He knelt down and dug through his satchel, bringing out a sheathed knife and pulling the blade free. He scanned the field, searching for what had unsettled his horse, but saw nothing.
Rising slowly, he turned full circle as he made his way to her side. The muscles beneath her smooth brown coat twitched when he touched her and she snorted again. Her legs were rigid with tension, her body trembling.
“Hush.” He stroked her neck, but she didn’t gentle.
His frown deepened, his gaze shooting left and right. But the plains were quiet. No breeze stirred. The sky was an empty pale blue overhead.
And then, from the corner of his eye, Tomson caught movement.
He spun, startling the horse forward a pace before his hand closed down on the bridle to hold her. But there was nothing there, nothing visible—
Yet something had changed. Twenty paces away, a section of the unplowed grasses had caved in, as if a giant had poked his finger into the ground.
He straightened, patting the horse’s neck again as he shifted forward. His grip tightened on the handle of the knife. Sweat dripped from his forehead into his eyes and he scrubbed it away hastily. More sweat slicked his shirt to his back. The mild spring day suddenly seemed too warm.
He halted a step away from the hole. Earth fell from its edge, dangling by strands of grass a moment before breaking free. He hesitated, then knelt, leaning forward, knife held before him protectively.
The hole had no bottom. It descended into darkness, sunlight flaring down one side, exposed roots jutting from the sides of earth like worms. He breathed in deeply, smelled loam and damp grass, and underneath that a heady scent, like that of a wet muskrat.
Movement. Deep down in the earth.
He leaned farther forward, eyes narrowing—
And then his horse shrieked.
He lurched backward, heart thudding in his chest so hard he gasped and clutched at his shirt with the hand holding the knife. Falling to the ground on his side, he shoved hard with his feet, scrambling backward even as he felt the dirt at the edge of the hole give way. He fell onto his back and rolled, his horse shrieking the entire time. She reared, still tethered to the plow, feet kicking as she shook herself in fear. When she landed, her legs sank into the ground as if it were made of mud, all the way up to her knees.
She shrieked again, began kicking and thrashing, the plow jerking behind her as she tried to back up. Mud churned; through the flying grass and dirt Tomson saw blood streaking the animal’s forelegs, splattering high enough to hit her belly. Bile rose to the back of his throat, but terror clamped down hard on his chest. He watched in horror as his horse shrieked a third time, the sound so like a woman’s scream that he cringed as it grated across his shoulders and down his spine. The horse redoubled her effort to free herself from the loose soil, but she merely sank deeper, her legs caught beneath the ground, until her belly rested against the earth.
And then Tomson screamed. From the churned earth on either side of the animal, claws reached up and raked across the horse’s sides, flesh parting and blood spilling into the already softened soil. His horse screamed again, but the sound held no strength, her head already sagging forward as the ground continued to surge around her body. Tomson’s voice shattered the stillness of the rolling plains as completely as his horse’s had a moment before. Beneath his own ragged scream, beneath the low rumble of moving earth, he heard another sound, a soft sound, like the dry scratching of leaves. If he could only stop screaming, he thought he might be able to make out words.
But he didn’t stop. When his horse’s head fell to the ground and the dry hiss of near conversation escalated, he rolled onto his stomach and lurched to his feet. He staggered three steps, intent on reaching the hollowed-out knoll that he’d made his home, but on the fourth step his leg sank into the soil.
The sudden loss of stability cut his screams short as he collapsed to his hands. He clutched at the sodden grass, gasped once—
Then felt claws sink into his calf muscles and tug sharply down.
He hadn’t thought he could scream any louder than before, but he did.
Jerking his leg free, hearing a frustrated hiss from beneath the ground, he scrambled forward on hands and knees, panting, tears streaking his face, sobs escaping in the hitched breath between screams. But twenty paces later the ground gave way completely and he plunged beneath the earth.
His screams lasted another ten minutes, until they were drowned out by the soft hiss of dried leaves. Five minutes later even that faded.
