The Wraith army was hemmed in on three sides. The enemy forces seethed in desperation, the center falling under the arrows, unable to escape or fight back, the edges of the army hitting Painted Sands and the Cochen’s clans hard. In the frenzy, Quotl saw many of the lizard-skinned orannian flare open hoods, swordplay giving way to lightning quick strikes with their fangs. Dwarren reared back at the unexpected attacks, some of the defense breaking in horror.
“Did you know they could do that?” the drummer asked softly, voice shaking.
“No, I did not.”
Movement caught his attention and Quotl turned to find the two Wraiths—Alvritshai and dwarren—edging forward. The Alvritshai raised one hand to the sky and made a fist with it.
Quotl’s eyes narrowed, and then he looked up.
Without warning, the dreun who’d been hovering out of the archers’ reach plummeted from the skies, straight for Claw Lake.
Quotl cried out, took an involuntary and useless step forward.
A few of the archers saw the dreun coming, shots firing into the sky, but none of them struck. The dreun came at them from the upper plains, sweeping down and hitting the archers from behind, knocking them from the cliffs. Quotl cringed at the screams as bodies fell onto the battle below, the dreun flapping their massive wings once they passed the cliff face and pulling back up into the skies for another pass, some with dwarren clutched in their talons. Claw Lake scrambled to reassemble. The dreun swept by again, more dwarren plunging to their deaths, but this time a group managed to hit one of the leather-skinned fliers as it passed. It shrieked as it hit the edge of the cliff, stone breaking off in chunks as it scrambled for purchase, arrows sticking out from it like spikes. But it couldn’t hold, one wing torn and crumpled to its side. Its scream as it fell cut into Quotl like a knife.
On the rocky field below, the Wraith army had regained its footing, no longer decimated from above. It dug in and began to push outward.
“It’s not going to hold,” the drummer muttered.
Quotl’s jaw clenched. He wanted to backhand the Rider, but didn’t. He’d seen the signs himself, had known it wouldn’t hold.
But there was one last defense.
He turned to the drummer. “Have those in the ditches pull back to the base of the landslide.”
He didn’t wait for the order to be passed on. Turning, he swung himself up onto his gaezel and kicked it into motion, heading toward the slide at their backs. The power of the Lands thundered through him as he raced across the open area between the ditches and the ramp, then through the tents of the dwarren camp, the northern edge of the cliffs towering above him. He passed into their shadow for a moment, emerging into the lowering sun again as he began edging up the slide. Its slope was gradual enough that his gaezel only slowed to half pace, snorting with effort. Dreun shadows passed over him but he didn’t glance up. More screams came from the cliffs to his right, steadier, fainter screams echoing it from the carnage below. It felt like an eternity before he reached the top and pulled his mount around so he could survey the battle.
The dwarren had been driven to the base of the slide, the ditches abandoned, the Cochen’s forces now combined with Painted Sands and Thousand Springs into one massive throng of dwarren, the clans no longer separate. Those at the back were climbing toward the upper plains. Dwarren on foot and gaezels began swarming around him, both Claw Lake and Shadow Moon hitting the Wraith forces hard with arrows as they dodged the continued attacks from the dreun. Two more of the leather-winged creatures had fallen, leaving eight wheeling in the skies above. The dwarren clans were being driven up the slide, the cliffs to either side acting as a funnel.
The only clan not present was Silver Grass.
As the last of the dwarren fled the flatland at the slide’s base, Quotl muttered to himself, “Now.”
Nothing happened. He sucked in a breath, held it, his own blood pounding in his head, heightened by the power that filled him. The Wraith army began edging up the slope, orannian and Alvritshai at the forefront, the stone-skinned terren bellowing behind them. Quotl exhaled harshly. “Ilacqua curse you, do it now, Attanna! What are you waiting for?”
Half of the Wraith army was now on the slide, the rest on the flat beyond.
And then Quotl felt the earth shudder on the plains below. He closed his eyes and muttered a small prayer, body tense.
