Well of Sorrows

by Benjamin Tate

  The grip on Moiran’s arm relaxed, although he didn’t let go.

  Sucking in a ragged breath, he murmured, “Aeren?”

  Moiran shifted, took his hand from her wrist and laid it across his chest, noticing a blossom of blood seeping through the bandage with a frown. The water of the ruanavriell had stopped the flow of blood the day before, but its power had waned . . . or been neutralized somehow. “On the battlefield at the Escarpment,” she said quietly, wetting the cloth again and drawing it across his face. “Can’t you hear it?”

  He stilled. Moiran sat back, let the distant echoes of the battle wash over her, until she saw a subtle change in Colin’s eyes, a deepening, a hint of regret. “He couldn’t stop it,” he whispered.

  It wasn’t a question, but Moiran answered anyway. “Nothing could stop it, not after Fedorem’s death.”

  Colin looked up at her, somehow exposed. She could see everything in his eyes: his compassion, his fear, his pain. Not the wound he’d suffered to save Aeren and Thaedoren. She saw a deeper wound, one that had scarred him, the loss of a loved one.

  And she saw something else as well. She saw his humanness, his darker skin, his rounded face, the brown of his hair and the darkness of his eyes.

  Yet he was not human. She had only to look down at his arm, at the exposed darkness that swirled beneath his skin. She need only recall the knife that had been driven into his chest, a wound that should have killed him.

  “I have to help him,” he said.

  She frowned. “Why?”

  The question seemed to surprise him. “Because . . .”

  When he didn’t continue, she leaned forward. “Why do you need to help him? Why have you helped him, helped us? He is Alvritshai; you are human. There has always been a rift between us.”

  “Not . . . always.” He winced as he tried to move.

  Moiran snorted and wet her rag again, frowning as she noted the seepage of blood on his bandage had spread, no longer a few spots, but a circle the size of her thumb, its center a deep, dark red. “Always,” she said.

  He shook his head. “Not at first. Not on the plains.” His voice was soft, his thoughts elsewhere.

  She let him reminisce for a moment, then returned to the original question. “Why are you with him? Why do you follow him?”

  He drew himself out of memory, stared at her a long moment, then said simply, “He’s all that I have left.”

  She paused in her ministrations, pulled back. His answer was unexpected, and she found she didn’t know what to say, didn’t even really understand it.

  He sensed it, and his eyes went hard. Struggling to sit up again, he repeated, “I need to help him.”

  She set her hand firmly against his chest and pushed him down. “No, you don’t. Both sides want blood—for the death of Maarten and for Fedorem. They intend to get it, no matter the cost. There’s nothing you can do.”

  “But—”

  “No! One man—one human—will not affect the outcome of the battle! There’s nothing you can do to help!” They glared at each other, her hand still pressed into his chest.

  When Colin’s gaze didn’t waver, she leaned forward. “You’re hurt. You can barely lift yourself off of the pallet, let alone rush off into a fight.”

  Resignation flickered through the intent in his eyes.

  But within the space of a breath, the determination returned.

  “Find Eraeth,” he said.

  “What?”

  “Find Eraeth, Lord Aeren’s Protector,” he growled.

  Moiran leaned back, suspicious. But when she removed her hand and he didn’t move, didn’t try to roll onto his side or lift his chest, she stood and walked toward the tent’s entrance.

  The White Phalanx set to guard her and the Tamaell’s body turned the moment she stepped outside. “Tamaea?”

  She shook her head and went to the chamber where she’d slept the night before, to her satchel. The cloth-wrapped vial Eraeth had given her, along with the knife that had been pulled from Colin’s chest, rested on top.

  She unwrapped the vial and stared down at the clear liquid inside.

  The sound of battle raged outside, louder here, more distinct. And harsh.

  The first thing Aeren noticed, within moments of the three armies colliding, was that the Legion had changed.

  The day before, he’d seen the cold desire in their faces, the need to kill, to take revenge against the Alvritshai demons that had broken their alliance with their King and then slaughtered him on this very land. He’d seen the intent in their eyes, had seen the rage. But it had all been leashed then.

  It wasn’t leashed now.

