Authors: Benjamin Tate
Well of Sorrows (72 page)
Then it passed by, the sensations fading, the roar of the wind dying, and he collapsed onto the grass on his back.
Beside him, he felt the Tamaea stir, sit upright—
And then she screamed, “Faeren!” A tortured scream, choked with tears.
He felt the Tamaea scrambling to her feet and, body shaking with weakness, a strange lethargy stealing through him, he managed to roll back onto his side. He couldn’t lift his head. The effort was too great.
He watched, dead grass pricking his cheek, as the Tamaea stumbled out into the remains of the camp. Where the Tamaell’s tents had stood, there was nothing but a swath of exposed earth. To either side, the ground was littered with collapsed tents, tattered canvas still fluttering to the ground. And bodies. Most were beginning to stir, moans and groans replacing the fading winds. The Tamaea worked her way through the detritus, took a few steps out into the empty earth, and then halted.
Faeren, Grae, and the rest of the Phalanx who had run with them from the Tamaea’s tent were gone, swallowed by the Drifter, along with a significant chunk of the camp itself.
And the Drifter hadn’t faded.
Colin fell onto his back again.
No, the Drifter wasn’t finished. He could still feel it.
“Look!”
Aeren shifted his attention from trying to control his frenzied mount out toward the plains, in the direction the Phalanx member had pointed. The group of Phalanx—from both House Rhyssal and House Duvoraen—had gathered on the ridge above the camp, other Phalanx members and servants scattered among them. All of them had expressions of exhaustion and horror on their faces as they watched the huge occumaen wreak havoc among the tents. It pushed its way westward, tents flailing in its winds like birds, debris whirling in a deadly storm. People ran in all directions as it plowed its way forward, swallowing tents and earth whole. Those caught at the edges were sliced in half. Aeren could see at least two crawling away from it, a woman without an arm and a man without legs. Those closer to the eye simply . . . vanished. Once the occumaen passed by, they were gone, nothing left behind, simply gone.
Breath of Heaven.
They’d been called to Aielan.
They’d been called to Aielan.
He felt an overwhelming horror creep through him, his body going numb with shock. His heart still pounded from the mad dash into the camp, yelling and bellowing, trying to goad people up and away before the occumaen hit, followed by the scramble to get out of its way himself. One of his own Phalanx hadn’t made it, he and his horse caught in its eddies as they tried to flee.
Now, body still numbed and shaking, he saw what the Phalanx guard had pointed out.
There, on the edge of the occumaen, he saw a smear of motion, a shadow drawing away from the distortion that lurched and solidified into Colin and the Tamaea. His heart leaped with hope, and then the two stumbled and fell to the ground.
The arm of the occumaen—the Breath of Heaven—passed above them. Their bodies rippled with its distortions, as if they were trapped beneath heat waves . . . and then it slid by, leaving them unscathed.
An uncertain cheer spread through the group, led by his own Phalanx, who understood what the smeared shadow had been. The rest picked up on it when the Tamaea lurched to her feet and staggered toward the remains of the camp. He thought she’d fall to her knees in the churned up dirt where tents had stood mere moments ago, but he saw her shoulders stoop instead.
“Berec, Larren, take a contingent down to get the Tamaea, immediately!”
Aeren turned toward Lord Khalaek as his men broke into swift action, bellowing orders as they went. “That man—that human—saved the Tamaea’s life,” he said.
Khalaek looked at him in disdain, then glanced around at all of those closest, who’d heard what Aeren had said, who’d witnessed what Colin had done. He stiffened at some of the looks he got. “He’ll be treated . . . well.”
Khalaek practically growled it, but Aeren nodded.
Eraeth suddenly appeared at Aeren’s side. “The occumaen,” he said, but didn’t finish.
“What?” Aeren and Khalaek snapped at the same time.
Eraeth grew suddenly formal, face blank, body rigid. “It’s headed directly toward the battle.”
Both Aeren and Khalaek spun, saw the occumaen churning over the ridge. From this side, there was no eye, no glimpse into another stretch of plains, no second sun and spring grass. From this side, it appeared to be nothing more than a ripple of heat waves.
“Sound the horns!” Khalaek roared. “Sound them for retreat!” Then he kicked his horse into motion, the rest of the House Duvoraen Phalanx charging after him. They hadn’t been gone two breaths when the sound of a horn pierced the air, joined a moment later by two others, all pealing out the long note for retreat.
“Come on,” Aeren said, motioning to Eraeth.
They followed Khalaek’s men to the crest of the rise and stared down into the flat beyond, where the Legion and the Alvritshai armies still fought. Khalaek continued to sound the retreat, even as he and his men raced across the flat. Dust rose behind them as they banked wide around the occumaen.
On the field, the mass of men surged back and forth, oblivious to the distortion. As Aeren watched, the sounds of Khalaek’s horns finally caught the attention of those at the back of the Alvritshai army. He saw the ripples in the army spread as word was passed, new horns joining Khalaek’s, and Alvritshai began to break away from the rear, men and horses fleeing. Khalaek altered course, swinging his group wide and circling the army to the left. But still the conflict raged in the middle, swords flashing in the afternoon sunlight, blood flying, men falling.
The occumaen drifted closer, its distortion obscuring part of the army to the north. Aeren saw the first men in the Legion break away as they spotted the danger, practically stumbling over each other in their haste to retreat. The horns grew more frantic, the smooth notes blatty and warbled.
Eraeth edged forward, his hands tight on the reins of his mount. “They aren’t going to see it in time.”
Aeren pressed his lips together, but said nothing.
Then, when it seemed that the occumaen would plow through the edge of the two locked armies, three short blasts sounded, the single horn piercing through the cacophony of all the rest.