When he opened them, the earth shuddered once again—
And then a section of the plains below collapsed, the earth cracking in massive fissures as the clan of Silver Grass broke the supports of the warren that lay underneath and the system of tunnels there caved in. The fissures crazed the rocky plains, snaking outward from the central chamber that lay a hundred lengths beyond the end of the slide like the frozen surface of a pond in winter giving way beneath someone’s weight. The Wraith army that stood above that hidden chamber and the tunnels beneath were thrown to the ground, and then, with a suddenness that startled even Quotl, the earth gave way beneath them, collapsing inward with a grinding, hideous groan.
At least a thousand of the orannian, Alvritshai, and terren perished as a plume of dust rose. The dwarren who had volunteered to break the supports died beneath them.
But it wasn’t enough. Too many of the enemy had made the landslide. Too many had survived the collapse of the sinkhole.
Quotl sank back into his saddle, a numbing despair washing over him. It had been their final defense of the Break.
Drums sounded, and dwarren began to withdraw from the Break’s edge, racing back across the plains toward the entrance to the warren they’d emerged from a week before. Claw Lake and Shadow Moon were pulling back from the cliffs. The Wraith army now filled nearly the entirety of the landslide, the Cochen holding the mouth at the heights.
Azuka suddenly appeared from the chaos of fleeing dwarren, riding hard to Quotl’s side. His eyes were panicked, but his voice was stern. “Quolt, don’t you hear the drums? We need to reach the warren. Quotl!” He reached out, grabbed Quotl’s arm, and tugged him toward the open plains behind.
Quotl jerked his arm out of his grasp.
Another voice cut through the chaos, cut through the numbness that enveloped Quotl. He turned to find Tarramic drawing his gaezel up short. “We’ve called the retreat, but too many of the Alvritshai have already reached the heights. You need to do something, Quotl. If we don’t slow them down, we’ll never reach the warren entrance in time to collapse it.”
Quotl barked laughter, the sound raw. “What do you expect me to do, Clan Chief?”
Tarramic frowned at his tone, then said brusquely, “Do whatever it was you did before. Call upon the gods.”
Quotl recoiled, as if Tarramic had slapped him. At the same time, the power within him surged.
Before Quotl could respond, Tarramic spun his mount and charged onto the plains.
Quotl glared out toward the slide, toward the fighting, now so close he could see individual dwarren dying beneath orannian and Alvritshai blades.
“Call upon the gods,” he muttered to himself, shaking his head. “That’s the Archon’s job.”
“You did it once before.”
He straightened in his saddle. He’d forgotten that Azuka was there.
He didn’t know what he’d done before, but sighing, he reached out through the power flowing through him, sank into the ground at the height of the Break, felt the stone beneath him, the layer upon layer of sediment and rock. He traveled through it, searching. Desperation had driven him before. He’d acted on instinct, reaching out and twisting without thought, and stone had shattered. Could he do that again?
Through stone, through the Lands, he felt… a flaw.
He sucked in a breath, centered on the flaw, on the weakness. It lurked in the rock of the northern cliff face, deep in the earth. As he explored it, he realized that it was the remnants of the flaw that had caused the Break to give way hundreds of years before, creating the landslide where the dwarren and Wraith armi
es now fought. The earth had shifted and settled since, but part of the flaw still remained.
All it needed was a push.
Drawing a deep breath, exhaling slowly, Quotl closed his eyes.
Then he reached out and shoved.
Stone cracked, the sound louder than anything Quotl had ever heard before, shuddering in his chest and making him gasp, eyes snapping open. Gaezels and horses alike stumbled in a panic, veering away from the sound. Those fighting on the slope paused, stunned.
Then the northern cliff face above the slide gave way, slipping and falling as a single, solid wall of stone. It avalanched into the Wraith army, burying it as the base of the stone face struck and it began tilting outwards. Everything in its path—orannian, Alvritshai, terren, gruen, and a host of luckless dwarren—turned and ran. The wall of stone slammed into the landslide, vibrations setting off another avalanche down the slope, taking a significant chunk of the Wraith army with it and blocking the mouth of the slide with rubble. Beyond, the earth’s trembling unsettled the plinth of stone enough that it began to topple, dust and debris rising in a choking cloud to obscure its last moments from sight. Dwarren swarmed from the mouth of the slide, gaezels out of control.
