Leaves of Flame (57 page)

The Haessari glared at him, his strange eyes narrowing. His forked tongue flicked out to taste the air, his reptilian skin shiny beneath the sunlight, the black-­and-­tan patterns strangely enthralling.

With a suddenness that startled Colin, the folds of skin along both sides of the Haessari’s neck flared open, the undersides a pale yellow in color. The Snake’s jaws snapped wide as his head snaked forward to strike, two flesh-­colored fangs protruding, glistening with poison.

Colin reacted instinctively, jamming his staff up into the gaping mouth even as the strength of the strike shoved him backward. He tripped on one of the stones laid out before the fire pit and fell, the Snake landing heavily on top of him. His breath rushed from his lungs and he struggled to draw
another as the Snake tried to rear back, the staff caught behind his retractable fangs. Scaly hands grabbed the shaft of the staff and Colin realized the Haessari must have lost his sword when they fell. As the Snake tried to roll them, his weight lifting off Colin’s chest, Colin tucked his leg up into the space between them and shoved hard, letting his staff go.

The Snake fell away, still grappling with the staff, and Colin reached for the knife sheathed at his side. He rolled into a crouch at the Haessari’s side and shoved the dagger up under the snout, inside the flared hood. The Snake’s struggling ceased.

Spinning, Colin caught sight of the last Haessari as the Snake fell beneath Siobhaen’s blade from behind, the Snake too focused on defending himself from Eraeth. None of the other Haessari had flared their hoods, their bodies lying scattered around the fire pit. Breath heaving, Colin stood as both Eraeth and Siobhaen wheeled to face the next threat, only relaxing as they took stock of the situation. Neither one was breathing as hard as he was.

“Check and make certain they’re dead,” Colin said.

“I’ll do it.”

Siobhaen began moving from body to body. Eraeth cleaned his sword on one of the bodies before sheathing it. Colin turned to retrieve his staff. A few new nicks marred the surface of the wood. He wiped the Haessari’s saliva off of it with a piece of cloth ripped from the body, then began searching the dead.

Twenty minutes later, he rose, a vial of what appeared to be the Snake’s poison in one hand, but nothing else of interest. Siobhaen stood over the brace of rabbits and made a disgusted noise.

“What is it?” Eraeth asked.

“They’re not rabbits. They’re rats. The Snake People eat rats. Big rats. I hate them even more now.”

Eraeth shook his head and turned to Colin. “Anything of interest?”

“No.”

“They appear to be just another patrol, although a more permanent one. The fire pit isn’t new, and there’s plenty of wood stored in a niche in the cliff face over there.”

Colin grimaced. “Then we better get moving. There may be another patrol due here shortly.”

They left the bodies, retrieved their satchels, and entered the mouth of the eastern crevice, slipping into the cooler shadows between the cliffs. Siobhaen scouted ahead, motioning them forward at intervals, but there were no branching chasms, and few alcoves or niches where someone could hide.

Then, abruptly, they could see sunlight ahead and the end of the chasm. Siobhaen approached cautiously, crouching down as she neared the edge. After a long moment, she stood and motioned them forward.

When he saw what lay beyond, Colin found he couldn’t breathe.

Eraeth grew still and muttered, “Aielan’s Light.”

It was the remains of a city, only unlike any city Colin had ever seen and on a scale larger than any city within Alvritshai, human, or dwarren lands today, even the ancient ruins he’d seen in the northern wastes. The crumbled buildings stretched from the base of the small ledge the three stood upon as far as they could see in all directions, the red cliff face they stood against curving away to the north and south. The closest buildings had decayed the most and were mere piles of broken rock with only the barest impressions of edges were walls had once stood. But as Colin’s gaze traveled farther east, taking in the intricate and methodical system of roads, he noticed that more and more of the buildings had survived intact. The buildings increased in size as well, the ruins rising in height even as the land began to undulate
with low hills. Farther distant, muted and washed out by a thin haze, he could see other buildings more or less intact, or with upper stories collapsed inward.

“Look,” Siobhaen said, pointing with one hand. “There used to be rivers here.”

Colin followed her arm to where the land sloped gradually down to a dried-­out river basin cutting between the buildings. A second river joined it, just barely visible on the horizon. The buildings near the junction were the tallest, although it was obvious they had been taller once before. Towers—­like those in Terra’nor and the Ostraell, built by the Faelehgre ages past—­had once soared into the heavens. Most had been snapped off, their true heights lost in whatever cataclysm had destroyed the city ages past. The heat haze made them surreal, almost illusory.

