Well of Sorrows (83 page)
Authors: Benjamin Tate
He glanced at his own men and met Dharel’s eyes, Auvant’s, a few others. Dharel gave him a short nod, his expression tense, set and ready. All of House Rhyssal was ready. The breeze smelled of anticipation, of sweat and fear, of grass.
Drums sounded, and Aeren spun to see Harticur and a string of Riders sweeping down the length of the dwarren line. To the north, runners scattered from King Stephan’s escort, set a hundred paces in front of his own army. The throbbing pulse of the drums escalated, and the dwarren broke into a roar. The runners for the human army halted, unfurled their flags—red and black, cut diagonally across the rectangular field—and all along the line men voiced a battle cry.
And through it all, the Alvritshai horns sounded.
“So it begins,” Aeren said, so softly only Eraeth could hear. “Again.”
All three lines began to advance, the dwarren on their gaezels streaking forward, their drums a frenzy of sound now, pounding as the thunder of the gaezels’ hooves grew. The Alvritshai and humans advance more slowly, but as the lines drew closer together, the pace increased. The humans broke from their march to a trot. Their front line grew ragged as a few men surged forward, ahead of the rest.
“Steady!” Eraeth bellowed. “Hold!”
Aeren heard Thaedoren barking the same orders to his left, yet he found himself nudging his horse forward a little more, a little faster. He could feel the tension boiling in his blood, could feel it building.
On the field, the dwarren’s far edge swung inward, its center slowing. It struck the end of the human line—
And as if that contact had been a command, the rest of the humans surged forward. No longer contained, no longer making an attempt at control, they simply charged.
The two armies—dwarren and human—converged, crushing into each other, the connection speeding toward him. Sound filled Aeren’s head, a roaring of wind, a crash of thunder, and without thought he released his horse, released the sound inside his mind in a bellow. The lines folded in upon each other, closer and closer, until they struck the point of the vee, until there was nothing in Aeren’s field of vision except the human army, rushing toward him, eating up the churned mud and grass as they sprinted forward—
And then they struck, Alvritshai and human lines merging into one, and Aeren felt nothing but the wind and the clash of his cattan.
Moiran glanced up from where she knelt in her tent, needle poised, as the first of the Alvritshai horns cried out.
A shudder ran through her. She held still for a long moment, listening to the pealing notes, so calm and clear at first, then breaking, becoming more scattered, somehow more desperate, as the armies met. She imagined she could feel the earth trembling beneath her from the tread of thousands of feet. Or perhaps it trembled at the senselessness of it all, a shudder at the spill of blood, at the death.
Her heart quickened, its beat hard for a moment as she thought of Fedorem, of his body lying nearby, in another room. But she seized the threatening emotion, grasped it tight even as the tears began to burn at the corners of her eyes. She’d allowed herself to cry the night before, after tending the Lords of the Evant before their meeting and seeing to the needs of the wounded. She’d cried until her ribs ached, until she felt hollow and empty, until she thought there were no more tears, and then she’d cried more. All in solitude, in the confines of her tent, the White Phalanx Thaedoren had set to guard her dismissed. They hadn’t wanted to leave. She’d had to shout at them, nearly breaking at that point, her hands knotted in her dress. She thought it was her hands that had convinced them. Or perhaps it had been the pain in her voice.
She’d fallen into an exhausted sleep, so deep she hadn’t dreamed. But she’d woken early, dawn still an hour away.
Now the horns scattered even farther, no longer announcing orders to the entire army, focusing on their own Houses. She let her gaze drop to the pile of clothes she had begun to mend, to the shirt she held in her lap.
One of Fedorem’s shirts.
A hot liquid sensation filled her chest, and she let the hand with the needle drop to her lap, leaning her head forward, the pressure building in the back of her throat.
She’d almost given in to it when someone moaned.
Her head snapped up, breath caught, the grief lodging with a sharp pain in her chest. For a moment, hope flared as she thought the sound had come from Fedorem—even though she’d seen Fedorem’s body, had seen the gaping wound across his throat, knew that Fedorem lay too far away for her to hear him even if he weren’t already dead—
And then she realized it was the human. Colin. Shaeveran.
She tossed the shirt aside and lurched to her feet, moving to the human’s side.
She hovered uncertainly above him as his head rolled from one side to the other, his features etched in pain. When his eyelids began to flutter though, she knelt, reached for the wet rag sitting on a table nearby, next to a shallow basin and a stack of clean bandages. She dabbed at his sweaty forehead with the cool cloth.
His eyes flared open, the pupils dilating. He focused on her, one hand shooting upward to grab her wrist, his grip tight.
Then he lurched upright—
Except he didn’t make it. He tried, but a spasm of pain tore across his face and he gasped, collapsing back onto the pallet. His entire face went a grayish-white, and fresh sweat broke out on his skin, his hair already matted to his forehead.
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.”
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.
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