Well of Sorrows (33 page)
Authors: Benjamin Tate
“There. Between us and the forest. They just rose up out of that dip.”
The guardsman sighed with relief, a sound that didn’t carry far at all.
“There are two more to the north,” Karen said. “They’re already headed toward us.”
Colin turned away from the east and the darkness of the forest, caught sight of the two wagons Karen had spotted—
And then someone behind them muttered, “Holy Diermani protect us. Look!”
Everyone spun to where one of the women in the group pointed to the west. The storm still raged on the horizon, the black clouds lit from within by lightning above, rain and the cloud’s darker shadow completely obscuring the plains below.
But as Colin watched, as the storm receded, something emerged from that shadow.
The dwarren. Thousands of them. Headed straight for the wagons. Fast.
The guardsman swore, and Colin felt his stomach clench tight.
“Barte!” the guardsman spat. The driver of the wagon leaned out from the side. “Get the damn wagon moving! Head toward the two wagons to the north! The dwarren are right behind us!”
Barte’s pudgy face turned toward the west, his eyes going wide as he caught sight of the dwarren army, and then he vanished, the wagon shaking as he dropped back into his seat. Colin heard him shout at the horses, and the wagon rolled forward, but slowly. Far too slowly. The horses had been worked almost to their limit.
The guardsman watched the wagon begin ambling down the far side of the ridge, glanced toward the other two wagons, then back toward the dwarren, and he swore again, more vehemently.
“Someone’s riding hard toward us from the other two wagons,” Karen said. She frowned as she squinted into the distance. “I think it’s your father, Colin. And Walter. The Alvritshai are right behind them on foot. I don’t see Arten.”
The guardsman kneed his horse and took off toward the figures, surging out ahead of them, his horse’s hooves kicking up clods of dirt behind him. Frowning, Colin grabbed Karen’s hand and said, “Come on.”
They ran forward, slipping in the wet grass on the steep slope, but they outpaced the wagon and the rest of those walking beside it. Ahead, the guardsman and the others met. The guardsman shook his head, pointed back over the ridge. Everyone turned in that direction, including the Alvritshai, faces grim, and then Colin and Karen were close enough to catch the conversation.
“—we can’t,” his father was saying. “The reason we’re headed toward you is there’s another dwarren force to the north. They’re converging here.”
“What about the Alvritshai?” Walter spat, his face dark. But even though his words were harsh, there was a look of desperation around his eyes.
Tom frowned. “They’re farther to the north, out of the dwarren’s path.”
For the first time, Colin noticed that Aeren and Eraeth had been joined by two other Alvritshai, both with bows strung and ready, their focus on the plains.
Looking at Aeren, whose gaze held his, the skin around his eyes tight with concern, Colin said, “Maybe we should join them. Maybe they can protect us.”
But his father was already shaking his head. “We can’t. We’ll never make it in time; the dwarren are too close. We’ll have to go east, take refuge in the forest, hope that the dwarren are more concerned with their own fight than with us.”
Aeren suddenly stepped forward, his gaze flicking back and forth between Colin and his father. “No. No trees.”
“Why not?”
Aeren turned his full attention on Tom with an intensity Colin hadn’t seen there before, even during their formal first meeting, when they’d shared food and drink. “No trees. Sukrael there.”
At the word sukrael, the other Alvritshai shifted, unsettled.
“Sukrael?”
Aeren motioned with his hands. “Sukrael,” he said in frustration, in impatience, then pointed to the ground. “Sukrael!”
Everyone looked to where Aeren pointed in confusion.
“He’s pointing to your shadow,” Karen said, hesitantly.
“What the hell does that mean?” Walter asked. Behind him, the two wagons they’d been escorting topped the rise and trundled down toward them.
“It doesn’t matter,” Tom said, his back straightening as he saw his wife at the head of the wagons, her eyes wide with fear. “We’re out of time.”
