“Like what?”
Fedaureon shrugged. “A trade agreement with the dwarren or the humans, perhaps? We have no idea what arrangements they’ve made, what the humans or dwarren might be interested in. We each have agreements with different Provinces and clans. They do not detail every individual trade made and for what commodity. They are generalized. It’s possible that the Licaetan grain that could supply the House for a year and a half has already been shipped to their trade partners in Borangst, or even overseas to Andover. Lord Daesor announced a new trade deal with Andover at the opening session.” He waved a hand and said again, “It’s not enough. Not for the Evant.”
“I wasn’t intending to bring it before the Evant,” Moiran said.
Fedaureon’s eyes narrowed. “You want to know if I think it’s solid enough to warn Father.” He hesitated, then added, “Have you already sent a missive to him?”
She nearly chuckled at the suspicion in his voice. “No, Fedaureon. I wanted your opinion first. I know the evidence is thin, but my instinct warns me that this is significant.”
Mollified, Fedaureon scanned the letters she’d presented, the papers containing the lists of supplies shifting hands within the Ilvaeren. Moiran met Daevon’s gaze over his head and the Protector nodded, his mouth pressed into a grim line. She and Aeren had worked hard this past year to ease Fedaureon into his role as Lord Presumptive of the Rhyssal House. Since Aeren’s departure, he had taken on that role more competently than Moiran had expected, and in the last few weeks had shown some independence in his decisions. He’d sent the servants to the temple without seeking out Moiran’s opinion, had made adjustments to the daily routine of the Phalanx on his own. She wasn’t certain how much Daevon had guided these decisions, but she wanted to encourage Fedaureon’s independence as much as possible.
Fedaureon leaned back. “I think your instincts are correct. Father needs to be informed. Perhaps Lords Peloroun and Orraen do have legitimate trades established for this wood and iron, but I doubt it. If he knows where to look, maybe Father can determine what’s really going on.” He stood, his impatience returning. The clash of steel still rang from outside, even though the wind had picked up. “Did you want to warn him, or should I?”
“I believe you should, as Lord Presumptive of the Rhyssal House.”
“HE’S GOT THE UPPER BODY STRENGTH,” Terson said, “but he’s still a miller.”
Gregson frowned thoughtfully as he watched Ricks and Curtis sparring with Jayson, the miller’s apprentice standing off to one side watching. “But he’s learning fast.”
“Because he’s angry. You can see it in his thrusts. Whatever happened to him in his village, it’s affected him.”
“That isn’t necessarily bad. A little anger during a fight or battle can be useful. And we’ll be seeing many more like him, if what we’ve seen between Cobble Kill and here is any indication.”
Terson’s mouth twisted with derision. “An army of commoners.”
Gregson turned slightly toward him. “Given what we saw at Patron’s Merge, and the destruction we’ve seen throughout the countryside since… I’ll take an army any way I can get it.”
Terson’s brow creased at the mild reprimand, but he said nothing.
In the makeshift practice yard, Ricks took a swing toward Jayson’s side, grinning as sweat ran down his face. Jayson parried with a grunt, the swords clashing as Curtis barked from the sideline, “Now use the momentum of your opponent’s swing to thrust his sword off to the side, leaving him open.”
Jayson attempted to follow through, shoving Ricks’ sword to one side and down, the natural movement still stiff and forced. Gregson could tell that Ricks wasn’t countering the thrust as hard as he could, but Jayson had barely begun practicing. He and Curtis were simply trying to get him to adjust from swinging sacks of grain to handling the weight of the blade. The motions were obviously different, and Jayson needed to feel that difference in his arm and shoulders before he’d have any chance of putting it into practice during a real battle.
And it was looking as if a real battle was imminent.