“The Source is here,” Colin said. He didn’t need to sink into the earth to know. Whoever had built the city had created the Source. Or at least found the reservoir of Lifeblood and used it somehow. “They would have built it near their center of power, near the center of the city.”

Both of the Alvritshai turned toward the shattered towers.

“It looks to be a day distant, at least,” Eraeth said.

“And we’ll likely have to deal with the Snake People between here and there,” Siobhaen added. Her hand clenched on her cattan.

Colin glanced up toward the sky. The sun was behind the cliffs to their backs, keeping them in shadow. But there wasn’t much daylight left.

Without a word, he turned to where the ledge continued to their right, a path leading down the side of the cliff to the buildings below.

Horns blew, the clamor rising over the jarring clash of weapons and the screams of men dying. Gregson’s hand was
clenched on the pommel of his sword, his gut shrieking for him to draw the weapon and charge out toward the battle lines less than a hundred feet distant. The backs of the Legion defenses surged, men trying to shove forward toward the main line lost among the mass of bodies. Wounded were being dragged from the press, covered in blood, others missing arms or legs, some obviously on the verge of death, most bellowing in agony or sobbing, hands clutched to a side or head or an arm. A few were completely limp, feet gouging trails in the already trampled and muddy ground.

Not all of the men were wearing the armor of the Legion. Some were civilians like those Gregson had guarded on the flight south.

He glanced back at the bedraggled group that followed him, perhaps only thirty left, with another twenty-­five or so Legion. The group had scattered at the end of the Northward Ridge, over half retreating back the way they’d come. He didn’t know how they had fared. For those that had headed toward the Legion’s lines, the sprint to the cover of the hills had been costly, the Alvritshai decimating the group. It would have been worse if the Legion archers hadn’t been there to attack the Horde’s supply wagons and draw them away from those who hadn’t reached the tree line.

He turned back to the group that led them behind the army’s line—­the commander of the unit that had hit the supply wagons and two of his lieutenant commanders—­the rest of their unit behind the refugees, herding them along. Gregson and Terson had gathered those closest and headed south, only to have one of the unit’s archers catch up to them within an hour and order them southwest, toward the main battle. They’d followed the guide until joining up with his unit. The few remaining refugees had been relieved to be under the protection of the two hundred men, even though they were being escorted to where the fighting raged.

Gregson had been relieved as well, but even that couldn’t
cut through the reality of what he’d seen on the Northward Ridge, before the attack of that flying creature. The Legion was outnumbered and outclassed by the ferocity of the creatures that fought alongside the Alvritshai. If it had been only the Alvritshai, they might have had a chance, but he couldn’t see how they could hold out against the catlike creatures, the fliers, and the brute strength of the rock-­skinned giants.

But that wasn’t his concern. It was GreatLord Kobel’s.

Unconsciously, he looked toward the south, toward Temeritt, seeking a glance of the Autumn Tree for solace, although he wasn’t certain how much he could rely on the Tree any longer. The legends and hearthfire tales said that the Autumn Tree would protect them from the darkness, from the creatures of the shadows and the wraiths of the night. If the catlike creatures with the luminous eyes and the giants weren’t creatures of the night, he’d hate to imagine what would be worse.

He couldn’t see the Autumn Tree, though. They were still too distant.

The commander of the archers suddenly halted and turned, focusing on Gregson. “Lieutenant, I want you to leave your men here with the reserve forces for now, until we know what GreatLord Kobel wishes to do with them. I want you and your second to accompany me.”

Gregson nearly commented that these weren’t really his men, but the sharp crack of command in the man’s voice made him choke on the words and straighten, as if he were once again at the academy in Temeritt, in training for the Legion. The commander reminded him of many of his teachers from those days—­stocky, broad of shoulder, a more rounded face than typical, offset by dark hair heavy with gray and a sharp gaze. He estimated the man at nearly fifty, with the scars of life to prove he’d lived hard.

“Yes, sir.” He closed his hand into a fist across his chest
in formal salute, then snapped a glance toward Terson. He was suddenly aware of how dirty and shabby his dress and armor were from the weeks of hard travel.

As the commander turned away, giving out more orders to his own unit, Gregson turned to Curtis and Ricks, noting that Jayson stood behind them, listening intently. “Keep the men together. And tell Ara to make certain the civilians stay in a group as well.”

“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.