“Look,” Siobhaen said, pointing with one hand. “There used to be rivers here.”
Colin followed her arm to where the land sloped gradually down to a dried-out river basin cutting between the buildings. A second river joined it, just barely visible on the horizon. The buildings near the junction were the tallest, although it was obvious they had been taller once before. Towers—like those in Terra’nor and the Ostraell, built by the Faelehgre ages past—had once soared into the heavens. Most had been snapped off, their true heights lost in whatever cataclysm had destroyed the city ages past. The heat haze made them surreal, almost illusory.
“The Source is here,” Colin said. He didn’t need to sink into the earth to know. Whoever had built the city had created the Source. Or at least found the reservoir of Lifeblood and used it somehow. “They would have built it near their center of power, near the center of the city.”
Both of the Alvritshai turned toward the shattered towers.
“It looks to be a day distant, at least,” Eraeth said.
“And we’ll likely have to deal with the Snake People between here and there,” Siobhaen added. Her hand clenched on her cattan.
Colin glanced up toward the sky. The sun was behind the cliffs to their backs, keeping them in shadow. But there wasn’t much daylight left.
Without a word, he turned to where the ledge continued to their right, a path leading down the side of the cliff to the buildings below.
Horns blew, the clamor rising over the jarring clash of weapons and the screams of men dying. Gregson’s hand was clenched on the pommel of his sword, his gut shrieking for him to draw the weapon and charge out toward the battle lines less than a hundred feet distant. The backs of the Legion defenses surged, men trying to shove forward toward the main line lost among the mass of bodies. Wounded were being dragged from the press, covered in blood, others missing arms or legs, some obviously on the verge of death, most bellowing in agony or sobbing, hands clutched to a side or head or an arm. A few were completely limp, feet gouging trails in the already trampled and muddy ground.
Not all of the men were wearing the armor of the Legion. Some were civilians like those Gregson had guarded on the flight south.
He glanced back at the bedraggled group that followed him, perhaps only thirty left, with another twenty-five or so Legion. The group had scattered at the end of the Northward Ridge, over half retreating back the way they’d come. He didn’t know how they had fared. For those that had headed toward the Legion’s lines, the sprint to the cover of the hills had been costly, the Alvritshai decimating the group. It would have been worse if the Legion archers hadn’t been there to attack the Horde’s supply wagons and draw them away from those who hadn’t reached the tree line.
He turned back to the group that led them behind the army’s line—the commander of the unit that had hit the supply wagons and two of his lieutenant commanders—the rest of their unit behind the refugees, herding them along. Gregson and Terson had gathered those closest and headed south, only to have one of the unit’s archers catch up to them within an hour and order them southwest, toward the main battle. They’d followed the guide until joining up with his unit. The few remaining refugees had been relieved to be under the protection of the two hundred men, even though they were being escorted to where the fighting raged.
Gregson had been relieved as well, but even that couldn’t cut through the reality of what he’d seen on the Northward Ridge, before the attack of that flying creature. The Legion was outnumbered and outclassed by the ferocity of the creatures that fought alongside the Alvritshai. If it had been only the Alvritshai, they might have had a chance, but he couldn’t see how they could hold out against the catlike creatures, the fliers, and the brute strength of the rock-skinned giants.
But that wasn’t his concern. It was GreatLord Kobel’s.
Unconsciously, he looked toward the south, toward Temeritt, seeking a glance of the Autumn Tree for solace, although he wasn’t certain how much he could rely on the Tree any longer. The legends and hearthfire tales said that the Autumn Tree would protect them from the darkness, from the creatures of the shadows and the wraiths of the night. If the catlike creatures with the luminous eyes and the giants weren’t creatures of the night, he’d hate to imagine what would be worse.
He couldn’t see the Autumn Tree, though. They were still too distant.
The commander of the archers suddenly halted and turned, focusing on Gregson. “Lieutenant, I want you to leave your men here with the reserve forces for now, until we know what GreatLord Kobel wishes to do with them. I want you and your second to accompany me.”
Gregson nearly commented that these weren’t really his men, but the sharp crack of command in the man’s voice made him choke on the words and straighten, as if he were once again at the academy in Temeritt, in training for the Legion. The commander reminded him of many of his teachers from those days—stocky, broad of shoulder, a more rounded face than typical, offset by dark hair heavy with gray and a sharp gaze. He estimated the man at nearly fifty, with the scars of life to prove he’d lived hard.
“Yes, sir.” He closed his hand into a fist across his chest in formal salute, then snapped a glance toward Terson. He was suddenly aware of how dirty and shabby his dress and armor were from the weeks of hard travel.
As the commander turned away, giving out more orders to his own unit, Gregson turned to Curtis and Ricks, noting that Jayson stood behind them, listening intently. “Keep the men together. And tell Ara to make certain the civilians stay in a group as well.”
“Yes, sir.”
Gregson noted with a sense of pride that the regular Legion had already assumed the military precision drilled into them at the academy.
