Well of Sorrows (68 page)
Authors: Benjamin Tate
After a lengthy pause, the shaman staring out at the passing storm to the east, he nodded as if satisfied, even though his ancient face was set into a black frown. In a strangely informal motion, he gestured for the clan chiefs to approach.
The gaezels leaped forward, Harticur in the lead, the other clan chiefs falling in behind, a huge cry rising from the rest of the dwarren as they sped past the banners, circling around the tent as the cries from the dwarren increased. The shaman watched in silence, although Aeren would have sworn he saw the old man roll his eyes in disgust, and then Harticur and the rest brought their gaezels to a halt in a small group before him, dismounting as the dwarren shouts trailed off.
Harticur approached the shaman, the other clan chiefs and Riders hanging back. Aeren picked out Garius, noticed that one of his Riders was his son, Shea. He didn’t recognize any of the other clan chiefs, but he’d never met with any of them personally. Garius ruled the lands closest to the Alvritshai and human borders; he was the only dwarren Aeren had ever dealt with. He’d only heard of Harticur.
Harticur bowed his head, and the shaman placed one hand on it in a strangely formal and somehow powerful gesture. Aeren could feel it. He couldn’t tell if any words were spoken, but Harticur looked up when the shaman removed his hand, and the shaman nodded.
Harticur stalked forward, the others following, and entered the tents, their pace subdued compared to the dramatic ride around the tents. They left their gaezels on the flat, a few of the Riders staying behind to watch over them.
When all the dwarren had entered the meeting tent behind Harticur, the shaman turned toward the Alvritshai gathered on the rise and motioned them forward.
Thaedoren’s shoulders tensed, and his horse sidestepped, picking up on his unease. Aeren felt his own stomach clench in apprehension.
“Let’s get this over with,” Thaedoren said, and nudged his horse forward.
“Not the best attitude,” Eraeth muttered, low enough only Aeren could hear, as he and Aeren started forward on their own mounts. The rest of the Alvritshai escort followed suit.
The Alvritshai didn’t circle the tent with their horses. Instead, they approached the shaman without a sound except the jangle of harness, the creak of leather, and the snorting of the animals. Thaedoren halted twenty paces from the shaman, and even though, mounted, the Alvritshai loomed over the much smaller dwarren, he stared up at them without a trace of fear. Thaedoren met the shaman’s eyes with a challenge, his posture edged in contempt, but when the shaman merely straightened, his expression hardening, Thaedoren relaxed and nodded with a hint of respect.
“Well met,” the Tamaell Presumptive said formally in dwarren. “I am Thaedoren Ormae Resue, Tamaell Presumptive of the Alvritshai. I have come to speak to the Gathering, on behalf of my father, the Tamaell Fedorem Arl Resue.”
The shaman registered brief surprise at his use of dwarren, but he recovered quickly, eyes narrowing as if he thought Thaedoren had offered some sort of verbal challenge with the gesture. “Harticur, Chief of the Red Sea Clan and Cochen of this Gathering, welcomes you.” Then, in the silence that followed, the shaman gave all those in the group a hard look, met each with his own eyes and held the gaze, passing swiftly from person to person.
When his gaze fell on Aeren, the lord felt something deep inside him shiver, for the shaman’s eyes were depthless and cold and powerful. He found he couldn’t look away, and he drew in a sharp breath and held it. For a moment, the shaman’s expression seemed strained, the wrinkles around his eyes tightening—
And then he let Aeren go, turning to look at Eraeth, before finally returning to Thaedoren. Aeren gasped, uncertain exactly what had happened. He wasn’t given time to think about it.
“Harticur waits for you inside the meeting hall,” the shaman said gruffly. “Enter.”
He motioned abruptly with the spear, as if he’d asked them to enter ages ago and didn’t understand why they hadn’t moved yet. Thaedoren dismounted, although Aeren saw him hesitate, as if he’d taken offense and had considered ending the meeting right there. As soon as he started moving, Aeren followed suit.
They left the horses with two Phalanx and entered the shade of the tent, the wind ruffling the edges of the entrance. Aeren could smell the dampness of the distant storm in the gust, bitter with cold, tasting like metal.