Silence descended on the plains, where the handles of a plow jutted into freshly churned, bloody earth.
“Why are we waiting here?”
Colin didn’t turn toward Siobhaen, although he caught movement out of the corner of his eye and realized that Eraeth had. He didn’t need to look to know there would be a scowl on Eraeth’s face. The two had squabbled with each other their entire journey from Artillien, across the Rhyssal, Baene, and Ionaen House lands, and onto the edge of the dwarren territory simply called the Lands. No actual confrontations. But plenty of heated glares, half-muttered comments, and the occasional barb.
Colin had considered abandoning them both on multiple occasions, simply slowing time and escaping. The constant bitterness and suspicion was draining.
“We are waiting here on the edge of Alvritshai lands because of the Accord the Alvritshai and humans made with the dwarren,” he said patiently, reaching forward to stroke the neck of his mount. “The Alvritshai agreed to respect the Lands, the Tamaell himself performing the rituals at the Escarpment and offering a formal apology to the dwarren and their gods. The Accord stipulates that no one, human or Alvritshai, may enter the Lands without an accompanying dwarren escort or the express permission of the Cochen.”
He turned to face Siobhaen, the young member of the Flame staring out across the dwarren plains, half standing in her saddle, her face scrunched up with doubt. He suddenly realized that Siobhaen’s journey to the White Wastes had likely been as far from Caercaern and her own House lands as she’d ever been. But this was different.
They were wandering into occupied territory now.
“You are too impatient,” he said. “We haven’t been waiting long.”
“But what are we waiting for?”
“The dwarren.”
Her eyes widened. “But it could take days for them to see us! We aren’t even on a road!”
“There are no roads in the Lands. At least, not what you think of as roads. The dwarren believe permanent roads are destructive to the Lands. And the dwarren have already seen us. An escort is on its way.”
Siobhaen glared out at the plains in clear disbelief. “I see no one.”
But even as she spoke, a group of Riders crested a far ridge and swept down its near side. The group—no more than five in strength—vanished beneath another obstructing fold in the land.
Siobhaen gaped.
“The dwarren have watchers everywhere,” Colin explained. “Even though you may not see them.”
They waited, Siobhaen’s tension rising as the dwarren drew nearer, her mount picking up on her uneasiness, huffing and skittering where it stood. She reached down distractedly to calm it. When the five Riders drew close enough that they could hear the gaezels’ hooves, her hand twitched toward her cattan, but she jerked it back with a tight frown.
The dwarren drew up twenty paces distant. Each rode one of the tawny gaezels, the lithe animals smaller than a horse but with wicked looking horns reaching back from their heads. Their sides were streaked with patches of white-and-yellow coloring. The dwarren sat astride saddles, copied from those introduced by the settlers from Andover, who brought the first horses to Wrath Suvane with them, but they didn’t use reins; they controlled the gaezels using their horns.
The leader of the dwarren glared at them all, then focused his gaze on Colin. A look of uncertainty crossed his face. All five were dressed in the leather armor of a Rider, their long b
eards threaded with beads and gold trinkets. Gold chains ran from earrings to their pierced noses, the leader with three chains, the others with only one. One of them bore the markings of a shaman.
The leader also wore a gold armband around his right forearm.
“Why do you wish to enter the lands of the Thousand Springs Clan? What business do you and the Alvritshai have with the dwarren?” he demanded in his own guttural language.
Colin nudged his horse forward a step, the dwarren tensing. “My name is Colin Patris Harten, known as Shaeveran. I’ve come, with an escort, to speak to the Cochen.”
The dwarren stirred at his name, the four behind the leader shooting glances toward one another as their mounts pawed the ground. No one spoke, but two of them edged away from the group. Only the leader appeared unruffled, his eyes narrowing.
“Prove it.”