When the stone settled, Quotl turned to Azuka. The shaman looked shocked, his eyes awed, but tainted with fear. Any chance Quotl had of allowing the Archon to take responsibility faded. He could see it in Azuka’s eyes. “The warren,” Quotl said.
He pulled his gaezel about and streaked toward the distant warren entrance. The dwarren on all sides abandoned the Break, all of the clans heading west. As the sun sank into the horizon, Quotl caught sight of the Cochen and the Archon, the two surrounded by the mixed clans, and relief coursed through him. The Archon could order the warren’s mouth collapsed as soon as they arrived, Silver Grass already headed toward the two smaller entrances north and south with orders to seal them before rejoining the gathered clans underground. The Wraith army could not be allowed to reach the Sacred Waters and the Summer Tree. The dwarren had done what they could at the Break.
Now it was up to the Shadowed One.
ERAETH GLANCED TOWARD SIOBHAEN, who nodded, and then, as if they’d planned it, both sheathed their swords and pulled the bows the forest had gifted them from their backs. Feet planted at the supple wood’s base, the two Alvritshai strung them in the space of a breath, Eraeth turning toward Colin, face taut and grim.
“You take care of Walter. We’ll deal with the sukrael.”
Neither waited for an answer, sprinting away from their location at the Source in two different directions, both reaching for the strange arrows the forest had left as they ran. Colin couldn’t remember how many arrows each carried, but he hoped there were enough to kill all of the Shadows that surrounded them. He counted at least fifty, perhaps as many as a hundred.
“Use the bows as staffs when you run out of arrows,” he shouted, brandishing his own staff. At the top of the steps, Walter drew a sword. “And remember that the sukrael perish if you can throw them over water.”
He caught Siobhaen’s first shot out of the corner of his eye, the shaft catching one of the Shadows and nailing it to the stone wall behind. Its supple, glistening blackness tinged with gold writhed and tattered as if it were cloth caught in a tempest
And then Walter moved, slowing time, his form blurring. But Colin had been waiting for it. He reached out and seized time as well, used it to find Walter, the flows disturbed by Walter’s presence, by his manipulations. Colin focused on the disruption and raced across the stone steps to meet his old tormentor from Portstown. Images of the abuse he’d suffered under Walter’s hand flared across his mind—the beatings in the streets of the fledgling town, the humiliation of the penance locks, and his sly smile when both had thought Colin would hang at the gallows in the town square. All of it came rushing back as if it had happened yesterday, instead of decades ago. He’d allowed his hatred to seethe inside of him, unquenched and unsatisfied for so long. That hatred had driven him to halt Walter’s awakening of the Wells, had taken him to battle against the other Wraiths and Shadows when they attacked the Alvritshai and dwarren afterward, had finally motivated him to create the Seasonal Trees to halt their destruction.
But all of that had been defensive. His hatred had not been sated. He wanted Walter dead, wanted revenge for the deaths of his parents, for the death of Karen and all of the others who had set out in that wagon train onto the eastern plains, driven there by Walter’s father because of what Walter had done.
He let all of the frustration and rage that had accumulated over the span of nearly two hundred years out in a roar as he closed on Walter, the Wraith charging toward him with a twisted smile on his face. Raising his staff diagonally overhead, he brought it down with all of his strength.
It cracked into Walter’s blade, the staff vibrating in Colin’s hand as Walter lurched left under the force of the impact, but it didn’t break. Without pause, Colin pulled back, shifted his grip, and swung the other end toward Walter’s feet, but the Wraith danced back out of range, sword snicking in toward Colin’s fingers. Colin hissed and pushed forward, aiming for Walter’s hands and arms now, trying to knock the sword from his grasp, but Walter was too quick, slipping back and forth through time, slowing and speeding up, just enough to remain out of reach. Colin matched his pace, keeping them in synch, the effort causing sweat to break out on his face and slick down his back. They shifted up and down the steps, circling the Source, its blue pulse deepening as dusk began to descend.