Then he ducked through the interior entrance behind Thaedoren, stepping into the meeting room. The seven dwarren clan chiefs and their escorts—two dwarren each—were already seated on the pillows around the large table. The hint of the winter storm was subsumed by the sweet incense of the dwarren lanterns, the interior already cloudy with drifting smoke. The room was warm but not yet stifling. Thaedoren had halted just inside the entrance, but before Aeren could adjust his breathing enough to speak, the Tamaell Presumptive moved stiffly forward and sat on the empty cushions near the entrance.
Aeren settled to Thaedoren’s right, Eraeth beside him. As he shifted to find a comfortable position, Aeren noted that the table would have seated many more, but the dwarren had spread everyone out evenly, a large space between each of the dwarren and their escorts, a larger separation between the dwarren and the Alvritshai. He also noted that the dwarren had unsheathed their swords—no longer than Alvritshai daggers—and set the naked blades before them on the table, the metal catching the occasional flicker of the lantern light.
Beside him, Thaedoren frowned at the swords. His gaze swept through the rest of the dwarren, most sitting with their backs rigid, arms crossed over their chests, watching the three Alvritshai with stern expressions.
Then, slowly, keeping his eyes on Harticur, seated directly across from him, he drew his own cattan, the blade coming free silently, and held it out before him.
The dwarren tensed. Aeren felt sweat break out in the palms of his hands, felt it begin to trickle down his back. Eraeth eased his own hand toward his blade.
Thaedoren twisted his wrist, so that the lantern light gleamed along his sword’s length . . . and then he set the blade down before him, mimicking what the dwarren had done.
“Do as I did,” Thaedoren said softly, never taking his eyes off Harticur’s scarred, angular face. The Cochen had obviously seen many battles, his nose broken at least twice.
Eraeth frowned, but when Aeren removed his blade—slowly, as Thaedoren had done—Eraeth did so as well, his reluctance clear. He shot the dwarren a warning glance as he withdrew his hand.
When all three Alvritshai blades rested on the table, Harticur inclined his head.
“Where,” he said in a rough, thickly accented but understandable Alvritshai, “is the Tamaell?”
Aeren closed his eyes, bowed his head, and prayed to Aielan.
Thaedoren straightened where he sat, drew in a deep breath, and began formally, “I have been sent—”
Harticur’s hand slammed down onto the thick wood of the table, making all of the swords rattle, the sound like a crack of thunder in the confines of the tent. A few of the dwarren escort flinched, but none of the chiefs moved a muscle.
“Where is the Tamaell?” Harticur repeated into the silence, his voice rising, losing some of its fluency as his anger grew. “Where are the Alvritshai? The Lords of the Evant, the White Phalanx, the wagons and horses that have desecrated our Lands? Where is the Tamaell!”
Thaedoren pulled back slightly from the tirade and regarded Harticur’s flushed face, his brow knit into a tight frown, his lips pulled thin. When it became clear that Harticur had finished, he shifted forward, and Aeren’s shoulders tensed.
“I have been sent,” Thaedoren began again, speaking slowly, his words biting, laced with anger, “by my father, the Tamaell, to extend to you his regrets. His intention was to meet with you here, to speak to you about the possibility of reconciliation. On the way here, a situation on the border with the human Provinces forced him to halt and reassess. He could not ignore the threat the Legion presents, so he has gone to meet it.
“He has sent me here to talk to you of reconciliation in his stead.”
Eraeth shot a glance at Aeren, but Aeren didn’t move; he kept his gaze locked on the table before him, on the glints of light on his own blade. He could feel the stress in the room, heavy and thick, like the lowering of clouds before a storm, as one of the other dwarren translated everything Thaedoren had said for the clan chiefs who did not speak Alvritshai. When the translator fell silent, the air trembled, stretched. The Tamaell had told him Thaedoren was here to voice his regrets. Aeren had not known that the Tamaell Presumptive intended to initiate the talks. He wondered briefly if that had been the Tamaell’s plan all along.
And then, imperceptibly, Harticur relaxed. The dwarren clan chiefs’ arms uncrossed as they leaned to whisper to each other. They spoke too low for Aeren to hear—he caught only a word or phrase here and there, all in dwarren. No one spoke to Harticur.