Colin hesitated. He’d never been asked by the dwarren to prove his identity. He wondered what had happened in the past ten years to change that. But he reached down and pulled up the sleeve of his shirt, exposing his forearm to the bright midmorning sunlight. The swirling patches of darkness beneath his skin were clear enough that the dwarren gasped, murmurs hushed by the leader with a sharp look.
“That proves only that you are one of the elloktu.”
“Would one of the Lost be able to stand here on the Lands, this close to the Summer Tree?” Colin couldn’t keep a hint of annoyance out of his voice.
The dwarren leader considered in silence, then gave a grudging nod of acknowledgment and respect, although Colin could still see suspicion in his eyes. “Shaeveran. We will escort you to our clan chief, Tarramic.”
He spun his gaezel and issued a few curt commands, then motioned them all forward, the group breaking away and one of the dwarren ululating as the scouts spread out to either side.
“What did they say?” Siobhaen asked harshly.
“They questioned who I was, but have offered to escort us to the clan chief.”
On his other side, Eraeth said shortly, “That is the first time I have ever seen the dwarren question who you were. Or been so wary of those entering their land. Something has happened.”
“We already know that the balance of the Wells has been disrupted. The return of the storms would not have gone unnoticed by the dwarren. Perhaps that is all it is.”
All of Eraeth’s doubt was voiced in a look.
Colin kneed his mount forward, Eraeth and Siobhaen doing the same to either side. They charged down the low slope in the wake of the dwarren, their horses catching up to the gaezels after a long moment of hard riding, the two groups slowing and adjusting to a steady pace that wouldn’t drain their mounts. The leader of the dwarren party ranged out ahead, the other four members dividing and slipping to either side.
They rode for two days, setting a fast pace, halting at odd times during the day at water sources to eat and rest, the dwarren raising small tents for sleep at night. Their route was circuitous, the dwarren leading them off the direct path in order to keep their water sources and warren entrances hidden. Twice during the first day, they sighted occumaen in the distance. Not as large as the one that had torn through the battlefields at the Escarpment, but big enough to engulf a man and his horse. Both times, the scouts brought the distortions to the dwarren leader’s attention, his face hardening at each occurrence. The second day, storm clouds pounded the plains with a deluge of rain and blue-purple lightning to the north. The entire group paused on a low rise to watch, sunlight shaded with raised hands. Colin felt a tingle of remembered hatred, the cold hands of the dead against his skin. Karen and his parents—along with the rest of the doomed wagon train—had survived such a storm, only to succumb to the Shadows afterward.
For a moment, despair washed over him. What had he achieved since then? Nothing had changed. The world was still plagued by the Wraiths and Shadows, the unnatural storms and the Drifters still riddled the plains. What had been accomplished during all of that time?
“Nothing,” he said out loud. Eraeth gave him a sidelong look, but he ignored it.
But something within him hardened. His jaw clenched and he straightened, his hands trying to grasp the handle of the staff Vaeren had taken from him. He would need to ask for a replacement, wasn’t certain that the Ostraell would grant it. And he needed to convince the dwarren that the time for complacency was gone. He wasn’t certain how he would do that, not with the protection of the Seasonal Trees in place. For the first time since he’d created them, he wished he hadn’t. They were defensive, and they were powerful enough to allow the three races to settle back and cower behind that defense under the guise that nothing was wrong. The fact that Walter and the Wraiths hadn’t been able to break the defense, that they had vanished from Wrath Suvane as if they had never existed, hadn’t helped. Too much time had passed, and the races had grown complacent and lazy.
But no more, he vowed.
He turned toward the leader of their escort. “How much farther to the Thousand Springs cavern?” He knew, but he did not want the dwarren to lose their sense of isolation and security.
The leader tore his gaze from the storm to the north. “Two days, at most.”
“No. Not how long if we continue to travel the way we have been traveling. How long if we head directly there?”
The leader scowled, shot a glance toward the dwarren who had the markings of a shaman. When the shaman shrugged, the scowl faded and he caught Colin’s gaze. “We can be there by the end of today.”
“I need to speak to your clan chief immediately. It concerns the storm and the occumaen and the renewal of the Turning.”