They’d been traveling covertly since Patron’s Merge, scouts sent out ahead, searching for the Horde as it ransacked its way across the Province. Parties of twenty to over a thousand had been sighted, forcing the large group of Legion and commoners to find alternate routes at least three times already. And the group had grown. Two days before, they’d run into another group with the remnants of another garrison, mostly younger soldiers, only one officer who was beneath Gregson in rank. He had been almost painfully relieved when Gregson had reluctantly taken control of the remains of his unit and the forty civilians and three wagons they’d been protecting.
He might have turned them away to fend for themselves, but they’d had food. He wasn’t certain how long it would last, not with nearly three hundred refugees, but at least most of the men in the group knew how to hunt and trap. Although even that had been restricted. The closer they came to Temeritt—it could only be a few days away now—the more activity they’d seen from the Horde. They were closing in on the city, their scattered groups coming together and squeezing all of the refugees between them. He’d become increasingly convinced that they were going to have to fight their way through to Temeritt, if they arrived in time to make the city at all.
His gaze passed over the rest of the men, and a couple of women, gathered to watch the match. He scratched at the bandage on his left arm, the bite marks beneath itching, then caught himself with a grimace.
“Pair up as many men as we can spare with the civilians. Use whatever you can find for weapons. Don’t give any of the able-bodied men a choice. Tell them if they want to see Temeritt alive, they’re likely going to have to fight.”
Terson nodded and Gregson moved off toward their encampment. There were still a few hours of sunlight left, but he hadn’t dared move on beyond the small field, the waist-high grasses now trampled down into a rough mat beneath his feet. The scouts he’d sent out ahead of them had reported the roads safe only up to this point; they hadn’t heard from them since. Gregson tried not to let that fact bother him. The scouts had been late before and it meant nothing. The one time he’d pushed on regardless, they’d nearly run into a party of Alvritshai.
The five wagons were drawn up in a rough circle, a few of the women, Ara included, butchering some of the small game the hunters had brought in. He’d reluctantly agreed to allow a fire, hoping the breeze that whispered through the surrounding trees would be enough to disperse the smoke. As he entered the small circle, a group of children emerged from the closest section of forest, arms laden with branches. They screamed in delight as the two women who’d accompanied them herded them toward the fire, one tripping and falling, bursting instantly into tears. Their laughter cut strangely through the somberness that passed between the adults in the group.
“Children are the most resilient of us all,” Ara said, jerking her knife through the rabbit’s carcass as she separated the skin from the meat. Once free, she gutted it and impaled the body on a spit, passing it to one of the other women as she tossed the skin to one side and reached for another rabbit.
“I’m not used to dealing with… children.” He’d been about to say civilians. He still didn’t understand why they were all here, why they continued to follow his orders. There was barely enough food or supplies for them all, most of the adults going without in order to feed the children. The rabbits Ara butchered had been a windfall. He was only a lieutenant, and out of the group of three hundred there were only thirty Legionnaires. Why did the others remain? Why didn’t they break away to fend for themselves, or to find someone who could take care of them better than he could?
Ara eyed him critically, up and down, eyebrow quirked. “You seem to be doing just fine. We haven’t lost a man… or woman… yet. Not since Cobble Kill.”
The men and women cut down there by the Alvritshai arrows or the catlike creatures’ claws flashed through his mi
nd and he grimaced. He could still feel the claw marks on his legs, no longer bandaged, but still healing.
Before he could respond, one of the Legionnaires guarding the edge of the camp shouted. Nearly everyone jumped, fear skating through their eyes and faces as they tensed.
To the southeast, another Legionnaire emerged from the edge of the trees. He waved his free hand in desperation, the other holding up one of the scouts and helping him along. The young man was covered in blood, his legs barely supporting him.
Gregson was moving before he consciously thought about it, surprised to find Ara at his side, others heading toward the two men as they stumbled into the field. The Legionnaire who’d shouted a warning and another man reached them first, taking the wounded scout and lifting him off the ground, practically sprinting toward the carts.
“Over here,” Ara shouted, and grabbed Gregson’s arm to halt him before he moved beyond the wagons. She cleared a small section of grass, yelling, “Give us room, give us room,” gruffly, shoving those who lingered too long aside. Then she caught an older woman’s arm. “Get whatever rags you can find, and a bucket of fresh water.”
