well, protected by Aeren and Eraeth and the others. He followed the Lifeblood, followed its taste of leaves and earth and snow, deep and deeper, until the flow that fed this Well emptied out into a vast reservoir of Lifeblood, a lake of power far beneath the surface of the earth. A lake that spread southward, beneath the lands that the Alvritshai had once claimed as their own, beneath the mountains. It grew shallow in places, deeper in others, was blocked by pillars of earth and stone and rock through huge sections of land and narrowed down to channels in others. He followed those channels, wove his way along them, rising to the surface through streams whose mouths were the Wells that had been discovered over the past few hundred years, Wells like those in the Ostraell at the heart of the dwarren plains. At each Well, he checked his wards and found them intact, so he kept roaming, reaching out along additional channels, along less familiar routes, searching for something that was different.

  As he skirted the edges of the Lifeblood beneath the dwarren’s easternmost lands, he found it.

  The flow of the Lifeblood had changed, the currents eddying in new directions. He felt them drawing him eastward, pulling him with a strength greater than any he’d felt before. He let himself be drawn along this new direction, felt himself funneled into new paths, ones that had not existed thirty years before. But as he was swept along, he realized that they had existed thirty years before. He felt the age in the rock, felt the hunger of the stone as the Lifeblood coursed through it, speeding eastward. These passages had been here long before the dwarren claimed the plains, long before the Faelehgre had built their city around the Well and been caught and transformed by it. These channels that now seethed with the Lifeblood had been closed off somehow, blocked.

  And someone had released that block.

  That was what had upset the balance of the Wells. That was what had caused the return of the ethereal storms on the dwarren plains, and the occumaen and iriaem of the White Wastes.

  Walter.

  Colin’s heart seized in his chest and he suddenly realized that the current dragging him eastward had increased, stronger now than it had been before. He began to struggle against it, fought his way back toward the west, felt a moment of pure panic as he thought the current had gotten too strong. As he struggled, he reached out to the east with thin tendrils, tried to determine where the new channels ended, because he suddenly knew that that was where he would find Walter, where he would find the Wraiths. He sensed further branches of the Lifeblood, far beyond the edges of dwarren lands. He snaked more tendrils east, followed as many of the paths as he could, but they all led toward the same location, toward the same central source.

  Then, at the edges of his senses, stretched so thin he thought he would snap, he caught the faint vestige of another reservoir, another lake of Lifeblood so vast he gasped. His strength fled, and for a moment he lost his struggle against the current and was dragged toward that vast sea buried deep beneath the land.

  A vast sea that had recently been awakened.

  He snatched the tendrils back to himself, gathered them close. He couldn’t spare anything for a further search, for further answers. The currents of the Lifeblood had him, were increasing as they drove him toward that sea. He needed everything he had to push against it, to force himself through the churning flow. Surging forward, he struggled back through the formerly blocked channels, his progress increasing with every step forward as the strength of the current decreased, until he roared from the opened mouth of the passage and back onto familiar ground.

  He paused to gather his strength, knew that his body back at the Well would be trembling, perhaps had even fallen from the lip of the Well itself. But he spared a moment to search the edges of the dwarren plain for other breaches leading to the sea he’d discovered. He found three, each drawing Lifeblood toward the sea as the two sources connected.

  Then he shot northward, back to the Well, back to his body. As he traveled, his rage grew.

  Walter had found another source of power. He’d opened up the paths to the east, had awakened the sea beneath, was drawing on it even now, had been drawing on it for decades. There was no other explanation. While Colin had been fumbling with creating the knife, Walter had already been moving forward, working outside the influence of the Trees. He’d thought there was nothing that Walter could do, that he’d accounted for everything by warding the Wells and protecting the Lifeblood.

  He’d been so stupid!

  The rage nearly blinded him to the taint in the taste of the Well as he approached the north. He caught it at the last moment—­a bitterness, like sap. The taste startled him with its acridness, but it wasn’t in the Well itself. It was approaching from the south, from the direction of the tunnel through the glacier.

  And he recognized the taint.

  He dove into his body, tried to seize control of it even as he felt it slip from the lip of the Well with the force of his return, even as he felt seizures race through his arms and legs. He tried to speak, heard Aeren cry out to Eraeth, heard Vaeren swear harshly. He opened his eyes, the bluish glow of the Well too bright, blinding him. He couldn’t breathe, his chest heaving, and he broke out in racking coughs as he rolled onto his side.

  “Shaeveran!” Aeren barked. “Don’t try to talk. Breathe in deeply. You’re only making it worse.”

  “Wra—­” Colin wheezed, but his chest contracted and he hacked dryly into the damp, rain-­slicked stone of the plaza. The coughing sapped his strength, already drained from his battle with the currents of the Lifeblood.