He began to turn, but Aeren’s hand suddenly latched onto his arm, held him in place, even though he sat on a horse. The other Alvritshai sucked in a sharp, stunned breath, their faces openly shocked, and Colin suddenly realized that none of the Alvritshai had ever touched any of them, had never gotten close enough except to hand over food. Now, Eraeth and the others took an uncertain step away from Aeren.
“No trees.”
The words hung in the tense air. The guardsman’s hand had fallen to his sword’s hilt. The other Alvritshai—those with bows nocked—had shifted, their shock at Aeren’s action gone now, their focus on the guardsman. The tableau held, Tom staring down into Aeren’s face. Colin couldn’t see what his father saw, but he’d heard the warning in Aeren’s voice, could see the cold, rigid tension emanating from the Alvritshai’s body.
And then Ana barked, “Tom! They’re right behind us!”
Tom slid out of Aeren’s grasp, and in a harsh voice, tinged with apology, he said, “We have no choice.”
He broke his gaze with Aeren, spun toward the two wagons. “Sam! Paul! Head toward the forest! The dwarren are right behind Colin’s group as well! The forest is our only chance!”
The wagons turned instantly, Ana pivoting to wave everyone on foot in that direction. People moaned, all of them looking as exhausted as Colin felt, wet and weary, but edged with fear.
The guardsman yanked his horse’s reins hard. “Barte!” he shouted. “Head west, head toward the forest!” But Barte couldn’t hear him. With a muttered curse, he sped off, his horse leaping forward as he dug in his heels.
Eraeth snorted, said something obviously derisive to Aeren’s back. Aeren’s face darkened, and he called something heated in reply, not even turning, something that made Eraeth bow his head in shame.
Tom turned, brow furrowed. Then he nodded in Aeren’s direction, ignoring the cold look Eraeth cast him. “Thank you. For everything.”
Aeren nodded in return.
Colin felt his father’s gaze fall on him, and something stabbed deep down into his gut at the despair he saw there. He’d never seen a look like that on his father’s face before. Not even in Portstown.
“Colin,” he said, his horse shifting closer, sensing its rider’s tension. “Stay with the others. Help them as best you can.”
It seemed he would say something more, but he shook his head instead. Then he and Walter spun their horses and rejoined the wagons. Overhead, the clouds began to clear completely, the gray sunlight strengthening to a late summer yellow, vibrant on the rain-washed grass all around. Colin felt it against his skin, felt it touch his hair, but he discovered it didn’t warm him. It should have, but it didn’t. Coldness had seeped into him—from the rain, the storm, the nightlong trek through the darkness—a coldness that penetrated deep, to his very bones. A coldness he’d seen in his father’s eyes.
Aeren looked toward him, stepped close and grabbed his shoulders, locked eyes with him. “No trees,” he said, adamantly, his hands tightening. And then, softly, sadly, “No trees.”
“No trees,” Colin repeated.
Aeren let his hands drop from Colin’s shoulders, reluctantly.
At his side, Karen shifted. “Colin.” One word. But Colin heard the terror in it, the need to move, to run.
“Let’s go,” he said, grabbing Karen’s hand, but refusing to look in her eyes. He didn’t want her to see what he’d seen in his father’s eyes, didn’t want her to feel as cold as he did.
They ran, back toward Barte and the wagon, now angled toward the dark line of the forest to their left, still shuddering down the slope of the ridge, the others scattered around it, all of them running, sprinting toward the safety of the forest. Colin glanced back over his shoulder, saw the Alvritshai standing alone on the plains, Eraeth trying to get Aeren to move, Aeren watching them retreat stoically, his expression troubled.
And then more movement caught his eye. Farther out on the plains, farther east, he saw the fifth wagon as it crested another ridge, silhouetted against the cloud-driven sky a moment before it plunged down the side of the slope toward them. Colin’s heart leaped, and he skidded to a halt and cried out. A wordless shout, cut off as Karen’s hand was wrenched from his own and they both stumbled to the grass.
“Colin!” Karen gasped, her breath harsh from running.
Colin ignored her, cupped his hands around his mouth as he bellowed, “The other wagon!” Ahead of them, the guardsman pulled his mount to a halt, frowning back at him, and Colin shouted, “It’s the other wagon!” as he turned and pointed.
