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.
20
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 th
e 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 the 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.
“Perhaps,” he said roughly. “But that doesn’t matter now, does it?”
Aeren straightened where he sat. “Of course it does, Thaedoren.”
He swallowed more wine, grimaced, and set the glass aside. “What are they up to? What can we do?”
“I don’t know. I don’t understand why they would need these resources, and as Fedaureon and Moiran point out, having them accumulate these resources isn’t in itself damning. It’s merely an indicator that perhaps they are aligned in some way. And that they are preparing.”
“For what?”
“I can only imagine a grab for the Evant. We know that has been Peloroun’s objective for decades. Even more so since his fall after the Escarpment.”
Thaedoren frowned. What Aeren said made sense, and yet it didn’t feel right. Or at least, not complete. There was something beneath what Aeren suggested, something deeper that Aeren held back, and he thought he knew what it was.
“You think they’re working with Lotaern.”
Aeren stilled, then said warily, “There’s nothing to suggest it.”
Thaedoren scowled. “But that’s what you think.” He paused in thought, factoring in the Chosen, then shook his head. “I should never have made the Order equivalent to a House.”
Aeren’s lips thinned. “Why did you?”
“I thought it might end the conflict between you and Lotaern, or at least settle it once and for all. You wanted him out of the Evant, but it was clear that many of the lords-and a significant portion of the general population-felt the Order should have its say as well, especially with the resurgence of the sukrael. By solidifying the Order’s presence in the Evant, I thought you would turn your energies elsewhere, into curbing him legally if nothing else.”
“Was it Reanne’s idea?” Aeren asked bluntly.
The accusation stabbed into Thaedoren’s gut, hard, but he shook his head. “No. It was mine.” At Aeren’s look of doubt, he added with emphasis, “Solely mine.”
“Regardless, Lotaern took it as an implicit blessing of his actions. You’ve seen him in the Evant. He’s become aggressive, pursuing his own interests with abandon, and using Aielan and the existence of the Wraiths as his prod. If Peloroun and Orraen are working with him, he holds three out of nine votes, and you know a few of the other lords will follow their lead.”
“Orraen and Peloroun don’t always side with Lotaern.”
“But if they do when something of significance comes to the floor? Do you realize that he has yet to remove any of his Flame from the temples in any of the House lands? He has ignored the edict-from the Evant and from you.”
Thaedoren leaned forward onto the table, head bowed. His chest still ached over Reanne, but he needed to focus on the Evant, on salvaging the situation if at all possible. “We need to curb them in the Evant. And we need to call on our own allies to back us when necessary. Who can we count on? And how are we going to find a connection between Peloroun, Orraen, and Lotaern?”
Aeren shifted forward. “Lord Saetor has shown some promise recently.…”
Thaedoren nodded as he pushed back from the table and listened. He knew he could count on Aeren-and Fedaureon and his mother, of course-but his thoughts turned toward his brother, Daedelan, the White Fox, who’d arrived in the city late last night. He would have to be apprised of the situation.
He did not think Daedelan would like the fall of recent events in Caercaern. Not at all.
“Are they moving out yet?”
Eraeth shook his head from his perch on top of a sandy red outcropping of rock overlooking the chasm beyond. “No. It doesn’t look like they’ll be moving any time soon.”
Colin glanced toward Siobhaen, who paced in the shadow cast by the cliffs that surrounded them. She scowled toward the distance, one hand on her cattan, the other tossing a stone in a nervous gesture.
When she saw Colin watching her, she asked hopefully, “Can we kill them?”
They’d entered the Thalloran Wastelands days before, the land breaking up, earth cracked so much they’d been forced to descend into the chasms between the tan-and-red rocks in order to continue, walking in shadows for most of the day, crumbling cliff faces to either side. It became immediately apparent that the horses were slowing them down, and that finding food and water for them would be problematic. After much discussion, it had been decided to leave the horses behind. They’d set them free on the outskirts of dwarren lands
in the hopes that the dwarren scouts would reclaim them. Colin suspected the Wraith army would find them first.
They’d entered the chasms of the wasteland shortly after that. Colin had found his shoulders itching at the sense of confinement, tension creeping into his muscles at the claustrophobia. He couldn’t help feeling that the rock on either side would give way and bury them all. Even though the walls concealed them well from the strange birdlike creatures, he found himself seeking the more open chasms and the wider blue sky overhead.
But while they were concealed from the creatures Eraeth had begun calling taeredacs, they were threatened by the small groups of the Haessari that were scattered throughout the labyrinthine crevices. Progress had slowed as they found themselves cutting back when a chosen path ended in two cliff faces merging or narrowing too much for them to pass. It had slowed even further after they’d encountered the first group of Snake People. That fight had been short, and Colin believed they’d only survived because both groups had been caught off guard. If the Haessari scouts had seen them coming, they could have ambushed them, killing them all with the small poison-tipped darts they all seemed to carry, or with their strange S-shaped swords.
At least, killing Eraeth and Siobhaen. Colin would have survived, although he wasn’t certain what the poison would have done to him.
They’d been more wary after that, Colin scouting ahead with time slowed to determine the best path and making certain there were no surprises from the Haessari. After the first two days, he’d begun to feel the edge of exhaustion from halting time often, and in such short bursts. It was easier to use it in longer intervals, but the Snake People changed position too often for him to scout too far ahead.
Leaves of Flame ch-2 Page 40