  “What is he trying to say?” Vaeren demanded. “What did he find out?”

  “I don’t know,” Aeren said, his voi
ce calm, although Colin could hear the tension beneath.

  “It sounded like Wraith,” Eraeth cut in tersely.

  Colin nodded, drew in another ragged breath, then gathered enough strength to snatch Eraeth’s arm and drag him in close. “Shadows are coming, with a Wraith. Through the tunnel.”

  Before he finished, someone screamed, a horrid, high-­pitched sound that cut off before it was finished.

  Eraeth and Vaeren lurched back from Colin, Eraeth ripping free of Colin’s grasp. Colin rolled to the side, coming to rest on his shoulder, his view of the trees in the direction of the tunnel’s mouth clear.

  One of Aeren’s Phalanx had fallen, the blackness of a Shadow writhing over his form in frenzied ecstasy. Before anyone could react, four more Shadows flowed out of the forest, two falling on another of Aeren’s guardsmen even as he swung his sword. He fell with a curse that cut into a shout and then silence. The third Phalanx member scrambled backward, falling back to Petraen’s side, his breathing harsh as he moved.

  And then the Wraith stepped from the trees.

  Colin’s heart leaped with a malice and hatred so fierce he half rose, resting his weight on one arm. He reached for his staff with the other, even as weakness passed down through his body in a wave. For a long moment, all he saw was Walter, the boy who had bullied him with his gang in the streets of Portstown, the man he had become in the forests of Ostraell as he drank from the Well and became a Wraith beneath the Shadows’ hands. Colin thrust himself up, using the staff as support, before sagging back against the lip of the Well as the Wraith advanced, flanked by the two remaining Shadows.

  When the Wraith drew an Alvritshai cattan, Colin’s hatred faltered.

  He blinked away his rage, caught himself. This wasn’t Walter. This was one of the other Wraiths, an Alvritshai by the weapon and the stance. Too tall to be human or dwarren.

  But advancing steadily.

  “What do we do?” Petraen shouted, an edge to his voice. He, Aeren’s remaining guardsman, and Boreaus were the closest.

  “Retreat. You can’t fight them. Your cattans are useless,” Colin said, his voice unnaturally calm. “Only I can fight them.”

  He turned and dipped his free hand into the Well, drank deeply, felt the power of the Lifeblood seethe through him even as he reached into his satchel, pulling forth the chain mail of the quickened knife. He shrugged out of the satchel, dropped it and the chain mail cloth to the ground as he stepped forward, out in front of Vaeren, Eraeth, and Aeren, knife in hand. Siobhaen had backed nearly to their position. She shot a glance toward him as he passed, her eyes wide with fear, but her jaw set.

  “Hold them off,” she said softly. “Hold them off long enough for me to call Aielan’s Light.” Then she spun and sprinted back to the group around the Well.

  “Petraen, Boreaus,” Vaeren shouted. “Fall back now!”

  Eraeth repeated the order, Aeren’s guardsman answering immediately.

  The two members of the Flame hesitated, the Wraith nearly upon them, the Shadows—­all five of them—­spreading out to either side, beginning to encircle them. Only when Vaeren cursed did they relent, backing away sharply, their useless blades held out protectively before them.

  Colin took their place, staff in one hand, the knife half-­hidden in the other.

  The Wraith halted. Like Walter in the parley tent at the Escarpment, it wore a cloak, the hood drawn up to conceal its face. But even as it began to speak, it reached up and drew the hood back.

  Colin didn’t recognize the Alvritshai beneath. His pale skin was mottled with the same blackness that covered Colin’s arms, only much darker, writhing around his eyes and nose, across his angular cheeks and sharp jaw. His black hair was tied back with a length of cord.

  “We knew you would come,” he said, his voice rumbling. “We waited for you. Outside. But you are too late. We are already moving, our armies already in motion. This is merely the removal of an… annoyance.”

  He didn’t wait for an answer. With a single gesture, he motioned the five Shadows forward, even as he raised his cattan and swung, quicker than Colin had expected.

  Colin caught the blade with the staff, crying out as he staggered backward beneath the blow, the wood unwieldy with only one hand; it was meant for a two-­handed grip. But he didn’t dare drop the knife, even though he wasn’t certain it would work as he expected. As he blocked the Wraith’s first blow, he swung the knife out sideways, catching one of the Shadows across its center. His hand tingled with numbness, but he felt grim satisfaction as the wooden knife caught in the substance of the Shadow and ripped across its length. The Shadow screamed, the sound shattering the stillness, shivering beneath the skin, the tatters of its two halves falling backward to the ground like cloth as its death cry faded.