Around them, the battle between the Shadows and Eraeth and Siobhaen proceeded in juttering spurts as the two humans danced with time, but Colin couldn’t watch, didn’t have the time or energy to spare. The two Alvritshai were on their own. Walter’s actions were too quick, his strikes too sudden. Colin couldn’t afford to look away.
He hissed as Walter’s sword cut a smooth line across the back of his hand, blood welling even as Walter smirked, spun the blade in his grip, and brought it sharply across Colin’s exposed throat. Colin seized time as he lurched back with a gasp, the blade slowing a moment, giving Colin a fraction of a second longer before Walter compensated, the sword tip passing within a finger’s breadth of his neck, so close he felt its passage beneath his chin. He swallowed down the bitter taste of fear, stepped back, and tripped over a massive slab of the crystal debris that littered the floor, his back slamming to its surface with enough force his breath gushed from his lungs.
Walter shouted in triumph, leaping up onto the surface as Colin choked on air. Sword raised, the Wraith brought it down two-handed, attempting to plunge it into Colin’s chest, but Colin rolled. The tip of Walter’s blade caught the back of his shirt, the edge slicing a thin line down Colin’s shoulders that burned, but Colin didn’t stop moving. He tore free, the tip of the blade skittering across the crystal’s face, nicking Colin again in the side as it jerked in Walter’s hand before he drew it back. Colin swore, heard Walter laugh, the sound reverberating through the chamber—
And then he rolled over the edge of the crystal slab.
He hit the stone floor, felt grit, stone, and smaller crystal shards cut into his side, but flung out his arm to halt himself. His legs swung out over empty space and he sucked in a shaky breath. They’d somehow circled back down to the Source, the gaping, lipless mouth of the Well yawning to one side. His momentum and the weight of his legs nearly pulled him farther into the pit, but he jerked back, scrambling up onto the lip. He had a moment to catch his breath, leaning on one elbow, and then he heard Walter’s feet grinding into the grit behind him.
He shoved himself up into a seated position, free hand slapping into the wood of his staff. He twisted and drove it hard into Walter’s stomach. At the same time, he seized some of the Source’s power—a power he could feel escalating toward its peak—and sent it through the wooden shaft.
Walter screamed and reeled back, hitting the same slab that Colin had stumbled over. Satisfaction surged through C
olin as the smug expression on Walter’s face contorted into a snarl of pain and hatred as he wheeled and fell. His sword clanged into the slab, jarred from his hand, and returned to real time, caught in mid-bounce. Walter swore and dragged himself to the far side of the crystal. His movements were slower, the clothing where Colin’s staff had hit him in the chest scorched.
“You weren’t expecting that, were you?” Colin climbed to his feet. He winced as he pulled himself upright with his staff, the blood from the cut on his hand trickling down his arm. The slice across his back stung with sweat. He grinned. “I’ve learned a few tricks since we last fought, there on the Escarpment.”
Walter glared, pushing himself up into a low crouch. One hand went to his chest, near the burn mark, hand cupped strangely.
Then he smiled. “So have I.”
He thrust his hand forward, palm out. Colin tensed, saw a ripple on the air like a heat wave—
Then something slammed into his chest and flung him backward. He crashed to the floor, scrabbled for purchase, then felt himself slipping over the edge of the Well again. His free hand grabbed at the lip. The fingers of his other were crushed between staff and stone. His entire body slid over and dangled against the edge of the Well, held only by the arm holding the staff and his fingers. He tried to swing his legs up to the lip, gasping with the effort, failed and pulled himself up to his chest instead, keeping himself stable, the lip underneath both armpits. He glanced down, the Lifeblood pulsing with bluish light not far beneath. It was nearing the point where it would be full. If it awakened completely, he wasn’t certain he could reverse the process.
He was running out of time.
He snapped his attention back toward Walter, the Wraith coming toward him with hand cupped to his chest again. Walter paused long enough to return to real time and retrieve his sword, body stilling unnaturally for a single short breath, then continued toward him, a malicious smile touching his lips.
Leaves of Flame Page 48