Well of Sorrows

by Benjamin Tate

  He shuddered, then stepped into shadow as a door in the wall twenty paces away opened suddenly; men and women dressed in vests and coats in a style Colin didn’t recognize stepped out onto the cobbles. Their undershirts were a vibrant white, stark against the dirt that coated the buildings, but no one seemed to notice the grime. Carriages were waiting for some of them, the horses stamping the stone impatiently, heads rattling their traces. Others branched away in various directions. Those with the finer clothes were followed by men and women dressed more conservatively, in clothes Colin found more familiar: shirts and breeches, patched and stained in places. Once the carriages pulled away, their drivers tch- ing the horses into motion, the yard workers in even rougher clothing, most without shirts, began unloading the cargo, wagons arriving to take the carriages’ places, hauling the crates and barrels away into the city.

  Colin turned to look down the stretch of the street and saw numerous doorways all along its length; he shook his head. “Far larger than the wharf from my day,” he murmured, then turned his attention inland. He didn’t know how the streets were set up, didn’t even know if he was close to where the wharf he remembered had been, so he chose a street at random.

  As soon as he entered the inner reaches of the wharf, he adjusted his pack and hugged the walls of the buildings, wary of the number of people. He made it down to the next street, and then he drew to a halt.

  The closeness—of the people, of the buildings—and the sheer volume and activity began to close in on him, crushing him. His chest tightened, and his breath began to quicken. Desperation pulled at his shoulders, until he finally glanced up, into the sky, into its blueness, its openness high above. He drew that openness into his lungs, tasted the odor of the city along with it, and wrinkled his nose.

  It reminded him of the rougher part of Lean-to, where Shay and the conscripts had stayed, only the stench was a hundred times worse. But it calmed him.

  He turned back to the street and watched the crowd as they bustled here and there, entering taverns and shops. Then he reentered the flow, passing a bakery, the smells of fresh bread making his stomach growl yet again, but he didn’t stop. He turned at the next corner, bumped into someone and apologized without looking up. He caught a few people staring at him strangely, brows creased, and he realized that no one else wore anything remotely close to robes, but he ignored them. He’d brought a shirt and breeches, but he’d never changed; he wasn’t comfortable in them anymore. He caught a few other stares, more predatory, and he tugged his pack closer, shifting his grip on the staff. He had nothing that they’d want, but he knew that didn’t mean anything.

  And then the buildings fell away, abruptly, like the Faelehgre buildings that had surrounded the Well. The street emptied out into a small square, a rectangular area filled with grass and trees protected by a low wrought- iron fence. From the sides of the square streets branched off in every direction between yet more buildings, and to the right—

  Colin sighed, an ache in his heart easing.

  The church he remembered from Portstown, the church he’d halted in front of before hunting down Walter and his cronies with his sling, stood alone, as if carved out of the facade of the surrounding city. He smiled at the memory and moved across the street and around the park. The wooden fence had been replaced by iron, and the stone of the building had aged, but otherwise it was exactly as he remembered it. He could even see a few headstones in the graveyard behind it.

  Without thought, he passed through the open gate and ascended the stone steps. The vestibule was as he remembered it, with the intricate latticework of wood separating the entry from the sanctuary itself, but the smells had changed. Dust hung in the air, scented with old wood and decades of burned tallow and smoke and incense. Pews lined the walkway leading to the altar, the tilted cross still draped with white and red cloth at the far end. Colin moved down the aisle, glancing toward the stained-glass windows now darkened with layers of soot and age. He halted at the railing before the altar, the wood floor creaking beneath his weight, and stared up at the cross.

  He thought about his mother and father, about everyone in the wagon expedition who had died outside the forest, and he signed himself. “May Holy Diermani protect you all. You deserved a better burial than I gave you.” And as he stood there, he thought of Patris Brindisi, who’d offered him sanctuary on that day so long ago. He wondered whether, if he’d accepted that offer, everything would have been different. He might never have attacked Walter and been arrested. His father might never have been forced into leading the expedition onto the plains.

