Well of Sorrows (88 page)

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Authors: Benjamin Tate

BOOK: Well of Sorrows
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Reaching out, Colin seized the moment and halted it.
He waited, giving Stephan time to think, time to adjust to what he’d seen. He hadn’t been certain what he would find here. Aeren hadn’t been able to tell him, because he hadn’t witnessed it himself. He’d only known what Aeren suspected, what Aeren had learned from those lords who had been here and were willing to speak to him.
But what had happened seemed clear.
Stephan finally stirred.
Without turning, he said softly, “Take me back.”
And Colin did.
 
“To me!” Eraeth roared at Aeren’s side. “House Rhyssal to its lord!”
To either side, the remains of Aeren’s Phalanx pulled back desperately toward Eraeth’s voice as he continued to shout. Aeren didn’t have time to count how many still survived, too intent on keeping the Legion from overrunning his position completely.
Lotaern and the Order of the Flames’ flaming swords and the churning earth might have worked if the Legion hadn’t had fresh reinforcements waiting.
Now, the Alvritshai lines had shattered completely, pockets of Alvritshai fighting desperately all across the field, all of them trying to retreat toward the Tamaell Presumptive’s center, his horns blaring the retreat, issuing no other orders except to fall back, the direction of the retreat changing every moment as Thaedoren withdrew as well. They’d already been driven beyond where the acolytes had called forth Aielan’s Light from the earth. They were approaching the ridge overlooking the flat, beyond which stood the Alvritshai camp.
And the Legion would not stop. Aeren could feel it. With a sinking sensation, Aeren realized that the Alvritshai could not win, that they might not even survive the battle, as the dwarren Riders had not survived thirty years before.
And then shouts rang out, spreading through the mass of Legion before him. He couldn’t see past the crush of men, but he felt the pressure pushing the Alvritshai back decrease, the faces of the men before him turning to look back, exclaiming in anger, in disbelief. Those at the front didn’t stop fighting until they realized that those behind were retreating, backing off step by careful step.
When the men Aeren grappled with finally withdrew, Aeren gasped and sagged, one hand going to his side, coming away black with blood. His own blood. He hadn’t even felt the cut, hadn’t seen the blade that had scored there, opening the flesh beneath the edge of his armor. It wasn’t a mortal wound, but he placed his hand over it and pressed, trying to halt the blood flow. His armor weighed down on him, his cattan heavy, but he remained upright as Eraeth staggered to his side, his own face covered in blood from a wound to his head.
To either side, the Legion were retreating, leaving the decimated Alvritshai behind. Aeren picked out Thaedoren and closed his eyes in relief, began counting up the rest of the Lords of the Evant. He saw Peloroun and Jydell, Waerren and Vaersoom, Waerren’s forces cut down to fewer than fifty men. None of Lord Barak’s House remained, and he didn’t see Barak either. Altogether, he estimated there were fewer than fifteen hundred Alvritshai remaining on the field.
Over four thousand had arrived at the flat.
The loss of life sickened him. It would take decades for the Alvritshai to recoup such death.
If they recouped at all.
“What . . .” Aeren heaved; he couldn’t seem to catch his breath, “. . . happened?”
“Look,” Eraeth said, and pointed.
Turning, Aeren saw where the main bulk of the Legion’s forces had regrouped. He saw the flags of the King, but not the King himself, saw those flags break away and head toward two figures walking toward them, a small group of Legion slightly behind.
Aeren frowned. “That’s Colin.”
“With the King.”
They shared a look. Then: “I thought Colin was with Moiran in the Tamaell’s tents.”
Eraeth’s frown deepened. He nearly growled. “He was.”
On the flat, the King and Colin merged with the approaching contingent of banners and horsemen. After a pause, the King led the group back to the main army as ragged cheers broke out.
“Gather the House,” Aeren said. “Regroup with Thaedoren.”
“What’s going on?” Eraeth asked.
Aeren shook his head. “I don’t know.”
As Eraeth gathered what was left of House Rhyssal’s Phalanx, Aeren moved toward Thaedoren’s pennants, wincing as pain flared in his side. Halfway there his House arrived, Eraeth leading all two hundred of them, a horse in tow. With help, Aeren made it into the saddle, someone cinching a makeshift bandage around his waist. His Phalanx behind him, he rode through the White Phalanx’s ranks to Thaedoren.
