Leaves of Flame

by Benjamin Tate

  Brent’s face was etched with terror. “Not there.” He pointed toward the sky. “There.”

  Gregson looked up, his heart already sinking, to see a huge bird circling above their position. Even as he registered that it wasn’t a bird—­the wings were too long, the head too pointed and narrow—­it shrieked, the sound slicing into Gregson’s gut. He heaved up out of his crouch as Darrall, Leont, and Carlson drew their swords. Orlson panicked and vanished through the trees, racing back toward the refugee camp, but before Gregson could roar an order to stop, the creature that was and wasn’t a bird shrieked again, louder than before, and swooped down toward them.

  Leont and Carlson jumped in front of Gregson, both swords raised. Leont, a new recruit, bellowed in defiance, but the creature never broke the tops of the trees, banking left out over the edge of the ridge and down toward the army below, its shriek fading with distance.

  The four remaining men were left gasping at the edge of the forest.

  “Did you see its eyes?” Brent asked. His chest heaved, his face and shirt damp with sweat. He wiped at his forehead with one sleeve. “They were yellow. And that head! I’ve never seen anything like that, never even heard of such a thing, not even in the legends. It didn’t even have feathers! And it was the size of a horse! It—­”

  “Quiet!” Gregson barked. Brent’s voice verged on hysteria. He opened his mouth in shock, but Gregson didn’t let him continue. “Whatever that thing was, it knows we’re here. We have to warn the others. Move!”

  After a moment of indecision, mouth still open, Brent turned and ran.

  The rest of them followed, Gregson keeping his eyes on the patches of sky he could see through the leafy cover. The shadow of the creature passed by overhead before they’d made it halfway back to the camp, moving fast, and within fifteen minutes they heard it shrieking from the direction of the refugees. He swore, prayed to Diermani that the archers could take it down, but heard its cry veering off to the side.

  When they broke through the edge of the clearing into the field, the camp was in chaos, with men, women, and children racing in every direction. Terson stood in the middle of it all bellowing orders left and right. He was surrounded by five men with arrows nocked and trained toward the sky, but the creature wasn’t in sight. Everyone else was frantically throwing supplies into the backs of the wagons, calming skittish horses, or heaving children up into saddles.

  As soon as Gregson took stock of the scene, he roared, “Leave it all! If it isn’t already in the carts, leave it! We need to go now!”

  His voice cracked over the chaos, nearly everyone turning toward him, their faces panicked. He caught sight of Orlson, the civilian who’d fled the ridge, and gave him a black glare before turning away.

  “Terson, get them moving to the west. Our best chance is to skirt the end of the Northward Ridge and have everyone scatter into the forest there. If we aren’t all gathered into a single group, the Horde will have a harder time finding us. We’ll try to make the Legion’s line through the cuts between the hills to escape notice. Go, go, go!”

  Gregson’s second in command stalked off shouting, “Form up!” shoving people he passed, too roughly for Gregson’s taste, but he couldn’t take the time to curtail him.

  Somewhere south, beyond the ridge, the creature screamed.

  It was answered by another shriek, so close Gregson flinched from the sound, ducking instinctively. Nearly half of the refugees did the same, a few dropping into a crouch.

  But not all.

  Gregson heard the flap of thick cloth, spun in time to see a shadow fall over the group, a confusion of leathery wings, a thick body, reaching legs—­

  Then the talons of the creature raked across one of the mounted men, tumbling him from the saddle as blood flew. The distinct sound of arrows being released shot through the high-­pitched scream that followed, Gregson registering mild respect that some of the archers had remained calm enough to fire, and then with a gust of wind that carried grass and grit into his face, the creature lifted away, something clutched in its talons.

  Gregson stared after it in shock, his mind not willing to accept that the figure struggling in the creature’s grip was a child. But the mother’s screeching wouldn’t stop. He turned to face her, body numbed, two men holding her back as her arms reached up and out toward the bird that was not a bird, already a receding shadow in the distance.

  A smaller shadow suddenly dropped from it and fell ­toward the earth.

