Leaves of Flame (50 page)

He swore.

A sense of vertigo enveloped him, the world tilting beneath him, uncontrolled. His heart quickened, hammering in his chest, blood rushing in his ears. Nausea washed through him and he sank into a crouch, one hand reaching for the ground for support, to halt the dizziness. He sucked in a sharp breath. Everything was happening too fast, too many factors in play, some of them he wasn’t even aware of. He couldn’t control them all, couldn’t be here, be with the
dwarren, be facing whatever the Wraiths were doing in the south, all at the same time, even with the powers of the Well coursing through him. He couldn’t send word to King Justinian in Corsair, or to Theadoren in Caercaern—­not in time to aid the dwarren against this threat.

He dug his hands into the rocky soil, ground the stones into his knees where he knelt, using the pain to push the vertigo aside and seize control again. He managed to retain his grip on time as well, holding it tight. The world steadied around him, the sense of being overwhelmed retreating.

When he felt stable again, he pushed up from his crouch and stood, glancing around at the army of exiled Alvritshai one last time before pushing on. He couldn’t warn the dwarren, or even the human Provinces, couldn’t summon them help. But he could determine exactly what they faced, what he might face once he reached the Source.

Then he’d return to Eraeth and Siobhaen and gather their horses and get as far from this army as possible, even if they had to travel at night. They’d have to risk it.

Because suddenly time weighed heavily on Colin’s shoulders.

“G
REGSON!”

Jayson jerked up out of his half-­sleep in the saddle at the shout, to see two of the Legionnaires who’d been sent out slightly ahead of the column of refugees charging down the road on their horses. Gregson rode at the front, with Terson and a small entourage of Legion. Behind walked the survivors of the attack on Cobble Kill and nearly a hundred other refugees that had joined them as they fled toward Patron’s Merge. Some were farmers and others who lived outside of Cobble Kill, driven out by the Alvritshai army, but others had come from outlying villages in the surrounding area, like Gray’s Kill. Jayson scanned the group of ragged and weary people, shaking off his own grogginess from the last week of slow travel as he searched for Corim. He found the youth—­he could no longer think of him as a boy—­with Ara, both of them trudging along at the edge of the hundred and fifty men, women, and children Gregson and the Legion had taken under their wing. Two lone carts, pulled by workhorses, trailed behind, reserved for whatever food and supplies they’d managed to scavenge from isolated farms and cottages along the way. Not all of those they found joined the group, and some who had started with them had split and gone off on their own
after arguing with Gregson or the Legion, or simply because they wanted to find missing family members. A few had deserted during the night. But more stayed than left, others joining them in ones and twos the farther south they traveled. Jayson had heard Gregson wondering why, speaking to his second, Terson. The Legionnaire lieutenant didn’t seem to realize that they stayed because of him, because of the strength and stability he represented. Even the bandages he still wore from wounds taken at Cobble Kill were a sign of his strength.

The refugees brought with them little except stories of death and despair, each questioned intently by Gregson or Terson as they arrived, both Legionnaires desperate to find out what was happening. As far as Jayson could ascertain, nearly every village and town of any reasonable size north of the river called Patron’s Kill had been attacked, and the army—­composed mostly of Alvritshai warriors dressed in black and gold bearing an Eagle’s Talon mark—­was moving steadily southward, although at a slow enough pace their group had managed to keep ahead of it. They had creatures of every sort with them—­the lantern-­eyed cats that had attacked Gray’s Kill, the gray-­skinned giants like the one they’d encountered in Cobble Kill, leathery-­winged birds, among others—­all marching in a ragged line toward Temeritt, ransacking and burning everything they did not need behind them, reminiscent of the tales everyone had been told as children. Tales meant to frighten and keep those children obedient, or to entertain the adults around the hearthfire at night after the children had gone to bed.

Now those tales had come horribly to life and Jayson had begun to wonder what other stories from his childhood he should be worried about. Old superstitions suddenly weren’t easy to scoff at, the fear of the black creatures that had driven them out of their homes settling over them all like a disease. Jayson could see it in the eyes of everyone
who’d joined them. Faces lined with despair, haggard with desperation. The refugees had already started calling the army the Horde, a name that sent a chill through Jayson every time he heard it.

Yet something in him had changed in Cobble Kill. The despair he saw on everyone else’s face hadn’t affected him in the same way. They looked battered and defeated, shuffling forward toward what they hoped would be a refuge, a haven from the devastation.

Jayson knew better now. He’d fled to Cobble Kill with the same expectation, that once he arrived the Legion would take care of everything and he could go back to being a miller, could reshape his life somehow. What he’d found was that Cobble Kill was no haven and that the threat was larger than anything he could have anticipated.

The Legion—­at least, the small outposts and garrisons that dotted the Province along the dwarren border and the Flats—­couldn’t handle the Horde. They needed help.

They needed GreatLord Kobel.

And he wasn’t even certain the GreatLord knew of the attacks yet. Gregson had sent three Legionnaires ahead of them to warn Patron’s Merge, but no one knew if they’d arrived safely to deliver the message. They hadn’t met any of the Horde on the road so far, had managed to stay ahead of their line, or at least out of its path. In the end, they were moving blindly toward Temeritt, without any guarantee that GreatLord Kobel would be able to help them.

Ara looked up at that moment, her lined face grim, and met Jayson’s gaze, startling him out of his thoughts. He straightened in his saddle. The tavern keeper glanced ­toward Corim at her side, then gave Jayson a questioning look. He shook his head. Reassured that Corim was safe, he checked the rest of the refugees and the men on horseback that hemmed them in on both sides of the road, then turned back toward the front of the line.