  The Legion struck in a frenzy of hatred, the men breaking ranks, throwing themselves upon the Alvritshai, screaming, howling, blades flashing downward, a hint of madness in their eyes. Aeren saw the first of his own House Phalanx fall, saw the first blood spray outward from a severed arm, the Alvritshai shrieking, hand clamped to the wound, even as the man who’d loped the limb off bowled past him, sword already cutting across another Alvritshai’s chest. Aeren fixated on him, on his silvered beard, on the scars cutting down along his cheek, etched in white, on the glint of gold in one ear, on the crazed green eyes. As more Alvritshai fell—to this man, to the hundred others behind him—Aeren kicked his horse forward, brought it sideways into the space left by another of the fallen, and stabbed the man through the neck.

  He met the man’s gaze. He saw the madness, the whites of the eyes, as blood poured from his neck. And underneath the madness he saw the haunted soul beneath, a soul tortured by what had happened here over thirty years before, what he had seen on this battlefield when he had been barely old enough to shave.

  Then the life in those eyes faded.

  What he’d seen sent a shock through Aeren’s heart. He’d discounted the emotions of the Legion, the emotions of those that had been here before. He’d thought those emotions would have dulled over time. That was why he’d approached their King in the first place, why he’d gone to Corsair and the Needle and proposed a peace treaty.

  But Lotaern was right. The humans hadn’t come to the plains to protect their lands from a threat that didn’t exist. They’d come to provoke a fight, to draw the Alvritshai here.

  They’d come for revenge.

  King Stephan had reined that rage in, had controlled it. But not anymore.

  Aeren glanced toward where the King fought against the Tamaell Presumptive’s forces, the Legion and his own Phalanx jostling around him. His horse snorted and shifted away. All along the line, north and south, he saw the hatred, felt it, the raw emotion sending the Legion into the Alvritshai forces with reckless abandon. Men were dying on Alvirtshai blades due to that recklessness, but the Legion had men to spare.

  The humans were going to overwhelm them, it was only a matter of time.

  He glanced up at the sun, then back down to the Legion immediately before him, to their faces, to their eyes, to their contorted features and gritted teeth as they surged forward, meeting the Alvritshai resistance—

  And Aeren felt his own anger building. These were the men who had killed his brother. He’d held his brother’s head in his hands on these fields, had listened to his brother choke out his last words, the hilt of a cattan pressed unwillingly into his bloody palm.

  Aeren let the image grow his mind, let it consume him, then drove forward.

  And the world faded into a collage of images, of bloody, screaming faces, of bodies pressing against the flanks of his horse, hands scrabbling at his legs, trying to pull him down, swords and daggers flashing in the sunlight. The outside world faded, everything centered on this one stretch of land, on this one struggle. He stabbed down at those hands trying to pull him free, drew blood, kicked at the bodies with his boots, slapped armor with the flat of his cattan and sank it deep into flesh at every opportunity. At one point, a man drove a dagger into his thigh. Aeren hissed air between his teeth at the pain, punched the hilt of his sword into the man’
s face, felt bones crunch, blood and snot coating his fingers before the man stumbled back howling, his face nearly unrecognizable. Reaching down, Aeren yanked the dagger free, gasping as the pain flared, then drove the dagger into another man’s back, Eraeth skewering him from the front as he arched backward.

  He met Eraeth’s eyes, saw the question there, but shook his head and turned, already shoving the pain back, knowing he couldn’t stop, not for such a wound. And without thought he cried out Aielan’s name, Eraeth joining him, the battle cry spreading down the Alvritshai lines. They’d been driven back by the fierceness of the Legion’s attack, had given ground, but with that cry the Alvritshai pressed forward, the lines shifting. Aeren’s group surged forward, ahead of the Tamaell Presumptive’s line to the left and Lord Jydell’s to the right, bulging outward. Jydell’s House rallied, keeping the lines connected, but with a collective cry of triumph, the Legion on the Tamaell Presumptive’s side broke through, creating a gap.

  Legion poured into the gap, fanning out, hitting Aeren’s and Thaedoren’s lines from behind.