  Gregson turned away, bile rising in the back of his throat, the mother’s scream escalating before breaking into sobs as she collapsed back into the arms of the men holding her, her body suddenly limp. Two men hauled her upright and carried her to one of the carts, tossing her into the back as she protested, arms flailing, striking them and herself in her frenzy.

  “Lieutenant!”

  Gregson swallowed with a wince, then turned, saw Curtis and Jayson charging up to him.

  “Everyone’s moving out,” Curtis gasped. “We need to go!”

  Gregson surveyed the trampled grass of the field and acknowledged that Curtis was correct. The attack of the creature had lit a fire under everyone’s ass. The carts had already reached the edge of the road heading westward, the one with the mother trailing slightly behind the others. The rest of the refugees were stumbling at a half-­run out in front, the Legion, archers, and men on horseback urging them on, all with swords drawn. He shook his head. It was all falling apart. They weren’t abandoning the supplies; they weren’t preparing to separate into smaller groups. In their panic, they were doing the exact opposite, unwilling to break from those they’d bonded with over the last few days.

  He couldn’t shake the feeling they were running to their deaths, couldn’t think of a way to stop it.

  After they’d come so far, come so close to reaching Temeritt.

  “Lieutenant?”

  Someone touched Gregson’s shoulder tentatively and he jerked away as Jayson pulled back.

  He stared at the miller, then growled, “Let’s move,” harsher than he’d intended. Jayson merely stiffened and nodded.

  They fled, Terson following the road that was nothing more than two dirt tracks cutting through the trees and grass of the few fields and clearings they encountered. Every­one kept their eyes trained on the circling birds overhead. The trees kept the creatures from attacking as they had in the field, but Gregson was more concerned with the rest of the Horde. The creatures must have warned the dark army where they were, but would they act? Would the refugees reach the base of the Northward Ridge in time for him to force the group to scatter before the Horde arrived?

  As they descended the long slope to the west, then broke through the last of the heavy cover of the forest, he realized with a sickening wave of despair that it didn’t matter. The Horde’s supplies and their reserve forces—­the forces he’d searched for on the ridge above—­filled the hills between the west end of the ridge and the main battlefield.

  There wouldn’t be time for them to scatter. The refugees’ time was up.

  A hundred Alvritshai on horses were waiting. As the refugees emerged from the trees and were spotted, Gregson seized hold of their only hope of survival: chaos.

  “Abandon everything!” he roared, even as the Alvritshai kicked their horses into motion. “Scatter and race for Temeritt!”

  Everyone but the archers panicked at the sight of the Alvritshai bearing down on them, tossing whatever they clutched aside as they scattered toward the southwest, half trying to skirt the Horde’s encampment toward the Legion beyond, the others racing back into the forest behind. The archers set arrow to string and fired, not stopping as the riders charged. Three Alvritshai fell in the first volley, two more a moment later, and then the Alvritshai drew their swords and ran the archers down where they stood. Two of the men dodged at the last moment, flinging themselves aside, but the Alvritshai ignored them, breaking formation to attack those who’d fled.

  Not waiting to see
what happened, Gregson began to run, drawing his sword in one smooth motion. At his side, Jayson shouted, “Corim!” as loudly as he could and began to pull out ahead of Curtis and himself. Gregson couldn’t pick out the young boy through the confusion, gave up almost instantly, and focused on reaching a cut between two hills. Most of the refugees were heading there.

  All but one of the wagons had been abandoned, two children left screaming in the seats. The fifth jounced across rough ground as the woman in the seat thrashed the horses with the reins, urging them onward. Gregson watched in horrified fascination as the bed of the cart jumped, supplies and food bouncing and spilling out. It landed with a crash, one of the back wheels shattering into splinters, but the cart kept moving, slowing as its bed tilted to one side. Three children clung to the woman in the seat, another two holding onto the cart’s headboard. One of them screamed and pointed as a group of Alvritshai cut in ahead of Gregson, split into two groups, and closed in on either side of the cart, the nearest bringing his sword around in a sweeping arc.

  The woman lurched to one side, the horses drawing the cart following suit, the cart careening to the right—­

  Directly into the path of the Alvritshai on that side.