  Karen might have lived.

  His hand rose to clasp the unclaimed vow that hung around his neck.

  “Have you come seeking solace?”

  Colin spun, half expecting to see Brindisi, but it was another priest, young, the white shawl of a Hand draped around his neck. He thought of Domonic and smiled tightly. “No. I don’t think solace will ever be mine. I came for the . . . memories.”

  Without waiting for a response, he moved down the central aisle, past the Hand of Diermani, back out into the sunlight. He hesitated on the steps of the church, his hand falling away from the vow, and turned toward where the Proprietor’s manse had been.

  The building still stood, surrounded by a stone wall, a few trees visible inside. But when he approached the gate, a metal placard next to it stated that it was a mercantile house. Peering through the iron gates, he could see that changes had been made to the facade and windows, and a new stable had been built off to one side. Where the old stable had been now stood a large warehouse.

  He stepped back from the gate and oriented himself again.

  “The church, Sartori’s manse—” he spun in place and pointed with his staff “—the gallows.”

  There were no gallows there now, only a solid row of buildings.

  He wandered across the square and stopped before a tavern, on the ground where Sartori had threatened to hang him. Someone brushed past him, opened the door, and sounds spilled out—the clank of glassware, the raucous noise of voices. The scent of roasting meat hit him like a slingstone to the gut. Before he entered the tavern, he glanced up at the sign posted over the door: The Hang-man’s Noose.

  He shivered as he stepped into the tavern’s interior.

  The first burst of noise almost made him retreat, but he straightened his shoulders and made his way to a far corner table, half-hidden in shadows. The reek of spilled ale and old sweat and the scent of cooked meat dominated the room full of tables and chairs. A bar stood against the back wall, most of the patrons around it, although a few were gathered near the hearth, where a man sat on a stool telling tales.

  Colin hadn’t been seated for more than a few heartbeats when a young boy, no more than twelve, appeared at its edge dressed in a serving apron.

  “What can I git fur ya, oldster?”

  He stared at Colin with lively brown eyes, his light hair tousled and wild, his shirt stained with grease.

  Colin frowned and leaned his staff against the wall. He fished a coin from his pack, aware that the boy watched him closely, then set it on the table, making certain he kept his hand on it. “Whatever food this will pay for.”

  The boy nodded and slipped away. Colin folded the coin back into his hand and turned his attention to the storyteller.

  “. . . They met at the Escarpment, all three armies come together at last—King Maarten’s Legion, the Alvritshai White Phalanx, and the dwarren Riders.” A low grumble rolled through those listening, a rumble of hatred and anticipated anger. The storyteller nodded, his face grim. “Yes. You know the story, you know the betrayal.” He paused, let their anger simmer, then continued with a frown.

  “The three forces met, the Alvritshai coming from the north, the dwarren from the east, and the Legion from the south. It was to be a decisive battle, a final battle! For unknown to the dwarren, Maarten had met with the Tamaell of the Alvritshai in secret and forged an alliance, one that would bind the Alvrits
hai to the colonies, and would allow us to finally seize control of the edge of the plains and drive the dwarren back. Back into their burrows and tent cities in the deep plains.” Those around the storyteller grumbled some more.

  “It was with this alliance in place that the Legion took the field. King Maarten led them to the edge of the hill overlooking the flat, his heir, Stephan, his trusted advisers, and his councilmen beside him, banners snapping in the winds blowing from the plains. He came with three thousand men, with two hundred horses, and the hope of the Provinces in his heart.

  “Across the flat, the Alvritshai’s White Phalanx already waited, pennons flying, all of the Houses represented, nearly two thousand strong. When Maarten crested the hill, Tamaell Fedorem flashed the signal indicating that all was ready, that all was well, a sign that the alliance still stood. Everyone on the ridge saw it, and as the sun finally pulled away from the horizon, they heard the thundering approach of the Riders. A thousand gaezel—more!—dwarren astride their backs, emerged from the eastern plains, a storm of dust rising behind them to cloud the sky, golden in the sun’s light. They charged the flat, as if they intended to fling themselves off of the cliffs of the Escarpment to the west, but at the last moment they swerved, the gaezels turning in a sharp, smooth curve back on themselves, the dwarren erupting in a cacophonous battle roar. Swinging around, their cry echoing across the breadth of the plains, they came to a halt, their line curved to face both the Legion and the Alvritshai’s Phalanx, their ranks falling silent.

