Leaves of Flame ch-2

by Benjamin Tate

  “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 ourselves, 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. But 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.”

  GreatLord Kobel leaned heavily onto the table, head bowed. No one dared speak. Gregson and Terson shifted awkwardly, aware they were witness to discussions that were normally kept within the highest ranks of the Legion, with only the final decisions passed down the chain of command. But Gregson knew enough about warfare from his own studies to realize what retreat to Temeritt and its walls meant.

  A siege, one that he doubted Temeritt had prepared for. There’d been no time for preparation. The Horde’s attack had come too fast, with no warning.

  But they could not hope to hold them here, on the empty hills beneath Northward Ridge.

  A moment later, GreatLord Kobel looked up, and Gregson could see all of his own thoughts mirrored in Kobel’s eyes.

  “Then we retreat to Temeritt. May Diermani send us mercy and the walls hold.”

  “Lady Moiran?”

  Moiran frowned down at the pages of parchment sorted and stacked neatly into distinct heaps, one for each of the Houses she suspected of being in league with Lotaern. She had gathered more evidence against Lord Orraen and Lord Saetor, but Lord Peloroun appeared to have halted his purchases of food and supplies. Either he’d finished his preparations, or Fedaureon was correct and his actions were legitimate.

  She pressed her lips into a thin line. She didn’t believe that for a moment. Her frustration had reached its peak that morning, when she had finally managed to find a link between Lord Orraen and the Order. She’d written the Lady of House Licaeta to beg her to sell some of the grain purchased earlier in the year, offering an outrageous price for such a small amount, and Vivaen’s response had finally arrived. The letter was frivolous, as nearly all of Vivaen’s missives were. Moiran could practically hear the woman’s giddy laugh as she read it, speaking of trivialities before finally arriving at the heart of the letter: an apology. She couldn’t possibly send Moiran any grain, even at such a generous price, because the excess grain had already been sent to the Sanctuary. She would have to petition the Chosen.

  Moiran had cried out as she read it, had summoned a servant to find Fedaureon, then been too impatient to wait, gathering up the papers she’d collected and searching him out herself. He’d been in his father’s room along with Daevon and caitan Mattalaen, studying the layout of Rhyssal House lands, a huge map spread out across the desk before them.

  She’d presented Vivaen’s letter in triumph. “Here is our connection to the Order of Aielan. They’re providing the Chosen with the supplies that they purchase under the guise of tithes to the Sanctuary.”

  Fedaureon had frowned down at the letter where it had come to rest covering part of the map, then glanced up in annoyance. “The caitan and I are busy, Mother. Can you show me this later? I’ve already informed Father of your earlier suspicions.”

  And he’d turned back to the map, brushing the letter aside as he leaned forward. Mattalaen had hesitated, clearly uncomfortable, but after a moment had joined her son. Daevon had glared at her son’s back, lips pursed, then cast Moiran an apologetic look.

  Moiran had been mortified, her shock transforming into anger after only a few short breaths. She’d carefully picked up Vivaen’s letter and returned to her rooms, moving slowly even as she seethed inside. Aeren would have taken the time to listen to her. But more than that, Fedaureon had shown blatant disrespect for her in front of one who was not part of the immediate family. She wanted him to be independent, but she had never thought he would take that so far as to embarrass her in front of another member of the House.

  She had sat in her chamber staring at her evidence, trying to decide what she should do.

  Now she murmured beneath her breath, “He’s young, Moiran. He didn’t realize what he’d done. You can reprimand him later, if Daevon hasn’t done so already.” Although now that she thought about it, she should have said something there, in the room, with Mattalaen present. She pinched her nose between her eyes and sighed, shaking her head.

  At the door, someone coughed discreetly and she glanced up, mildly shocked. She’d heard the servant arrive, but had forgotten she was there. Berating herself, she asked brusquely, “What is it, Sylvea?”

  The servant stepped into the room, her motions tentative. “A few of the servants went down to services at the temple this morning, for dociern, and-”

&n
bsp; Moiran’s eyebrow rose as the servant trailed off. “And?”

  A look of resignation snapped across Sylvea’s face a moment before she bowed her head. “The member of the Order of the Flame was speaking for that service,” she muttered morosely, “and he was saying things about… about the lords, about how they had faltered in their faith, about how some of them had lost their way. He didn’t mention names, but it was obvious he meant Lord Aeren, and I know it’s not true, but… but he was so convincing! And I could tell that those at the service were listening to him, grumbling under their breath or nodding, and when I asked, they said the member of the Flame has been speaking like this for over a week now, and I just thought you should know.”

  Sylvea glanced up at the end, eyes pleading, her words rushing forth in a single breath.

  Moiran didn’t move, her body rigid with tension. Inside, her stomach roiled and she tasted bile at the back of her throat. She swallowed it down, the effort painful, then glanced toward the window to judge the light.

  “Lady Moiran?” Sylvea’s voice was barely a whisper, fraught with worry.

  It snapped Moiran into action.

  “It’s nearly terciern,” she said, standing, the papers and Fedaureon’s indiscretion forgotten. “Fetch my shawl… no, go to your own quarters and bring me back one of your own shawls or a cloak, preferably something with a hood so that I can conceal myself. I assume that this priest from the Order of the Flame will be giving the afternoon service?”

  Sylvea nodded. “I heard one of the others say that he’s been speaking at nearly every service for the past week.”

  “Good. Meet me at the servants’ gate with the cloak. We’ll have to walk down to the town to allay suspicion. Move quickly. We haven’t much time.”

  Sylvea darted out of the room, the sound of her soft footsteps receding down the hall as she sprinted for her rooms. Moiran made her way toward the front of the manse. She contemplated telling Fedaureon where she was headed, but dismissed the idea. He was still in Aeren’s rooms with Mattalaen. She could handle this herself.