  The sudden death caused the Wraith to pause in shock. Taking advantage, Colin shoved his blade aside and swung with the knife toward the Alvritshai’s throat.

  The Wraith blurred, reappearing a step back, out of reach. “You have a new toy,” he spat, his voice no longer laced with confidence.

  “And I intend to use it.”

  Colin slowed time, even as he spun, bringing his staff up and around, catching one of the Shadows with its end as it reached for him, shoving the knife toward another. But the Shadows were created by the Lifeblood, were a part of its power. They sensed his movement, even with time slowed, and reacted, seething back out of reach. The staff caught one and flung it to the side unharmed, the knife blurring through nothing. But Colin was still moving, stepping to the side, swinging for the Alvritshai Wraith as he dodged beneath the flowing blackness of the Shadows. The group whirled and danced, time slipping back and forth as each plied the powers of the Lifeblood in an effort to find an advantage. The Shadows were restricted, only seeming to sense Colin’s movements as he slowed and sped up time; they couldn’t maneuver through it as he did. But the Wraith—­

  The Wraith was like him, touched by the Well yet not completely transformed. Colin blocked the Shadows with the staff as much as possible, tried to keep the knife in reserve for the Wraith as the Alvritshai blurred back and forth, his cattan flashing in the pulsating blue light of the Well. At the same time, Colin forced the group back toward the trees and away from Aeren and the others. He had no time to spare a glance in their direction, not with four Shadows and the Wraith dodging in and out of his defenses.

  He found himself completely on the defensive. His strength was gone, drained by his search within the Well and by two nights of little sleep. The Lifeblood he’d drunk had sustained him so far, and he would pay the price for that, but the Wraith and the Shadows weren’t exhausted. They were merely wary of the knife, streaming away from his slashes as he fought. That wouldn’t last long.

  He needed to end this. Now.

  When one of the Shadows reached for him, he swung the staff up sharply, catching its folds and thrusting it up and out, ignoring the attack from another Shadow to the left. He could sense the Wraith coming in from the right, could feel the blade slicing through the air near his back. But instead of spinning away from it, toward the Shadow, he turned toward it.

  The blade caught him in the side, sliced in deep, the pain instant, searing across his vision with a white haze. He screamed, felt blood gurgling at the back of his throat, but he drew the arm carrying the knife up and drove it down into the body of the Wraith he could barely see, drove it deep into the Alvritshai’s neck. The blade sliced cleanly through flesh, grazed the Wraith’s collarbone, skated across the bone’s ridge to the hollow below the throat, then slipped free.

  The Wraith roared, staggering away, the cattan in Colin’s side pulling free with a jerk. Blood splashed across Colin’s face as he lost his balance and fell to his hands and knees. Pain shivered up his arms, lanced up his legs, but he held onto the knife, to his staff, his fingers crushed. His own hot blood sheeted down his side and dripped from his shirt, but he ignored it, thrust back onto his haunches, bringing the knife up with shaky arms.<
br />
  The Wraith had staggered back, a ragged wound from the side of his neck to the bottom of his throat gushing blood between the hand clamped to it. He stared at Colin in horror, tried to speak, but couldn’t, the wound across his throat too severe. With his free hand, he brought his cattanup, then stumbled backward three more steps before collapsing, the cattan clattering to the stone.

  Colin caught the flicker of the Shadows to either side, all four hanging back as if uncertain what they should do.

  But then five more emerged from the trees and moved up onto the plaza.

  Colin exhaled sharply, nearly sobbed. Dropping the staff, he reached to clamp a hand around the wound at his side, his body wavering where it stood. He had no strength left. He couldn’t even raise the arm that held the knife.

  Behind, through the haze of pain and exhaustion that clouded his mind, he caught the soft drone of a chant as it reached its end. He frowned, the words vaguely familiar.

  And then he remembered what Siobhaen had said.

  He felt the power of Aielan’s Light shuddering through the earth beneath him, felt it rising upward. He gasped as it reached the surface and white fire bloomed from the stone, seething up in slow unfurling flames in a ring around the Well at Colin’s back. It hovered there, burning without any visible source, and then it began to advance.

  Colin sucked in a harsh breath as it touched him, passed through him, closing his eyes as he felt it burn deep inside him, breaking down all of his defenses, searing away all of his pretensions, licking through his core, touching his heart, his soul, judging him. But he had experienced this once before, at the center of Aielan’s Light in the heart of the mountains beneath Caercaern. There, the fire had been more intense, had consumed him completely. This was a mere shadow of that Light.

  It passed on, left him behind as it advanced on the Shadows. They writhed, their forms flaring left and right in uncertainty.

  Then the fire halted. Colin heard shouting from behind, heard Siobhaen cry out in a strained voice, “I can’t! I can barely hold it where it is now!”