  “The men in the Legion shifted at this display, disturbed, but the King did not quail. With a nod of his head, a message was passed down the line, colored flags flashing in the brightening morning. The men stirred again, readying their weapons, tightening the clasps of armor, of shield, testing the strings of bows. Horns blew across the field from the Alvritshai, but Maarten kept his eyes on the dwarren, on their shifting ranks of gaezels. He caught the eye of his nearest adviser, and at his nod of readiness, he drew his sword. Steel flashed in the light, and the Legion fell silent behind him, hushed, waiting for the signal.”

  As if mimicking the storyteller’s words, his small audience fell silent. Most were leaning forward in their seats, alcohol-hazed eyes wide, shoulders tensed. The storyteller looked over them all, his arms outstretched, as if holding the entire battlefield, armies and all, before him, a satisfied smile on his face.

  “And then,” he whispered, a chair creaking as he paused and someone leaned farther forward, “as the Alvritshai horns blew, as they’d agreed upon at their secret meeting, Maarten dropped his sword.”

  The men surrounding the storyteller sighed, settling back. But Colin noted that not all of those in the tavern were enthralled. Some sat far back and snorted at the reaction of the others, lifting tankards to their lips. Others merely shook their heads.

  “The King’s army charged down the hill onto the flat, heading directly for the dwarren, letting out a battle cry of their own to rival the Riders. And simultaneously, the Alvritshai Phalanx, their long white pennons flaring out behind them, charged from the north. The dwarren didn’t wait for either army. The gaezels, heads bent forward, wicked horns down, met them on the flat. It’s said the clash of their weapons when they struck could be heard a day’s walk distant. It’s said the ground itself trembled. It’s said the sun vanished from the sky, lost behind the black cloud of dust that rose from the tread of thousands of feet. And I believe it, for it was a meeting of the three races, with the best of their men, their bravest warriors.

  “And it was a trap.” At this, everyone in the tavern growled, and the storyteller smiled grimly. “Not the trap you think. No. Not yet. A different trap, set up by King Maarten and Tamaell Fedorem to lure the dwarren Riders to the edge of the Escarpment.” The storyteller’s smile faded, his eyes darkening with anger. “But it was indeed a trap for King Maarten as well, although none knew it except the traitorous Alvritshai.”

  The storyteller spat this last remark, and everyone in the room burst out with their own curses, some literally spitting to the side.

  “Maarten rode down onto the flat and fought like a madman, his blade bloodied in instants, his surcoat stained,” the storyteller continued, rising from his seat as his voice rose, his arms miming sword thrusts and parries, not letting the riled patrons settle back down. “He roared as he drove into the dwarren ranks, slicing at the dwarren warriors, at their horned mounts, cutting flesh and sinew, severing arms and heads with mighty strokes, threshing a path through them as if they were grain and he a scythe. His men called out challenges behind him, some falling to blade and spear, those that followed pressing forward to take their place. Archers filled the skies with arrows until they blotted out the sun as effectively as the dust, and the dwarren . . . the dwarren fell, crushed between the two forces—Maarten and the Legion on one side, the Alvritshai White Phalanx on the other. Bodies littered the field, were trampled as the armies pressed together. For a moment it appeared that the dwarren might hold, but then their wardrums shuddered through the air, signaling a retreat.

  “Maarten heard the order, but he’d be damned if the dwarren escaped him. He intended this battle to be the last. He intended the ages-long war among the three races to end, here, now, at the Escarpment, and so he spun his horse. But he was trapped at the forefront of the fray, his men so eager to fight that they’d blocked his retreat. So he bellowed to his son, Stephan, the heir to the throne of the eastern ports, his command heard over the clash of the battle, ‘They cannot be allowed to retreat! Stop them! This ends here!’

