Leaves of Flame (18 page)

And then the Wraith stepped from the trees.

Colin’s heart leaped with a malice and hatred so fierce he half rose, resting his weight on one arm. He reached for his staff with the other, even as weakness passed down through his body in a wave. For a long moment, all he saw was Walter, the boy who had bullied him with his gang in the streets of Portstown, the man he had become in the forests of Ostraell as he drank from the Well and became a Wraith beneath the Shadows’ hands. Colin thrust himself up, using the staff as support, before sagging back against the lip of the Well as the Wraith advanced, flanked by the two remaining Shadows.

When the Wraith drew an Alvritshai cattan, Colin’s hatred faltered.

He blinked away his rage, caught himself. This wasn’t Walter. This was one of the other Wraiths, an Alvritshai by the weapon and the stance.Too tall to be human or dwarren.

But advancing steadily.

“What do we do?” Petraen shouted, an edge to his voice. He, Aeren’s remaining guardsman, and Boreaus were the closest.

“Retreat.You can’t fight them.Your cattans are useless,” Colin said, his voice unnaturally calm. “Only I can fight them.”

He turned and dipped his free hand into the Well, drank deeply, felt the power of the Lifeblood seethe through him even as he reached into his satchel, pulling forth the chain mail of the quickened knife. He shrugged out of the satchel, dropped it and the chain mail cloth to the ground as he stepped forward, out in front of Vaeren, Eraeth, and Aeren, knife in hand. Siobhaen had backed nearly to their position. She shot a glance toward him as he passed, her eyes wide with fear, but her jaw set.

“Hold them off,” she said softly. “Hold them off long enough for me to call Aielan’s Light.” Then she spun and sprinted back to the group around the Well.

“Petraen, Boreaus,” Vaeren shouted. “Fall back now!”

Eraeth repeated the order, Aeren’s guardsman answering immediately.

The two members of the Flame hesitated, the Wraith nearly upon them, the Shadows—all fi ve of them— spreading out to either side, beginning to encircle them. Only when Vaeren cursed did they relent, backing away sharply, their useless blades held out protectively before them.

Colin took their place, staff in one hand, the knife half-hidden in the other.

The Wraith halted. Like Walter in the parley tent at the Escarpment, it wore a cloak, the hood drawn up to conceal its face. But even as it began to speak, it reached up and drew the hood back.

Colin didn’t recognize the Alvritshai beneath. His pale skin was mottled with the same blackness that covered Colin’s arms, only much darker, writhing around his eyes and nose, across his angular cheeks and sharp jaw. His black hair was tied back with a length of cord.

“We knew you would come,” he said, his voice rumbling. “We waited for you. Outside. But you are too late. We are already moving, our armies already in motion. This is merely the removal of an . . . annoyance.”

He didn’t wait for an answer. With a single gesture, he motioned the five Shadows forward, even as he raised his cattan and swung, quicker than Colin had expected.

Colin caught the blade with the staff, crying out as he staggered backward beneath the blow, the wood unwieldy with only one hand; it was meant for a two-handed grip. But he didn’t dare drop the knife, even though he wasn’t certain it would work as he expected. As he blocked the Wraith’s first blow, he swung the knife out sideways, catching one of the Shadows across its center. His hand tingled with numbness, but he felt grim satisfaction as the wooden knife caught in the substance of the Shadow and ripped across its length. The Shadow screamed, the sound shattering the stillness, shivering beneath the skin, the tatters of its two halves falling backward to the ground like cloth as its death cry faded.

The sudden death caused the Wraith to pause in shock. Taking advantage, Colin shoved his blade aside and swung with the knife toward the Alvritshai’s throat.

The Wraith blurred, reappearing a step back, out of reach. “You have a new toy,” he spat, his voice no longer laced with confidence.

“And I intend to use it.”