The Alvritshai had vanished.
The sudden elation over seeing the other wagon died on Colin’s lips.
“Diermani’s balls,” he whispered to himself.
To the north, on the ridge to the right of the fifth wagon, the dwarren were spilling down the slope, riding their gaezels hard. A sudden cacophony of noise erupted from the dwarren as they spotted the wagon, a battle cry ripped from a thousand throats, threaded through with a sudden frenzy of drums, with the thunder of a thousand gaezel hooves and hundreds of dwarren feet pounding into the grassland as they charged. Colin couldn’t see any difference between this group of dwarren and the ones they’d run into near the underground river, not at this distance, but it didn’t matter. The group of dwarren that had attacked them appeared on the ridge to the southeast, raising their own battle cry and they charged down into the dip, the wagon trapped between them.
At his side, Karen gasped and scrambled to her feet. She tugged on his shoulder. “Colin, we have to go.” But Colin didn’t move, rooted to the spot in horror. He watched as the driver of the wagon realized the dwarren were close, watched as he lashed the horses, trying to get them to run faster. Those on foot were scattered to the sides and behind, running as fast as they possibly could, a few of the men out in front of the wagon itself. One of the women stumbled and fell, her shout faint with distance, almost lost in the thundering charge of the dwarren armies—
And then, like an ocean wave, the dwarren army to the north struck, the charging gaezels overrunning the wagon, smothering them, the people on foot lost instantly, trampled beneath a thousand hooves. The wagon remained in sight for another breath, but then the driver was pulled from his seat, the horses themselves cut down and dragged beneath the horrendous tide of dwarren. The hides that covered the wagon shuddered and jerked as the dwarren surged around it, and then gave way, the faint screams of children piercing the general roar on the plains.
Colin gasped, clutched at his chest as a searing ache exploded there. He almost fell to his knees, but Karen’s hand suddenly latched onto his upper arm, fingers digging into flesh.
In a voice that allowed no argument, she said, “Time to go, Colin.”
Colin stumbled as they began to run, staggered, but caught himself, Karen ending up a few steps ahead of him. Pain shot through his legs at the sudden exertion, but he forced more speed from them as the battle cries of both groups of dwarren escalated, gathering force and momentum, then breaking as behind him the two forces of charging gaezels met. The earth seemed to tremble beneath his feet, the very air to shudder, but he couldn’t tell for certain. He was moving too fast, the chill air rushing against his face, blotting out most of the sounds of the battle behind, his feet thudding into the earth, legs lashed by the grass. Karen began to outdistance him, and he saw the guardsman and the rest of those from the wagon charging toward the forest ahead, his father, Walter, and the other two wagons already close to the trees. The fourth wagon, closer to the forest, had halted and turned, lurching toward them from the right. He felt a pressure against his back, felt certain that the dwarren themselves were riding hard behind him, were close enough that any second he’d be overrun, smothered by their sheer numbers, like those who’d been with the fifth wagon. Tears streamed from his eyes, and air burned in his lungs. A sharp stitch began to burrow its way into his side—
And suddenly he realized the wagons ahead had halted, had turned so their sides faced outward protectively, the sharp line of the forest at their backs. Men were scrambling to get weapons, women yanking the children out of the wagon beds and ushering them behind the incomplete circle, near the forest. Colin saw Karen slow, come to a gasping halt, leaning against one of the wagons. He tried to slow down himself, his heart thundering in his chest . . . and tripped.
He spilled to the ground, hitting hard with one shoulder, his face smashing into the grass. He tasted damp stalks and dirt, spat them out as he rolled, coming to a stop near one of the wagon’s wheels.
He lay for a moment in the wet grass, felt the sun beating down on his back, then rolled to one side.
“Colin! Are you all right?”
Colin blinked up into Karen’s terrified face and nodded. “I’m fine,” he coughed, out of breath, his throat raw. He lurched into a sitting position, the stitch in his side flaring. “I need my sling.”
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