  “And young Stephan heard him. Not yet eighteen, still he brandished his sword, already slick with blood, and called, ‘Fellow Legion, follow me!’ He charged his steed to the eastern flank, even as the dwarren began to break away, as their gaezels began their unnaturally swift turns to head back to the vastness and safety of the plains. Hundreds followed the heir, but he fell on the first of the retreating dwarren himself, and he held them. He held them back so that the rest of his force could arrive to support him. He held them, and then he held the line. No! He advanced the line! He pushed the dwarren back into the Legion’s main force, back into the Alvritshai Phalanx. Desperation caused the dwarren to hold for long moments, their retreat severed, but then their lines began to waver. Taking advantage, Stephan shoved them farther back. Harried on the east by Stephan, on the north by the Alvritshai, and the south by the King, the only available escape for the dwarren was the west . . . where the cliffs of the Escarpment waited.

  “And that was where the combined armies forced the dwarren. They herded them like cattle, and as they were driven to the edge, the lower plains shadowed far below, the dwarren became frenzied. Step by slow step, they gave ground, their gaezels going mad, lethal horns skewering man and dwarren and Alvritshai indiscriminately, and still they were pressed back, Stephan and Maarten and Fedorem closing ranks. Step by slow step, the cursed dwarren—who’d hounded our every step onto the plains, who’d slaughtered entire trading parties, who’d returned the severed heads of the delegations sent to negotiate trade pacts between the races—those cursed dwarren were driven back, and back, and back . . .

  “Until they were driven off the edge of the Escarpment, to fall to their deaths below.”

  The entire room sighed with intense satisfaction, only faintly tinged with horror. Colin shuddered, the hatred of the dwarren in the room almost tangible. An unwavering hatred that crawled across his skin, as black as the spot on his arm, as sickening.

  And yet he understood that hatred, felt it himself, in his bones. Because of what the dwarren had done to the wagon trains, his own and the one they’d found near the underground river. They’d slaughtered everyone in that wagon train, herded them together and killed them—men, women, and children—with no mercy. They’d burned the wagons to the ground. They would have done the same to Colin’s group, would have succeeded if the Shadows hadn’t gotten to them first.

  He found his hand gripping the coin so hard th
e edges bit into his palm and he forced himself to relax. At the hearth, the storyteller let the vindictive murmurs rise, but he interrupted them before they could reach their height.

  “But that wasn’t the end. Not the end that Maarten envisioned anyway. Oh, no. Because even as the two forces—Alvritshai and men—stood at the cliffs, staring down into the shadow of the bluff, where the dwarren Riders lay in bloody, broken heaps, even as Maarten drew back from the edge and turned toward Tamaell Fedorem with a triumphant smile, the Alvritshai betrayed him.

  “Fedorem’s escort, his most trusted advisers, his closest lords, leaped forward, daggers raised. Stephan cried out, his shout heard across the battlefield, as the Alvritshai fell on the King. The heir tried to kick his steed forward, but he was restrained by his own men, even as a cry of outrage rose from the Legion. Before they could react, the Alvritshai Phalanx let loose a rain of arrows, cutting down hundreds in a single volley, catching the Legion unprepared. The group nearest to Maarten charged the attackers, and then both armies were engulfed in a melee—not a battle but a brawl—as the Legion tried to retrieve their fallen King’s body. Stephan tried to join them yet again, but he was hauled to safety by his own advisers, pulled off his horse out of sight of the Alvritshai archers and dragged to the back of the Legion as they retreated, Maarten’s body in tow.

  “It was a black day, a bitter day for the Provinces. We lost our King to betrayal, to the Alvritshai.” He whispered the name like a curse. “But it was a triumphant day as well, for the entire coast. For at his death, Maarten claimed the defeat of the dwarren Riders in his name, for his lineage.”