Colin slowed time, even as he spun, bringing his staff up and around, catching one of the Shadows with its end as it reached for him, shoving the knife toward another. But the Shadows were created by the Lifeblood, were a part of its power. They sensed his movement, even with time slowed, and reacted, seething back out of reach. The staff caught one and flung it to the side unharmed, the knife blurring through nothing. But Colin was still moving, stepping to the side, swinging for the Alvritshai Wraith as he dodged beneath the fl owing blackness of the Shadows. The group whirled and danced, time slipping back and forth as each plied the powers of the Lifeblood in an effort to fi nd an advantage. The Shadows were restricted, only seeming to sense Colin’s movements as he slowed and sped up time; they couldn’t maneuver through it as he did. But the Wraith—

The Wraith was like him, touched by the Well yet not completely transformed. Colin blocked the Shadows with the staff as much as possible, tried to keep the knife in reserve for the Wraith as the Alvritshai blurred back and forth, his cattan flashing in the pulsating blue light of the Well.At the same time,Colin forced the group back toward the trees and away from Aeren and the others. He had no time to spare a glance in their direction, not with four Shadows and the Wraith dodging in and out of his defenses.

He found himself completely on the defensive. His strength was gone, drained by his search within the Well and by two nights of little sleep. The Lifeblood he’d drunk had sustained him so far, and he would pay the price for that, but the Wraith and the Shadows weren’t exhausted. They were merely wary of the knife, streaming away from his slashes as he fought. That wouldn’t last long.

He needed to end this. Now.

When one of the Shadows reached for him, he swung the staff up sharply, catching its folds and thrusting it up and out, ignoring the attack from another Shadow to the left. He could sense the Wraith coming in from the right, could feel the blade slicing through the air near his back. But instead of spinning away from it, toward the Shadow, he turned toward it.

The blade caught him in the side, sliced in deep, the pain instant, searing across his vision with a white haze. He screamed, felt blood gurgling at the back of his throat, but he drew the arm carrying the knife up and drove it down into the body of the Wraith he could barely see, drove it deep into the Alvritshai’s neck. The blade sliced cleanly through flesh, grazed the Wraith’s collarbone, skated across the bone’s ridge to the hollow below the throat, then slipped free.

The Wraith roared, staggering away, the cattan in Colin’s side pulling free with a jerk. Blood splashed across Colin’s face as he lost his balance and fell to his hands and knees. Pain shivered up his arms, lanced up his legs, but he held onto the knife, to his staff, his fingers crushed. His own hot blood sheeted down his side and dripped from his shirt, but he ignored it, thrust back onto his haunches, bringing the knife up with shaky arms.

The Wraith had staggered back, a ragged wound from the side of his neck to the bottom of his throat gushing blood between the hand clamped to it. He stared at Colin in horror, tried to speak, but couldn’t, the wound across his throat too severe. With his free hand, he brought his cattan up, then stumbled backward three more steps before collapsing, the cattan clattering to the stone.

Colin caught the flicker of the Shadows to either side, all four hanging back as if uncertain what they should do.

But then five more emerged from the trees and moved up onto the plaza.

Colin exhaled sharply, nearly sobbed. Dropping the staff, he reached to clamp a hand around the wound at his side, his body wavering where it stood. He had no strength left. He couldn’t even raise the arm that held the knife.

Behind, through the haze of pain and exhaustion that clouded his mind, he caught the soft drone of a chant as it reached its end. He frowned, the words vaguely familiar.

And then he remembered what Siobhaen had said.

He felt the power of Aielan’s Light shuddering through the earth beneath him, felt it rising upward. He gasped as it reached the surface and white fire bloomed from the stone, seething up in slow unfurling flames in a ring around the Well at Colin’s back. It hovered there, burning without any visible source, and then it began to advance.

Colin sucked in a harsh breath as it touched him, passed through him, closing his eyes as he felt it burn deep inside him, breaking down all of his defenses, searing away all of his pretensions, licking through his core, touching his heart, his soul, judging him. But he had experienced this once before, at the center of Aielan’s Light in the heart of the mountains beneath Caercaern. There, the fi re had been more intense, had consumed him completely. This was a mere shadow of that Light.

It passed on, left him behind as it advanced on the Shadows. They writhed, their forms flaring left and right in uncertainty.

Then the fire halted. Colin heard shouting from behind, heard Siobhaen cry out in a strained voice, “I can’t! I can barely hold it where it is now!”

And then a wave of nausea folded over him. He wavered, light-headed, tried to remain upright but couldn’t.

He slumped to the side, hit the stone with jarring force and rolled halfway onto his back, pain raging from his side. He screamed again.

Through the fog of pain, he heard more shouting, heard the scramble of feet. Faces loomed over him—Aeren, Eraeth, Petraen, others—and then they grabbed him by the arms and legs, hauled him upright with a wrench and dragged him back toward the Well. He could feel the pulse of the Lifeblood coursing through his body, sensed Aielan’s Light through the stone beneath him. His vision wavered in and out, a film of yellow passing over his eyes, throbbing with his heartbeat.