The Alvritshai army abruptly turned and broke away from the lead group of Legion. Aeren saw the Tamaell’s flags pulling back from the center, saw the Legion spilling into the gap, a few men chasing after the retreating Alvritshai.
But not the King. His banners remained behind. Banners flashed back and forth among all of King Stephan’s groups. Aeren couldn’t read the signals, but when the men began pulling back, he knew they’d also called a retreat. The men charging after the Alvritshai either hadn’t seen the orders, or were blatantly disobeying them.
It cost them their lives.
The occumaen plowed into the edges of both armies, its arms catching those who’d stayed to fight a little too long and those who’d been unable to retreat fast enough. Banners on both sides were caught in the occumaen’s winds, thrashing as dust churned upward. Closest to the occumaen, bodies of horses and men were lifted from the ground where they’d fallen earlier, and Aeren would have sworn the winds were tinged a black-red from the blood already spilled on the battlefield.
It sliced cleanly through the two armies, and when it passed, it left behind a scar of churned earth, as it had in the Alvritshai encampment. When Aeren saw the Tamaell’s banners still raised, he released the breath he hadn’t realized he was holding in a harsh sigh. The two armies, separated by the scarred earth, milled about for a long moment, long enough that Aeren thought they might engage each other again. He felt the old, bitter anger building inside him. The occumaen drifted out past the flat, to the edge of the Escarpment that could barely be seen in the distance, and then beyond. It hovered in thin air, still drifting, and then wavered as it began to dissipate.
Both sides of the battle turned from the field. Aeren relaxed back into his saddle and watched as the Alvritshai moved wearily up the slope toward them, the Tamaell’s escort edging to the front ranks. The Legion withdrew to the north, where Aeren could make out their own encampment, untouched by the occumaen.
As the Tamaell’s escort approached, Aeren stepped forward, Eraeth at his side. The Tamaell sat in the saddle, back rigid, his armor coated with dust and blood, his face smeared with sweat and grit. He carried himself stiffly, yet with a deadly grace, the exhaustion from the day’s battle apparent only around the edges of his eyes and in the angry creases in his brow. All the men around him appeared the same—except Lord Khalaek—although their fatigue was easier to see in their slumped shoulders and hunched backs.
Fedorem saw Aeren’s approach and slowed. The army began to slow as well, until an order was passed back. The Phalanx—the Tamaell’s and the rest of the Houses of the Evant—began spilling around them toward the camp. Groans escaped most men as they saw the destruction the occumaen had caused, some of shock, others of worry.
Khalaek must have already informed Fedorem, for he didn’t react to the state of their camp at all. Instead, he scanned Aeren’s group and called, “Where is the Tamaea? Where is Moiran?”
“She is—” Aeren began.
“Here, my Tamaell.”
Aeren’s escort parted, and the Tamaea stepped through, her clothes stained with mud and grass, her hair in disarray. A smudge of dirt marked her forehead, as if she’d wiped at it with her arm.
She halted a step away from the Tamaell’s horse, and for a moment it appeared that Fedorem would not react. He sat, staring at her, his face unreadable, although Aeren thought he trembled.
Then he swung down from his mount and drew Moiran to him in a hard embrace. He murmured something to her, his face pressed into her hair, and tears shone in Moiran’s eyes as she hesitated and then held Fedorem in return, clutching his battered and bloody armor to her, uncaring.
Aeren and the rest of the escort that surrounded them shuffled and looked elsewhere. Such displays were not generally shown in public, especially not among those in the Evant.
They clung to each other a moment longer, until the Tamaell pushed Moiran back. The Tamaea regained her composure immediately and said, her voice rough, “It was the human, Colin, who saved me from the occumaen. I would not have survived otherwise.”
Surprise flashed across Fedorem’s face, replaced with a solemn expression as he searched among the Alvritshai faces. Not finding Colin, his gaze settled on Aeren. “Where is he? I wish to thank him personally.”
“He is with Lotaern and the acolytes, recovering. The Order has already begun tending to the wounded, at the Tamaea’s request.”
“I see. Then I will attend him later.” His stance shifted, and he stepped away from Moiran toward Aeren. “Lord Khalaek informs me you’ve come with a message from my son.”
“I have.”
“What is it?”
Aeren looked toward Khalaek and narrowed his gaze. He couldn’t tell the Tamaell about the sukrael, not with Khalaek standing there.
“Out with it!” Fedorem barked, startling everyone.
Aeren straightened where he sat and met the Tamaell’s angry, brooding gaze. “The Tamaell Presumptive has met and spoken with the dwarren Gathering, as you requested, and they’ve refused to deal with the Tamaell Presumptive.”
Khalaek snorted in derision, as if he’d expected no less.
But Aeren wasn’t finished.
“Instead, they wish to speak to you directly, Tamaell. They’re coming here, to the Escarpment. And they’re bringing their army with them.”
20
“I
TOLD HIM
NOT
TO BRING THE DWARREN HERE!” the Tamaell snarled, flinging the last sweaty article of clothing he’d worn beneath his armor to one side of the lantern-lit room as he emerged from a secondary room where he’d recently washed. He wore loose, clean clothes now, simple breeches and shirt, not the stylized outfits Aeren was used to seeing him in. The informality felt strange and uncomfortable.
TOLD HIM
NOT
TO BRING THE DWARREN HERE!” the Tamaell snarled, flinging the last sweaty article of clothing he’d worn beneath his armor to one side of the lantern-lit room as he emerged from a secondary room where he’d recently washed. He wore loose, clean clothes now, simple breeches and shirt, not the stylized outfits Aeren was used to seeing him in. The informality felt strange and uncomfortable.
He tried not to react as the Tamaell began pacing, his hands clasped behind his back, ignoring the look Eraeth shot him from one side. Colin, seated on the other side, simply watched silently, not quite recovered from saving the Tamaea.
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