“What’s happening?” he asked.
Thaedoren shot him a look, nodded in acknowledgment then turned his attention back to the Legion. “The Legion has withdrawn. It appears to be on the order of King Stephan.”
“How did the King get to the far side of the battle?” Lord Jydell asked as he trotted toward them.
Thaedoren frowned. “I . . . don’t know.”
“He had Colin with him,” Aeren said abruptly, as he suddenly understood.
The Tamaell Presumptive’s eyes narrowed thoughtfully.
They waited, the surviving lords joining them, each asking the same questions, no one coming up with any answers.
Then flags were waved at the edge of the Legion’s forces, asking for a parley.
Thaedoren straightened in his saddle, brow furrowed.
“He’ll want our surrender,” Peloroun said tightly.
Thaedoren glanced toward him, let his gaze wander over all the lords present. “Aeren and Jydell, you’re with me.”
Aeren caught Eraeth’s gaze, and his Protector fell in beside him as they moved out onto the flat, stepping over bodies. Jydell had brought his own Protector, and two of the White Phalanx accompanied Thaedoren. Across the field, King Stephan, Tanner Dain, and Colin matched their progress, the King surrounded by two Governors and a contingent of seven Legionnaires.
They met halfway between the two armies, each group halting when they were ten paces apart. The Governors, Tanner, and the Legionnaires glared at the Alvritshai, on edge, their hands close to their swords. Stephan regarded them with a cold eye, frowning, as if he didn’t know what to think of the Alvritshai lords, of Thaedoren. Colin appeared pale, unfocused. His face was pallid, his eyes bleary, and the bandage over his chest was black with blood, the Alvritshai shirt he wore matted to it.
The Tamaell Presumptive nudged his horse forward a step. “What is it you wished to say?”
Stephan stiffened, lifted his chin. “The fighting needs to end.”
Thaedoren nodded, face neutral. “You wish us to surrender.”
Stephan shook his head. “No. I want a truce. Between us. With the dwarren. A truce among all of us.”
His Governors and a few of the Legion instantly protested, their voices loud, hands gesturing, until one voice broke through the others.
“You can’t be serious!” the Governor exclaimed. “We have them on their knees. We can crush their resistance here, now! We can crush
them
—”
“No!” Stephan barked, cutting the Governor off with a look.
The Governor’s anger narrowed as he drew himself up in his saddle. “At least require their surrender. Take hostages to ensure their behavior.”
Stephan considered for a moment, then shook his head again. “No. They didn’t come here to fight this battle. We did. That’s the only reason we’ve managed to subdue them.”
Tanner Dain sidled closer and said in a low voice that could nevertheless be heard by everyone, “Remember what happened here thirty years ago. Remember your father. These pale skinned bastards don’t deserve any mercy.”
Stephan shifted and glanced at Colin, who was looking even worse now. “But I do remember, Tanner. Better than you might imagine. And yes, some of them deserve no mercy—” his voice hardened. “—and they will get none. But not all of them.”
Tanner clenched his jaw. “Then you believe their lies?”
“I didn’t,” Stephan said, an edge of warning creeping into his tone, “but I do now.”
Tanner’s gaze shot toward Colin in suspicion, but he listened to the unspoken warning and said nothing.
As soon as his commander backed off and the grumbling of the Governors had subsided, he turned back to Thaedoren. “There are conditions.”
Cautious, Thaedoren asked, “What conditions?”
“Lord Aeren, when he came to see me in Corsair to suggest an accord, claimed that not all the Lords of the Evant were involved in my father’s murder. I didn’t believe it then because of everything I’d been told since the battle, everything that I’d come to see as true. But I’ve been shown the truth, and I realize that he was correct. Only three lords were involved. One of them was killed almost immediately. And one did not actually raise a weapon against my father that day, he simply pulled the Tamaell—your father—to safety.” Stephan’s eyes darkened, his voice deepened. “But the other, this Lord Khalaek . . . I want him.”
Thaedoren’s shoulders squared. “He has already been sequestered for murdering the Tamaell—”
“If you want this treaty—if you want this peace—
then you will give him to me
.”
It was said softly, between clenched teeth, but the anger, the rage, came through clearly.
Aeren adjusted his position in the saddle, but didn’t dare look at the Tamaell Presumptive. There were too many emotions involved, too many political implications regarding Khalaek and the Evant, