Well of Sorrows (74 page)
Authors: Benjamin Tate
“Do you believe them?” Moiran asked as she used shears to slice blankets and cloth into thin strips for bandages by lamplight, the tent draped in shadows. Most of the material had been scavenged from the camp, from all the Lords of the Evant and what remained of her own supplies.
On the far side of the small tent—much smaller than the one they’d been using—Fedorem halted his slow pace and settled into a small chair. “Do I believe that Khalaek would infiltrate the Order with a member from his own House? Yes. Do I believe that he’d use that to help him undermine my hold on the Evant, to extend his influence? Yes. Do I believe he’d work with these Wraiths, creatures that Aeren and Lotaern claim were created by the sukrael, creatures that no one has seen or heard of except for this Shaeveran, this human named Colin?” He shook his head, brow creased, but said nothing, one hand pinching his lower lip in thought, elbow resting on the arm of the chair.
Moiran frowned. “That human . . . is no longer human. He saved me from the occumaen.”
“So you said.”
“No, you don’t understand,” she said sharply, and she stopped cutting, placing the shears in her lap so she could catch Fedorem’s eyes and hold them. “He didn’t simply drag me to safety.
He halted time.
He somehow stopped everything and gave us the chance to escape.” Something hot and hard rose up into her throat, and she felt tears burning at the corners of her eyes. In a choked voice, she added, “I thought the occumaen would claim me. I could feel its breath upon me, the Breath of Heaven—”
He halted time.
He somehow stopped everything and gave us the chance to escape.” Something hot and hard rose up into her throat, and she felt tears burning at the corners of her eyes. In a choked voice, she added, “I thought the occumaen would claim me. I could feel its breath upon me, the Breath of Heaven—”
She bowed her head, fought down the heated pressure in her chest. She’d avoided the thought of the occumaen all day by burying herself in the tending of the wounded, in their pain.
She heard Fedorem rise from his seat and approach, felt his hand on her shoulder.
“You’re saying he is one of the Aielan-aein, that he has been Touched by Aielan.”
Moiran gave a snorting laugh, the sound thick and phlegmy. “He is more than simply Touched. He has been gifted. None of the Aielan-aein within the Order could have done what he did. None of them have shown that kind of power, that kind of strength.” She paused, thinking of the terror she’d felt as the occumaen bore down on her. “I only wish he’d been able to save Faeren and the others.”
Fedorem squeezed her shoulder once, and then his hand slipped free. Moiran noted that he looked more troubled than before as he settled back into his chair.
“That changes nothing. Even if I did believe Lord Aeren and the Chosen, it is still one lord accusing another. And in the confines of the Evant, I cannot choose between the two unless the Evant demands it.”
“Then Aeren should present his claim to the Evant.”
Fedorem shook his head again. “He won’t. Aeren knows his place in the Evant. House Rhyssal has descended in the ranks these past hundred years. It is now one of the lesser Houses. Aeren would not find the support within the Evant to even bring his accusation to the floor for serious consideration, let alone get them to hand the decision over to me. The rivalry between House Rhyssal and House Duvoraen is too well known.”
Moiran’s frown deepened as she picked up the shears again and began cutting.
“No,” Fedorem said, mostly to himself, as he rose again and moved toward the entrance to the tent. He stood before the opening, although he didn’t stoop to go outside into the night. It was late, but Moiran could still hear the sounds of the Phalanx and servants picking through the destruction caused by the occumaen, guardsmen calling out as more bodies were found. “There’s nothing I can do about Khalaek.”
Moiran was happy to hear a trace of venom in Fedorem’s voice at the lord’s name. “Then why are you so restless? You should sleep.”
“I can’t,” Fedorem murmured. “There’s too much death, too much—”
Moiran glanced up as he broke off, saw the sudden stiffness in his shoulders, in his back, saw the shift from Tamaell to Phalanx guardsman in his stance, wary now, dangerous.
Before she could react, he ducked and shoved his way out of the tent into the darkness.
“Fedorem!”
She tossed the shears aside and scrambled to her feet, her heart quickening. She slid out of the tent, one hand checking to make certain she still carried her knife, but she found Fedorem standing with a group of Phalanx immediately outside, all facing in the same direction, all almost preternaturally still.
She moved up beside her husband and whispered, “What is it?”
He glanced toward her, eyes hard, jaw tight. “Listen.”
She frowned and grew still. All she could hear were the calls of the workers, coming from all sides. She’d drawn breath to ask what she should be listening for when she heard it.
Drums. The faintest echo of drums.
“From the south,” one of the Phalanx members said.
Fedorem nodded. “Yes.” Without another word, he headed toward the northern part of the camp. A breath later, the rest of the Phalanx followed.
Moiran hesitated, then straightened and trailed after.
They moved through the camp as the sounds of the drums grew louder, loud enough that the rest of the camp began to notice. By the time they reached the ridge to the northwest, they’d been joined by at least twenty other Phalanx and a few of the servants. Others had already gathered there, including members of the Evant. Moiran saw Lord Aeren and the Chosen of the Order on one side, Lords Waerren and Jydell on the other.
And waiting to meet them was Lord Khalaek.
“Tamaell,” Khalaek said with a deferential nod as Fedorem approached.
“Lord Khalaek. What news?”
Khalaek smiled slightly. “See for yourself.”
As she reached the ridge, Moiran halted, drawn up short by the sight.
On the plains to the south, still distant but drawing closer with every resounding thud of the drums, were the pinprick reddish flames of torches and lanterns, stretching away into the darkness in a thick but ragged column.
“It would appear,” Khalaek said, his voice soft but filled with satisfaction, “that Lord Aeren was misinformed.” He turned to Fedorem, the smile still touching his eyes.
“The dwarren have arrived.”
Aeren squinted into the early morning sunlight and felt his stomach roil sickeningly. His mount shifted beneath him and snorted, stamping one foot. He reached down to calm it and said, voice tight, “It’s just like before.”
To his left, Eraeth grunted.
Before them on the flat, the three armies had gathered.
The Tamaell and all of the Lords of the Evant were present at the base of the small rise east of the battlefield, the Phalanx from each of the Houses gathered in close formation behind them. Banners for all of the Houses flapped in the stiff breeze, and armor clanked as the Alvritshai and their mounts shifted fitfully beneath the glare of the sun. The Tamaell stood at the forefront, the lords arrayed to either side, all except Aeren, who stood within the Tamaell’s escort, a few paces back.
On the plains below, the Legion stood to the north. Aeren could just see the banners of the King, surrounded by those of the Provinces. It appeared that all of the Governors stood with the King. Most of the Legion were on foot, those mounted grouped behind the King himself.
The dwarren Riders had gathered to the south. They’d set up their camp during the night, their drums a continuous thundering presence until nearly dawn, when they’d suddenly fallen silent. That silence had been almost worse than the constant sounding of the drums. Those still awake in the Alvritshai camp had looked up from whatever they were doing, then returned to their tasks, unsettled.
Now, there were no drums. The dwarren were mounted on their gaezels in a loose formation, nothing like the ordered ranks of the Legion, or even the Alvritshai. A few pennants marked the general location of each of the clans, but unlike the Legion, the clan chiefs appeared to be scattered among their own men.
The large gash the occumaen had left in the plains separated the dwarren and human armies, a dark line that cut diagonally from the Alvritshai armies toward the cliffs of the Escarpment to the west.
The plains were eerily silent. There were no storms on the horizon, only a few scudding clouds. The air felt hollow and empty, yet tight with anticipation, with expectation.
Aeren felt dread eating away at his stomach. He’d felt this same tension over thirty years before, on this very ground. Only back then he’d been filled with the hope that the battle would end all the fighting, all the conflict, all the bloodshed. An alliance had been formed, and with it the first tentative ties between the Alvritshai and human races.
Except that those ties had been torn to shreds during the battle that followed, destroyed and thrown to the ground by Khalaek and then, shockingly, by Fedorem himself.
Aeren resisted glancing toward Khalaek’s position, his hand gripping the reins so hard his fingers had gone white. His horse stirred again and tossed its head, picking up on his tension.
The Tamaell turned, sought him out. Aeren straightened in his saddle and shoved the sickening roil in his gut aside.
No words were spoken. They’d discussed what Aeren would do long into the night, after the dwarren’s arrival. The Tamaell simply nodded.
Aeren kicked his horse forward, Eraeth and two other Rhyssal Phalanx—Dharel and Auvant—accompanying him. The Tamaell’s escort parted before them, then closed ranks behind as Aeren picked up speed, racing out onto the flat, toward a point midway between all three of the gathered armies, in the center of the occumaen’s path. He listened to the snap of the truce banners carried by Dharel and Auvant beneath the thundering of his horse’s hooves and his own heart, heard that thunder change tenor as he reached the edge of the exposed dirt left behind by the occumaen. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught movement and saw a small party of Legion break away from the human army and move to intercept them at the center of the field, carrying the same banners of truce. He turned toward the south, to where the dwarren army waited, but saw nothing.
He clenched his jaw grimly. This wouldn’t work unless the dwarren sent out representatives as well.
When he reached position, he pulled his mount up sharply, then waited, his horse prancing slightly. Eraeth and the others brought their mounts to a halt as well, ranging out behind him. To the right, the members of the Legion party were already halfway there.
To the south, the dwarren had still not moved, although Aeren noticed new activity. He muttered a small curse, then turned his attention to the approaching human representatives.
There were five of them, all members of the Legion, fighting men. They halted their mounts nearly twenty paces away, and as the two groups sized each other up, Aeren realized he recognized their leader: the commander who’d been in the meeting hall in Corsair.
Nodding grimly, Aeren said, “Commander.”
The Legionnaire smiled without any trace of humor. “Lord Aeren. I see you’ve brought reinforcements.”
Aeren frowned at the coldness in the man’s voice. “The dwarren weren’t invited.”
The commander held himself loosely in the saddle, but Aeren wasn’t deceived; his horse wouldn’t stop fidgeting. He regarded Aeren with a blatant stare, brow slightly creased, jaw clenched. A fresh cut marred his forehead over his right eye. “We’ll find out soon enough,” he finally said, and jutted his chin out toward the dwarren army.
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