  An inhuman scream tore through the chaos as the cart and horses collided, Alvritshai mounts rearing, the cart tilting, throwing the woman, children, and all of the remaining supplies clear. The cart’s horses tried to keep moving, but as the Alvritshai plowed into the cart, unable to stop themselves, the tongue dragged them down into a tangled mess of splintering wood, traces, horseflesh, and Alvritshai.

  Gregson charged past a moment later, ignoring the screams from both animal and man coming from the wreck. More of the Alvritshai were scattered ahead, cutting down the refugees from behind, swords flashing in bloody arcs, men and women falling on all sides. The woman who’d driven the cart had fallen to the grass, body crumpled and unmoving, one of the children clinging to her and sobbing uncontrollably. Gregson scooped the girl up beneath his free arm as he reached them, saw Curtis doing the same with an even younger boy who stood alone and crying, and then he was moving again, breath burning in his lungs at the additional weight. He was shocked at how heavy the girl was, but shifted her awkward weight as he focused on the trees. If they could reach the trees, the Alvritshai would have a hard time following on horseback.

  He’d forgotten about the flying creatures, until the shadow fell across the grass before him.

  Heart quickening in his chest, he clutched the girl close and threw himself to the ground, rolling so that he’d hit with his shoulder. A talon scraped across his face and he hissed with pain; the creature shrieked in frustration and the winds from its wings buffeted him as it rose back into the sky. Not waiting, he lurched to his feet, felt blood slicking down his neck from the new wound on his jaw, the girl sobbing into his chest. He ran, noted that some of the refugees had reached the woods, Terson shoving them under the cover of the branches and yelling at them to keep running, the remains of the Legion doing the same. The Alvritshai on horseback veered off from their attack, circling around to catch those that were coming up from behind.

  There were too many of them, enough to form a line blocking Gregson and the rest from reaching the trees. He, Curtis, Jayson, and the others weren’t going to make it.

  But Gregson didn’t slow. Their only chance was to plow through.

  He pulled the girl closer, holding her so tightly she began to struggle. A few of the men and women left on the field faltered, slowing, but the rest continued forward. Those with swords drawn raised them and roared defiantly.

  Gregson locked gazes with the Alvritshai directly before him, took note of the strangely angular face, the too-­pale skin, the deep-­seated arrogance in the eyes. Those eyes narrowed with hatred as he nudged his horse a step forward, sword held ready. Gregson drew a breath and bellowed wordlessly, the Alvritshai’s mouth twitching into a smile—­

  And then, from behind, a volley of arrows shot over Gregson’s head and slammed into the line of Alvritshai, taking Gregson’s in the eye and snapping his head back. All along the line, Alvritshai tumbled from saddles, their mounts snorting and sidestepping. Gregson swung his blade as he dodged the Alvritshai’s unsettled horses, felt the sword cut into flesh, then plowed past. He sprinted the last few feet to the trees, passed beneath their branches and into the coolness on the far side before slowing. He caught sight of Terson to the left, veered toward him as his second stared grimly out over the field behind. The call of a horn split the air as he reached him and turned.

  Behind, on the far side of the field, at the edge of the forest from which they’d come, at least two garrisons of Legion archers stood, arrows trained on the remains of the Alvritshai who’d attacked them as well as the encampment a short distance away. At least half of the heads of the arrows had been dipped in pitch and set afire.

  Without a sound, the arrows were released, arcing up and over into the Horde’s supply wagons. The rest were released into the charging Alvritshai, bodies falling, enough that the group veered off toward their own encampment and the rest of the reserve forces scrambling under the attack.

  “What’s happening?” Curtis asked, coming up on Gregson’s left. He still held the boy in his arms. The rest of the Legion who had survived the flight across the field were gathering behind him.

  “It appears that the Legion is attacking the Horde’s supply wagons.”

  “So they weren’t here to help us?”

  Gregson turned to face Terson after another volley of arrows was released. “No. We were lucky.”

  “What do we do?” one of the civilians asked uncertainly. “Do we join them?”