The Legionnaire and the other man—a blacksmith, Gregson recalled, from the new group—set the scout down on the grass and Ara began checking him for wounds. Gregson crouched down beside them as the older woman arrived with an armload of rags, their meager medical box, and a bucket of water.
“Can you hear me?” Gregson asked, lightly slapping the scout’s cheek.
Ara shot him a glare, soaking a rag and running it across the scout’s face. Blood ran away in rivulets, the skin beneath shockingly pale, almost gray. Something clutched at Gregson’s heart, but he forced it back. Three claw marks ran from the younger man’s ear into his scalp, bleeding as fast as Ara could wipe it away. Ara huffed in exasperation and left the wounds, moving toward the rest of his body. Most of the blood that covered his chest and side could have come from the head wound, but not all of it.
Gregson reached down and caught the scout’s jaw, turning his head toward him as he leaned far enough forward he could stare down into the glazed eyes. “I need you to focus.” He saw a flicker of awareness and patted his cheek again until the awareness caught and held. “What happened? What did you see?”
The scout coughed, a froth of blood spattering his lips. Gregson heard Ara rip the man’s shirt open and swear, but he didn’t turn to look. She shouted for more water, more rags, and some godsdamned thread, her voice shaking.
“What did you see?” Gregson repeated.
The scout finally appeared to recognize him, smiling even as he choked on blood. “War party,” he wheezed. “Found me. Chased me. Had to get through. Need to tell you—”
He contorted with a seizure. Ara spat curses and ordered a Legionnaire to hold him steady; Gregson leaned his arm onto the scout’s chest.
“Tell us what?” he demanded, even as the youth thrashed. He tightened his grip on his jaw, felt the muscles bunched beneath his fingers. “Focus, boy, focus. What did you need to tell us?”
The scout’s gaze locked with Gregson’s and he muttered, “GreatLord Kobel… Legion… line day distant… watch birds… not birds…”
Then the intensity in his eyes faded and his body went limp. A trickle of blood trailed down one side of his face, staining the grass beneath him.
The activity beside him ceased abruptly and someone grabbed Gregson’s hand. He turned to find Ara, hands bloody up to her forearms, staring at him intently. “He’s dead.”
Gregson drew in a breath and released his grip. He glanced down toward the scout’s face and thought about not losing a man since Cobble Kill, then swallowed the tightness in his own chest and rose. He suddenly realized he hadn’t even known the young man’s name, that he barely knew any of the newer members of his group.
That would have to change, he vowed. He wanted no more nameless men dying during his command, under his watch.
A crowd had gathered, mostly women and children, but a few men among them, including Terson.
“Terson, you have the camp. You five, come with me.” He’d selected three of the civilians—Carlson, Brent, and Orlson from Cobble Kill—and two Legionnaires, Leont and Darrall, all of them sturdy men with weapons already in hand. They must have come from the practice field.
As he moved away from the scout’s body toward the edge of the forest, the silent crowd parting before him, Terson stepped up to his side. “Where are you going, sir?”
“To verify what he saw.”
“What did he say?”
Gregson looked back to find the five men he’d selected a few paces behind them, the three civilians looking uncertain. All of them were listening, though, and Carlson, the carpenter, gave him a nod of encouragement.
“He said the front line was a day distant. We’re near the Northward Ridge. I want to know if we can see it from there.”
“Shouldn’t we wait until the other scouts return?”
He met Terson’s gaze squarely. “What makes you think they will?” he said softly.
Terson’s eyes narrowed.
“We’re obviously closer to the Horde’s line than we thought. I want to know how close, and if we have a chance in hells of getting through to our own side.”
“Very well.”
He heard the unspoken warning to be careful. He didn’t need it. He’d seen the scout’s face and the jagged wounds along his torso.
He only wondered what the scout had meant when he’d whispered, “Watch birds… not birds.”