The dwarren’s eyes widened, and the shaman suddenly stared intently at Colin.
“We will take you to him now.”
It was the shaman who spoke, nodding to the leader curtly in an unspoken order.
The leader glared at the three of them as if they’d somehow shamed him on purpose, then pulled on his gaezel’s horns to bring the beast about. He said nothing, merely kicking the mount forward with a wordless guttural cry.
All formality fell away as the Riders tore across the plains, the horses struggling to keep up. Colin found himself leaning forward over his horse’s neck, urging it onward with soft words. To the side, Eraeth and Siobhaen did the same, although he thought he heard Eraeth cursing. The land fell away, yellow-green grass blurring as the storm to the north edged farther southward, dogging them. The group flowed over the low hills and sped across open flats, heading almost directly south. By the time the horizon began to flare with orange along its length as the sun set, still shimmering with the day’s heat haze, Colin felt every muscle in his body burning with the exertion and shudder of the horse’s muscles beneath him. He thought they were going to have to ride into the night.
But then they crested another rise, no different than the scores they had already crossed, except that this time, the plains opened up to reveal one of the dwarren tent cities.
Colin had seen them before, but not for twenty years. Thousand Springs had grown since then.
A huge central pole thrust up out of the plains, as thick as the boles of the cedars near the Well in the Ostraell, shorn of limb and with the bark peeled back. Colin had been to the center of the tent city before, had touched that central spire and knew its strength. Blue cloth had been fastened and wound around it, flaring outward at seemingly odd intervals, creating the main enclosure beneath, composed of a hundred rooms, the material twisted, draped, and wrapped around a thousand additional lines, poles, and stakes. The result was a reversed whirlpool, the swirls of cloth winding upward and drawing the eye to the darkening sky above, where the first stars were beginning to appear. In the twilight, the blue of the cloth appeared violet.
The rest of the city had been constructed around this central tent, never reaching as high, but crafted in such a way as to mimic the central flow so that when the winds blew across it, the rippling of the cloth echoed the currents of a river. Fro
m this distance, the entrance to the underground warren and the true home of the Thousand Springs Clan couldn’t be seen. A hundred years before, the tents would have been erected only when the dwarren were preparing to fight one of their own clans, or the invading Alvritshai or human forces. Now, it appeared more permanent. Lanterns were being lit, and through the silhouettes of tents and the figures of dwarren going about their nightly business, he spotted the wooden fence of a corral alongside a rounded water tower with sluices that led to troughs. Some of the land had been plowed recently, and a few granary huts stood to one side. There were no defenses of any kind; no walls or watchtowers. The dwarren’s greatest defense was to retreat beneath the plains, to their interconnected strongholds underground.
The escort of dwarren tore down the side of the ridge without pause, Colin taking in the differences in the tent city as his horse’s gait jarred his bones. To the side, he caught Siobhaen gaping at the sight. Within moments, they were moving between the outermost tents, dwarren scrambling out of their way as they began to slow. But the leader of the escort didn’t halt. He raced through curved thoroughfares between the tents, moving steadily inward toward the entrance to the caverns beneath. Dwarren shouted at them as they passed, Colin catching shocked faces as the men and women saw the Alvritshai and human in their midst.
By the time they made the last turn, the dwarren who guarded the entrance were waiting for them. There were enough to block the entrance, and the escort was brought up short. The leader and the shaman cantered their gaezels forward to speak to the guards. As they did so, Colin scanned the group, frowning at what he saw.
“What is it?” Eraeth asked immediately.
“There’s more than one clan represented in the Riders guarding the entrance. I see Thousand Springs warriors, but also Silver Grass and Shadow Moon Clans here as well.”
“What does it mean?”
“If it were merely one other clan, I’d say nothing, but two.…” Colin shook his head. He took a closer look at their armor. “They aren’t dressed for a formal visit either. They’re dressed for war.”
Leaves of Flame Page 20