  “Fall back!” Aeren shouted. “Fall back and close the gap!”

  Horns blared—from the left, from behind, from two paces away—shattering the cacophony of the battle that had sunk into the background of Aeren’s mind. He winced as orders clashed on the air, but he couldn’t turn to look, to see whether anyone was reacting. He was too close to the front, nearly surrounded by the Legion, the men packed too closely together to effectively use their swords. They were howling, spit flecking their beards, and their free hands reached upward, caught hold of Aeren’s legs, his horse’s bridle, snagged the reins and his shirt, yanking him downward. He beat at them, dug his heels into his horse’s flank, felt the animal try to leap forward, felt the muscles flexing beneath him, felt the animal beginning to panic. It screamed, eyes wide, head tossing, but there were too many men, too many hands tugging, pulling, pushing. Slashing out in desperation, he felt his sword clang against armor, snag in cloth, sink into flesh, but he felt himself tip, the saddle loose beneath him. He began to fall. The world skewed, raving faces replaced by wide open sky. Hands grappled with him, drawing him down. He tasted bile, felt his heart shuddering in his chest, felt armor dig into his side as he tried to kick his feet free of the stirrups.

  In a vividly clear moment, he found himself marveling at the position of the sun. Hours had passed. It was early afternoon.

  And then his horse reared, feet kicking, mane flaring in that afternoon sun as it threw Aeren from its back. He felt one foot tangle in the stirrup, wrenching his leg—the one that had been stabbed earlier—upward and to the side as he fell. New pain seared through his hip, and then he struck the ground, the breath knocked from him. He twisted, foot still caught, slammed his cattan into the muddy ground for balance, tried to bring himself onto his elbows. As his body turned, he saw a sword drive upward into his horse’s chest, sink in deep.

  The horse screamed—a raw, tortured sound that pierced Aeren’s gut.

  Then the animal sagged to the side, began to collapse.

  Aeren’s foot wrenched free, and he lost his precarious balance, his face slamming down into the mud. A bootheel pressed into the ground beside him and he rolled, caught someone else behind the knees, felt that person stumble, but he couldn’t see, half blinded by mud caked to his face.

  The earth beneath him shuddered as the horse’s body hit. Men screamed, one or two voices cut off as they were crushed. Aeren scrambled backward on his ass, kicking his feet, using his elbows, trying to escape being trampled—

  And then a hand—half-glimpsed—reached down, fingers digging into his shirt, into the edge of his armor, and hauled him up.

  He staggered into Eraeth, his Protector’s face a contorted mix of fear, determination, and anger. He dragged Aeren back, plowing through the press of men, Rhyssal House Phalanx breaking to let them through when they saw who Eraeth led. Aeren’s leg twisted, and he hissed, tried to keep his weight off it, and then they broke through the back of the main force. Eraeth hauled him twenty paces farther across the churned mud of the flat and halted.

  Aeren pulled himself upright, using Eraeth for support, then spat mud from his mouth, fingers pulling a clump of mud from his right eye. “Eraeth.” Eraeth’s eyes narrowed, but before he could say anything, Aeren asked, “What’s happened?”

  “Our line is crumbling.”

  Aeren swore.

  He’d broken formation. He’d called on Aielan’s Light.

  Eraeth must have seen the despair in Aeren’s eyes. “Not just here. It’s broken in at least three places. Stephan called in more men, fresh men.”

  “The Duvoraen?”

  “They’re split, trying to hold in two places, here and near Lord Waerren.”

  “Waerren! He was on the dwarren front! Have the dwarren broken through?”

  Eraeth shook his head. “They’ve realized the Legion is out for Alvritshai blood, not dwarren. They withdrew, back to a defensive line, nearly two hours ago.”

  Aeren swore again. Clearing the last of the mud from his eye, he spun, oriented himself in the general chaos, saw the Alvritshai line in tatters, the Legion swarming over them all—

  And then his gaze fell on the blazing white tabards of the Order of the Flame, still standing in tight formation in reserve.

  “Lotaern,” Aeren whispered. He watched the Order silently for a moment, then added, “Why doesn’t he do anything?”