“Ah,” Gregson murmured to himself.
“Diermani’s balls.”
Gregson turned, a reprimand on his lips, but realized the man who’d spoken was Brent, one of the civilians. He caught the tail end of the man crossing himself, his eyes wide with fear, his breathing already shortened in panic.
“Steady,” he said tightly, catching the man’s gaze. “The line is too distant to be a threat.”
Brent swallowed and gripped the pendant that hung hidden beneath his shirt, his breath slowing.
Gregson turned back. Reaching forward, he pulled a leafy branch out of his line of sight and stared down from the ridge toward the rolling hillsides below.
The Legion fought in ragged formation along a front that was far too wide to hold, not with the amount of Legionnaires present. Gregson estimated nearly ten thousand Legion had been gathered, the combined garrisons of Temeritt and all of the surrounding cities and towns within a hundred-mile radius of the Autumn Tree. His heart lifted with hope when he picked out the orange-and-black banners of GreatLord Kobel near the heart of the fighting. They were too distant for him to pick out the man himself, but he could tell they were fighting ferociously. His own muscles tensed, his hand itching to find the handle of his blade and join them, but even without the responsibility of the refugees waiting a short distance away there was no easy descent from the Northward Ridge.
Not close anyway.
Instead, he turned his attention toward the Horde. As at Patron’s Merge, it undulated on the hillsides like a black wave, pushing against the Legion, the line of combat shifting beneath the late evening sunlight. Arrows darkened the sky; archers perched on the highest hilltops on both sides, the deadly shafts raining down in waves. Gregson was close enough he could hear the clash of blades and the screams of the dying, but it was muted, rising along the ridge face to his position like mist.
The sound made his jaw clench.
The Horde was composed mostly of Alvritshai, some on horseback, like those who’d attacked Cobble Kill, but most on foot. Mixed in with them, he could see more of the leathery-skinned giants and packs of the catlike creatures attacking in swarms. The giants were mindless, powering forward by brute force, grabbing and ripping and rending whatever they could get their hands on. The catlike creatures were just as vicious, but their attacks were more intelligent, their attention focused on the Legion on horseback.
The Alvritshai were precise and me
thodical, their lines coordinated. Gregson studied their formations with a coldly critical eye, his mouth pressed into a grim line, even as he fought a surge of respect. He had never fought the Alvritshai before. Temeritt’s Province was separated from Alvritshai lands by the dwarren. They’d only had to deal with the dwarren, and with the Accord that had meant an uneasy alliance that neither race had seen fit to test significantly. There had been skirmishes, disputes over exactly where the boundary lay between the dwarren Lands and the Province, but nothing serious. The attacks were mostly posturing.
The Alvritshai below were not posturing. They were vicious and frighteningly direct. No hesitation and no attempt to back off or to seek quarter. They weren’t here for concessions of land or for barter, and they weren’t looking for the Legion to surrender.
They were here to kill and conquer.
Gregson’s eyes narrowed as he began searching for a way for the refugees to get past the Horde’s line and to the uncertain safety behind the Legion. The fighting raged across a flat stretch of rolling land between multiple hills, split by a road running more or less east-west. A low wall of stone ran across a few of the hills, most likely separating the property between two owners. Copses of trees grew in the valleys between the nearest hills.
The ridge had forced the Horde to separate and converge from the east and west as they bypassed it, but they now lay between Gregson, the refugees, and the Legion’s forces. He leaned farther forward, trying to see the land beneath them, closer to the face of the ridge, but it was empty.
He frowned. Where were the Horde’s supply wagons? Their supporting forces?
“Lieutenant!”
The warning from Darrall snapped Gregson’s attention back to the fighting.
The Legion to the west had collapsed, the men fighting desperately as a roar of triumph washed up the ridge face from the Horde. Horns blew, the creatures and Alvritshai at the back of the Horde shifting toward the break. Gregson bit back his own curse, then felt a hand on his shoulder.
Leaves of Flame Page 39