  Gregson shook his head. Weariness had settled onto his shoulders, the girl in his arms suddenly too heavy. He wanted to set her down, wanted to simply sit down himself, lean back against a tree and let the tensions of the past few weeks drain from him.

  But they weren’t done yet.

  He sighed. “Gather up whoever you can find in the immediate area. We need to make it to the Legion’s main line. This isn’t our battle.”

  He needed to find one of his superiors, a lieutenant commander or a commander, perhaps even a lord. GreatLord Kobel needed to know what had happened to Cobble Kill, Patron’s Merge, and the surrounding area.

  If he didn’t know already.

  THAEDOREN SET THE MISSIVE Lord Aeren had delivered aside and, without looking toward the lord, stood and moved away from the table beneath the shade of the portico and out to the edge of the Tamaell’s personal gardens. He had elected to have Aeren brought here instead of to an audience chamber on the spur of the moment, but now he was glad they were confined to a single room.

  His first reaction upon reading the letter sent by Fedaureon—­Aeren’s son and his own half brother—­had been a gut-­wrenching denial, followed by a painful constriction in his chest. But he knew his mother, knew Aeren would not have brought this information to his attention unless there was substantial evidence that what they had discovered was true. But the implications, not only to the Evant, but to him personally.…

  The hollow that had carved out a niche in his stomach began to fill with anger. Orraen and Peloroun, in collusion. Peloroun was not a surprise; he had always had ambition, even during Thaedoren’s father’s reign, but Orraen? He had attempted to raise his House within the Evant since the death of his father, but he was young and unskilled, his manipulations of the other lords inept. Which might explain why he would seek out someone stronger, someone more subtle, such as Peloroun. But why would Peloroun deign to ally himself with Orraen?

  Unless Orraen had learned subtlety. Perhaps he discounted him too easily. Or perhaps Orraen was being led by someone else. He didn’t think Peloroun would spare the time, his disdain for the younger Lords of the Evant obvious, but who else…?

  Something twisted inside him and for a moment he couldn’t breathe. Acid burned at the back of his throat, and he hunched forward, trying to control t
he sudden pain in his chest.

  “I would not have brought this to you if—­”

  “No.” Thaedoren’s voice cracked. He cleared his throat and turned, met Lord Aeren’s gaze. “No, I needed to know this. You realize the ramifications? You realize that if Orraen is involved—­”

  “That it brings the Tamaea under suspicion as well, yes.”

  Thaedoren suppressed a shudder, hid his reaction by moving back to the table. “She may have nothing to do with it,” he said as he reached for the decanter of wine and poured himself a glass. The vintage did little to smother the sour taste in his mouth. It didn’t matter if Reanne was involved or not, the fact that she could be involved was enough to taint his thoughts. Every time he saw her now, he would wonder; every time she spoke he would ask whether the words came from her heart, or were for her House. He was already running through all of their past conversations, breaking them apart, searching for hidden intent.

  “I’ve been a fool,” he muttered.

  “Because you succumbed to her interest? You knew as Tamaell that there were those who would seek you out because of your title. And as Tamaell, you knew that your bonding would be made more for political reasons than emotions.”

  “I should have realized there was more to it!” he snapped. His lungs felt thick with fluid. His eyes burned.

  Aeren remained silent a moment. Then: “If she is involved, then she and Orraen have planned this for years. And I refuse to believe that Reanne is so heartless that she has no feelings for you, Thaedoren. I have seen you both at parties, at rituals in the Sanctuary, at your own bonding.”

  Thaedoren sucked in a sharp breath, recalling the bonding ceremony, the white cloth that had filled the gardens beneath the Winter Tree, the lanterns hung from the branches above, the scent of the gaezel roasting in the fire pits and the mad swirl of music. Reanne had glowed in the folds of her white gown, like the flames of Aielan brought to life. In a rare show of public emotion, he had reached out to touch her face, there before the assembled Lords and Ladies of the Evant, before the basin of Aielan’s Flame that burned before them all. He had traced her jaw and stared into her eyes, and now, thinking back, he could see nothing in her gaze but joy.