“This way,” the commander ordered, and then headed off toward the east again, only one of the lieutenant commanders continuing on with them.
As they slogged through the muddy field, the intensity of the battle to the left escalated. Gregson saw one of the giants plowing into the Legionnaires, flinging men left and right before grabbing one and pulling him limb from limb. Gregson’s stomach heaved, even as someone cried, “Release!” and a garrison unleashed a torrent of arrows at the creature. It roared, rearing back with an arm in one hand, as yet more arrows found its eyes and mouth. Scraping at the shafts that protruded from its skin, the giant stumbled backward, listed, and fell. The Legion swarmed over the spot where it had disappeared with yells of triumph.
“They’re beasts!” the commander shouted over the tumult. “But they fall eventually!”
They halted as a group of reserve charged toward the front, then cut in behind them. Gregson suddenly realized they were headed toward a tent set up far behind the line, the burnt orange banner with the black oak in silhouette for the Temeritt Province flapping in the winds above it.
Terson shot him a wide-eyed glance. It appeared they were going to meet with GreatLord Kobel himself.
The commander ducked down through the tent flap, four Legionnaires to either side letting them pass. When Gregson straightened inside, he found a group of ten men surrounding a wide table, leaning on it as they peered down at the jagged lines and scratchings of a map. Four of the men were Lords of the Province, the rest commanders of the Legion. The commander who’d led them there motioned them toward one side of the tent, then positioned himself at GreatLord Kobel’s back, off to one side.
Kobel himself was surprisingly young, not yet forty, with brown hair silvered near the temples, brown eyes, and scars down the left side of his cheek near the mouth. The scars made him look vicious, although at the moment his face was lined with strain and tension and determination.
The GreatLord caught sight of the commander of the archers out of the corner of his eye and straightened. “Commander, report.”
“GreatLord, the fifty-seventh archery unit I command attacked the supply train as ordered. We caught them by surprise and inflicted heavy casualties while receiving few ou
rselves, although this may have been due to the fact that the reserve set to guard the Horde’s supplies was distracted by a group of refugees led by Lieutenant Gregson trying to reach our own lines.”
Kobel’s eyebrow rose. “The Horde?”
The commander swallowed once. “That is what the refugees in the group call the Alvritshai force.”
One of the lords, a robust man whose girth stretched the seams of his clothing and whose armor must have felt tight, snorted. “It’s fitting. I daresay the entire Legion will be calling them the Horde by tomorrow morning.”
Kobel ignored him, turning his attention to Gregson. He felt the GreatLord’s eyes boring into him, weighing and judging him, and he stifled the urge to brush off the dust from his clothing and armor.
“Lieutenant, you were the leader of the refugees?”
“Yes, sir.”
“What garrison are you stationed with?”
“Cobble Kill, sir.”
The lords leaned over the map, one pointing to what Gregson assumed was Cobble Kill, although he didn’t step forward to verify it. He hadn’t been asked to.
“That’s far behind the enemy lines,” the robust lord murmured, not without grudging respect. “Are you saying you brought a group of refugees from Cobble Kill to here… and they survived?”
Something gripped Gregson by the throat, something hot, fluid, and achy. He choked the sensation down and managed to say, “Not all of us made it, sir. I believe thirty survived, and twenty-five Legion, out of nearly three hundred. Others may have survived as well, sir, I’m not certain. We scattered when the Horde attacked us.”
Murmurs broke out among the men, although Kobel didn’t turn. He continued to stare at Gregson and the lieutenant felt sweat break out in his armpits and along his back, itching in the scratches he’d received in Cobble Kill and burning in the new wound on his cheek.
When the conversation had quieted, Kobel said, “You realize that no one has found their way past the Alvritshai’s army… past the Horde,” he amended with a thin smile, “since their line formed a week ago?”
“No, sir, I had not realized.”
Kobel’s head lowered. “Well, no one has. We have had no word of what has happened to the towns and villages north of our current position. The… Horde had already formed a hard line east to west before word reached us of the attacks on the Province. We barely managed to gather enough of the Legion to meet them, and certainly not enough to hold them.” He motioned Gregson forward, Terson a step behind, and then pointed toward a section of the map. “Our first encounter was here, nearly a hundred miles from our current position. Some of the Legion were still gathering and on their way, but the Horde was too immense to hold there with so few soldiers. We were pushed southward, steadily, until the rest of the Legion joined us here at the Northward Ridge. We managed to stop them here, were holding them back—”
“But then their own reinforcements arrived from the northeast,” the lord grumbled.
Kobel’s expression turned grim, lips pressed tight. “We were hoping that some of the Legion stationed to the north would arrive to split the Horde’s attention to two fronts.” He looked up at Gregson, the question clear in his eyes.
Gregson shook his head. “I don’t think that’s going to happen. The Horde decimated our region, from north of Cobble Kill down. We found nothing but the dead in the villages and towns, gathered everyone who’d escaped into our group as we came.”
“Patron’s Merge?” one of the other commanders asked.