Voices. He blinked, found himself on the ground at the base of the Well. Aeren ripped his shirt away from his side, swore, barked to his only remaining Phalanx member, “Cloth! We need to staunch the wound!”

The guardsman scrambled for the packs. Eraeth stood over his lord, his blade drawn, his gaze cast outwards, his mouth pulled down in a dark, vicious frown.

His grip tightened on his cattan. “Don’t,” he said, his voice black with warning.“It isn’t yours.It was never yours.”

At the tone of his voice, Aeren’s remaining guardsman turned, then dropped the pack he held and drew his blade, stepping up on Colin’s other side.

Colin frowned in confusion—

And then gasped, a hollow of anger and disbelief opening up inside his chest, flowing outward, shoving away the haziness of the pain.

The knife. He’d dropped the knife.

Teeth gritted,he rolled onto his side,Aeren reaching out to support him with a sharp look. But he ignored the Alvritshai lord, glared instead toward Vaeren, the caitan of the Flame flanked on either side by Petraen and Boreaus, all three with cattans drawn, the quickened knife in Vaeren’s other hand. Neither Petraen nor Boreaus wore the easy, friendly grins Colin had seen around the campfires on their trek to the Well. Their faces were deadly serious, their eyes cold.

Siobhaen knelt to the left, near the Well, facing the white fire that still blazed in a circle around them all, the Shadows writhing back and forth along its length. Her face was slick with sweat, her hair plastered to her skin. Lines of strain etched her eyes and cheekbones, turned down the corners of her mouth.

“It was never his either,” Vaeren said, holding the knife carefully.His gaze shot toward Colin.“It belongs to the Order.”

“To Lotaern, you mean,” Colin said.

“To all Alvritshai! It can help us destroy the Shadows, the Wraiths. That is how Lotaern intends to use it. He should never have let you keep it, never have let you take it from the Sanctuary and risk losing it to them.”

“Lotaern will not use it for the good of the Alvritshai,” Aeren said,his voice calm.“He will use it only to further his own purposes.”

Vaeren scowled. “And you would use it otherwise, Lord of the Evant? Forgive me if I feel better with it in the hands of the Order and the Flame.”

Petraen stepped forward with the chain mail cloth. Vaeren sheathed his cattan, taking the cloth and wrapping the knife quickly, tucking it into his satchel. Eraeth made a move forward, but Petraen and Boreaus followed suit, halting him before he’d managed a single step. He growled low in his throat.

Vaeren smirked,drawing his cattan again.“Siobhaen,let the Light go. It’s time to leave.”

There was a moment of silence, and then Siobhaen said, “No.”

Vaeren shot her a dark look. “Let it go! We have the knife, and Shaeveran’s staff. We can fend off the sukrael ourselves.”

Siobhaen glared. “But they can’t.” When Vaeren merely straightened, she added, “He is Shaeveran. He risked his life for us at the Escarpment, he has protected us since then, provided us with the Winter Tree, fought for us here, and he is no condition to protect himself or the others now.
I will not leave them to the sukrael
.”

Vaeren’s eyes narrowed as the two stared at each other and the silence stretched.

Then Vaeren scowled.“Petraen,Boreaus,we’re leaving.” He motioned to the two, Petraen shooting Siobhaen an uncertain glance, but the three backed away, eyeing Eraeth and the other guardsman warily as they did so. When they were twenty paces distant, they turned and raced along the edge of the ring of white fire.

Siobhaen’s shoulders slumped, but the determination in her face did not fade.

“Should we follow them?” Eraeth asked tersely. His hand flexed on the handle of his cattan.

Aeren looked down at Colin.

“No,” Colin rasped, allowing Aeren to lay him onto his back again. “Let them go.”

“But the knife—” Eraeth began.

“I can get it back!” Colin choked on blood at the force behind the words, at the anger that seethed in his chest. In a quieter voice,he added,“Lotaern won’t hold the knife for long. He knows this. I can take it whenever I wish.”

“Not if you don’t recover,” Aeren said harshly. He motioned toward the guardsman, who resheathed his blade and grabbed the pack again. He drew out clothing, Aeren picking through it, stuffing a shirt to Colin’s side and pressing hard.