  And at that moment, he saw Lotaern, Chosen of the Order, raise both hands to the sky.

  Colin lay in the dim light of the Tamaell’s tent and tried not to writhe in agony. His entire chest hurt, an ache that went deep inside his lungs, deeper still, and it throbbed with every slow pulse of his blood. Each breath, no matter how shallow, brought the pain to the fore, so that it felt as if he were lying on waves on the ocean, the pain swelling, then fading, rising and falling, like a ship at sea.

  But the pain never fell far.

  He knew he shouldn’t be awake. When he’d tried to kill himself in the forest, when he’d driven the knife into his heart, he hadn’t woken for days. Something had drawn him up out of sleep. He just didn’t know what.

  He frowned up at the ceiling of the tent, undulating in the wind, and tried to focus, to pull his mind away from the pain. But it was too intense. He couldn’t shove it aside, couldn’t ignore it. Yet even through the pain he could sense something. A shift, a tingling in his skin, not the prickling sensation he’d felt before Walter had appeared and slit the Tamaell’s throat, but close. That had felt like a breeze, as if someone had just walked past him, someone he couldn’t see.

  This tingling came from everywhere, seemed to be seeping up from the earth beneath him.

  He concentrated, let the sensation course over him, hoping it would dull the pain, but then Moiran returned. Alone.

  She carried something in her hand, her face fixed in a bleak frown.

  “Where’s Eraeth?” he asked, still shocked at how weak his voice sounded. Exhaustion lay just beneath the pain. He’d felt it when he’d tried to lift himself upright, when he’d tried to leave.

  Moiran hesitated, then moved closer. “He’s on the field, with Lord Aeren, acting as his Protector. It is his place. It’s where he should be.” She stood over him, watched his face intently. “Why?”

  Colin tried not to grimace. “He has something that I need.”

  “What?”

  He turned toward her, searched her face. “A vial. It . . . would help heal me.”

  “Is it the Blood of Aielan?” When Colin frowned in confusion, she added, “The water of the ruanavriell.”

  Settling back, Colin shook his head. “No. This is . . . more powerful. More dangerous. I’m not even certain Eraeth would agree to give it to me.”

  Moiran watched him a long moment, then sighed and put what was in her hand on his chest. “He said that if you asked, I was to give you this.”

  Colin breathed in deep, could smell the Lifeblood
now: wet earth and dead leaves, musky and sharp. He should have noticed it earlier, when Moiran arrived, but its scent had mingled with the strange prickling sensation coursing upward from the ground. But now the scent hung heavy, dug deep into his gut.

  He raised his left arm, halted when he saw the swirl of darkness beneath the bared skin, the marks darker than bruises. He shuddered, recalling the thick swirl of black on Walter’s face. His lips pressed together as he pulled the protective cloth away to reveal the tiny flask within.

  Moving slowly, carefully, he held the flask up to the light, peered into the clear liquid within, at what looked like water.

  He could feel it, could sense the power behind it, the presence. And as it always did, that presence woke a depthless ache in him, sent tremors of pain coursing down his arm. Need filled him, a need he’d fought in the long weeks after leaving the forest, a need that he thought he’d finally conquered when he handed the flask over to Eraeth to protect.

  He knew now that the need, the ache, would never go away, that he could bury it, but it would return as soon as he drew near the Lifeblood.

  “What is it?” Moiran asked.

  Colin turned, surprised to find her kneeling beside him. He hadn’t heard her move, too absorbed with the flask, with the power coursing through his arm, through his chest.

  Through his blood.

  “Open it,” he said, handing her the flask. He couldn’t open it himself, not with how tightly he’d sealed it, and not with one arm. He’d tried to lift the other, but the pain in his chest had been too harsh. “Open it carefully. Don’t spill any of it on yourself.”

  “Why not?” Moiran asked.

  “Because I don’t know what it will do to you.”

  She stared into his eyes, her own narrowing.

  Then she unsealed the cap. “What will it do to you?”

  “Heal me.” Which was a lie. It wouldn’t heal him, wouldn’t close the wound that bled in his chest, wouldn’t stitch skin and muscle and bone back together. That wasn’t the Lifeblood’s power.