“Destroyed. We passed it as it fell. Everyone fled to the south. If the survivors haven’t arrived here, then they’re either dead or hiding.”
The only lord who’d spoken so far swore. “We can’t hold here any longer. We have no defenses.”
Kobel’s brow creased. “What are our options?”
Everyone except Gregson, Terson, and Kobel leaned over to study the map, discussion breaking out among the commanders, suggestions being thrown out and dismissed or cut off mid-voice, tones sharp and curt. Kobel watched a moment, then turned to face Gregson.
As he did, Terson took a step forward, but halted, as if the action had been involuntary.
Kobel’s eyebrow rose. “You have a question?” he asked Gregson’s second.
Terson hesitated, then stiffened, back so straight Gregson expected to hear it snap. But his voice was steady.
“I was wondering what has happened to the Autumn Tree, sir. I thought it was supposed to protect us from these creatures. That’s what I was always taught, sir.”
The group hovering over the map fell silent, all eyes on Kobel.
The GreatLord appeared uncertain for a moment, doubt flashing briefly in his eyes before he steadied himself. One hand touched the top of the table, as if for support.
“The Autumn Tree protects us from the Wraiths and the Shadows and the creatures of the dark. That is what I was told as well. But it does not protect us from the Alvritshai.”
“But, sir, what about the catlike creatures, or the giants, or even the fliers?”
Kobel’s hand closed into a loose fist and he tapped the top of the table. For a moment, Gregson thought he wouldn’t respond. He was the GreatLord of Temeritt Province after all, and Terson wasn’t even a lieutenant. But finally he sighed. “That is the question, isn’t it? There is no mention of any of these creatures in our own legends, but according to the scholars and the priests of Diermani in Temeritt, they are spoken of in the dwarren histories. I would have thought the Tree would protect us from them as well.”
“Perhaps it did.”
Kobel turned. “And why do you say that, Lord Akers?”
“Because a week ago we were only attacked by the Alvritshai. None of these creatures were part of the army we met north of here. They only arrived later. Perhaps the Tree kept them away, and only recently has it begun to fail.”
“I’ve had the priests of the Holy Church of Diermani who’ve looked after the Tree since its seeding outside Temeritt check it since the arrival of the Horde. They claim that it hasn’t failed, that it appears healthy. There are no signs of sickness, of disease.”
“Then perhaps it has merely weakened.”
Kobel drew breath to protest, but held it, then let it out in a slow exhale. “You may be correct. Regardless, it does not change the fact that the Horde is here, the creatures are here. The Tree has failed.”
Lord Akers bowed his head in agreement.
“You mentioned the dwarren,” Gregson said, and suddenly every eye was on him again. “Have there been any dwarren in the Horde?”
“No, there have not. Why do you ask?”
“Because we found a dwarren body in the first village that was attacked near Cobble Kill. I thought at first they were behind it, but I haven’t seen any dwarren since.”
The reaction from the rest of the group was instantaneous, someone growling, “Could the dwarren have betrayed us as well?” another demanding, “What of the Accord? Does it mean nothing to any of them?”
But then Kobel raised his hand and all of the speculation ceased. “The Alvritshai may have betrayed us, but I refuse to believe the dwarren have done the same. I have met with their representatives, have even traveled to their lands. Everything I have learned has led me to believe they are an honorable people.”
He turned back to Gregson, troubled. “Was it only a single dwarren?”
“No. One of the villagers who survived said that there were many.”
“How many?”
Gregson frowned and thought back. The time he’d spent listening to Jayson’s story in Ara’s inn seemed like a distant memory, something that had happened years ago, not merely a month. “Five or six.”
“One of the trettarus,” Lord Akers said.
“So I would assume.” At Gregson’s confused look, he added, “A trettarus is a dwarren war party. They send out groups of their Riders, with special weapons designed to affect these creatures, and hunt them down and kill them. Bu
t the trettarus have never entered the Province. The Accord forbids it.”
“They’ve never had to,” Lord Akers said. “The Trees have always kept the creatures to the east. But if they’ve entered our lands, against the Accord, then the Autumn Tree must be failing. It’s the only reason I can see for them to violate the Accord. They’ve always been more interested in their gods than in politics.”
“But they’ve violated Province lands!” one of the commanders protested.
Kobel halted him with a glare. “We have more important things to attend to right now.”
Everyone fell silent, the sounds of the battle that raged a few thousand feet from the tent washing over them.
Lord Akers broke the silence. “But what of the dwarren? Can we count on them to come to our aid?”
“I sent word to them as soon as we knew of the Horde’s attack, to warn them and ask for help. It’s too soon to expect a reply, and after what Lieutenant Gregson has said, I doubt that our message has been received. We must assume that no help will be coming from dwarren lands.”
Lord Akers motioned toward the map, everyone’s attention shifting back to the lines and formations drawn there. “Then I’m afraid we really have only one option remaining. Retreat back to Temeritt. Seek safety behind its walls.”
Leaves of Flame Page 42