Gregson and Terson had ridden out to meet the two returning scouts. Their faces were edged with tension. One of the scouts pointed toward the distance and Jayson involuntarily glanced upward.

Something clutched at Jayson’s heart—­the despair that the anger and realization in Cobble Kill had shoved aside—­and he swore under his breath.

“What is it?”

Jayson jumped at the voice, looked down to find Ara and Corim standing beside him now. She brushed aside some strands of hair that had come loose from the cloth she’d used to tie it back, then turned to see what had caught Jayson’s attention.

The tired smile on her face went slack when she saw the black smoke that rose above the trees. Jayson felt an urge to shield Corim from the same reaction, but knew that it was pointless. He would see the smoke eventually.

And he did, his breath sucked in sharply in response. Jayson was shocked to see the despair that widened his eyes briefly flare into sudden anger, his apprentice’s hands unconsciously squeezing into fists at his sides.

“Is it Patron’s Merge?” Ara asked, her voice strangely lifeless.

“I don’t know,” Jayson said, “but I think we’re going to find out.”

The refugees had caught up to where Gregson and the others had conferred. The lieutenant of the Legion was still in deep conversation with the two scouts, both nodding or shaking their heads and pointing to the east and west. As the column slowed to a halt, the rest of its members began to notice the smoke as well, now darker and spread farther out. It had reached the upper winds, which meant that it was more distant than Jayson had first thought. He relaxed a little, even as the rest of the column’s tension heightened. People began to murmur and point, their voices edged and
brittle. The days of traveling with little food and restless sleep were beginning to take their toll.

One of the other men, a blacksmith, suddenly called out, “What are we stopping for? Is the smoke from Patron’s Merge?”

Most of the refugees fell silent, waiting for Gregson’s answer.

Gregson shifted uncomfortably in his saddle, shot his scouts a quick look, then sighed wearily and turned his horse to face the rest of the group. He drew himself up and said bluntly, “Patron’s Merge burns.”

Nearly all except the Legion gasped, clutching loved ones close, their eyes darting to the faces around them and out into the surrounding trees lining the road, faces lined with panic. Corim turned to Jayson, his jaw clenched, mouth pressed into a hard, determined line. Ara had dropped her head, shoulders rigid. He heard her muttering a prayer to Diermani under her breath, the words curt.

“What do we do now?” the blacksmith suddenly shouted. A few of the others joined him.

As if he’d been waiting for it, Gregson answered immediately. “According to the scouts, the Horde that’s hit Patron’s Merge has come from the east. There aren’t as many towns and villages out there, and they’re easier to find. They aren’t nestled in the broken rocks and forest like they are here beneath the edge of the Escarpment. That means they moved faster than the line of Horde that’s behind us.”

“How do you know the Horde is still behind us?” someone cried out. “What if they’re in front of us? What if we’re walking right into them?” His voice escalated on the last question.

Gregson cut him off before he could fall into an all-­out rant. “Because my scouts are watching the main roads! If the Horde is making its way south, they’d have to use those roads, especially the Alvritshai with their horses. The land is
too rugged, with too many clefts and gorges and streams for them to travel quickly on any other route.”

This appeared to quiet those who were on the verge of panic, although the worried grumbling and fearful glances didn’t stop.

Gregson waited a moment, then drew in a deep breath to steady himself. “Since we can’t find safety at Patron’s Merge, we’re going to head directly toward Temeritt, as swiftly as possible. There’s a crossroads ahead. We’ll take the western road and try to bypass Patron’s Merge and the Horde that surrounds it. I need everyone to pick up the pace.”

The lieutenant turned his back on the bevy of groans, but the refugees began reorganizing, mothers and fathers picking up children, some of the wounded men on horses pulling the youngsters into the saddle before them. A few shouldered their packs, those that hadn’t dropped them days past when they became too heavy to bear. Two elderly women were already driving the cart that carried some of the younger children. The rest of the children were old enough to continue on foot.

Gregson whistled and the group began to move again, at about twice the pace they’d been going before, but not fast enough for the horses to break out into a trot. The two scouts galloped on ahead, vanishing around a bend in the road.

Terson cantered back along the line, pausing at each of the mounted guards to issue orders. When he reached Jayson, he said, “Keep alert. We don’t know how far out the Horde has scouts. Be ready for anything.” His gaze dropped meaningfully to the sword strapped awkwardly at Jayson’s side, before he rode off to the next man.

Jayson’s hand dropped to the sheath and he swallowed back sudden nausea. He hadn’t had the sword out since Cobble Kill. He wasn’t certain he wanted to ever draw it again, yet knew that he would.

“You need to learn to use it,” Ara said abruptly and gave him a flat stare. “If you really want to protect us. Protect him.” Her head tilted toward Corim. “I can’t be patching you up every time you nick yourself in battle.”

Jayson felt his face flush.

They reached the crossroads and turned west.

An hour later, through a break in the trees, they caught sight of Patron’s Merge.

Built on an island formed at the junction of Patron’s Kill with the Silt River, its walls soared from the water to a height of thirty feet, two stone bridges connecting the island to the main shores on either side, the middle of each bridge wooden so they could be drawn up for protection. A third bridge joined the island to the land between the two rivers to the west. Two main towers rose from the massive city huddled within those walls, the highest on the southeastern point, the second near the center of the island, part of the stone church to Holy Diermani judging by the tilted cross at the top. The city was at least twenty times the size of Cobble Kill, but from their vantage on a ridge overlooking the lands that sloped down to the river valley, Jayson couldn’t see the houses and shops crammed in between the streets and walls within. The city was too distant. He couldn’t imagine living in such close quarters, with neighbors within spitting distance, or perhaps sharing the same buildings.