The Cochen broke his locked gaze with Thaedoren and turned to Aeren.
“Is this true?”
Aeren stiffened. Garius must have informed Harticur that he was the one who had initiated the contact, although he didn’t risk turning to Garius for confirmation. “Yes. A force of Legion gathered near the border days after the Tamaell and the rest of the Evant departed from Caercaern. The Tamaell halted nine day’s hard ride north of here to assess the situation.”
“Did you feel the threat was significant enough to draw the Tamaell away?” Garius asked.
Aeren considered, recalling the map in the Tamaell’s council tent. “The threat is significant. We estimated there were five thousand Legion on the border.”
New conversations broke out among the dwarren as soon as the translator finished, louder than before, and more ominous. Eraeth shifted uncomfortably in his seat at the dwarren’s tone, although Aeren was relieved to see he did not reach for his cattan, even though his hand twitched in that direction as two of the dwarren began arguing heatedly, one standing, fist raised as he punctuated his words. The other spat a response, both glaring at each other—
And then Harticur said a single word in dwarren, one Aeren knew. “Silence.”
All the clan chiefs fell silent, although neither of the two arguing turned from the other. The tension in the air increased as their expressions darkened, the hand of the one standing clenching and unclenching . . .
But with a sudden snort of disgust, he turned and sat.
None of the dwarren had reached for their blades, had even looked in their direction, and yet Aeren felt sweat running down his arms, felt his shirt sticking to his neck. With effort, he forced his hands, hidden in his lap beneath the table, to unclench.
Leaning forward, his brows drawn close together, Harticur motioned to one of his aides with a sharp word. As the dwarren slapped a roll of thin leather out on the table before them and snapped it open, Harticur said, “Show us where.”
Thaedoren leaned forward, face carefully blank, to look at the map, along with Aeren. It had been worked into the leather itself, giving the mountains to the north sharp texture, the plains a wide open region with small impressions of tufts of grass, the forests stained a dark green. A few circles with dwarren symbols pocked the plains in what appeared to be random locations.
Aeren tensed, eyes widening, as he realized what the circles represented: the entrances to the dwarren underground cities, their warrens. The dwarren had, for the most part, kept them hidden for the last two hundred years.
He also noticed something else, something that sent a shiver of shock through his arms. The plains themselves were interrupted by four straight lines. The westernmost line he recognized as the location of the underground river, which emerged as a huge waterfall at the Escarpment at the human city named Tappinger’s Falls. The Alvritshai hadn’t ranged far enough south or east to find the others.
But the four lines—the four rivers, he assumed, by the markings on the map, all perfectly straight—converged at a point near the base of the eastern mountains, well east of the forest, deep within dwarren lands. And those lands—the lands that the dwarren claimed according to the map—were far more extensive than the Alvritshai thought.
He would have searched longer, but Harticur repeated, “Show us!”
Thaedoren glanced up, then pointed to a position on the map. “The Legion was amassing here when Lord Aeren and I left my father’s convoy. We estimated that he would intercept the human forces here,” he shifted his finger slightly to the south, without dropping his gaze from Harticur’s, “at the Escarpment.”
Harticur blinked once, and even as the translator began to translate for the other dwarren, his face filled with rage. He leaped to his feet with an anguished roar, face red, and in one smooth motion he snatched up his sword from the table and pointed it toward Thaedoren, the length of the blade trembling with his fury. With cries of shock and hisses of anger, most of the rest of the dwarren clan chiefs grabbed their own swords as they lurched back from the table and brandished them, but none of them advanced, leaving Harticur at the front. Only Garius remained seated, his head bowed.
Thaedoren’s hand shot out and latched onto Aeren’s arm, holding him in place as he instinctively reached for his own sword, but the Tamaell Presumptive could do nothing to stop Eraeth. The Protector’s cattan was in hand and trained on Harticur in the space of a breath, before most of the other dwarren had managed to grab their own swords. Eraeth’s cattan remained steady, pointed toward Harticur’s throat, nearly touching it across the length of the table. Harticur’s reach wasn’t so long; his sword fell nearly a foot short of Thaedoren’s chest.
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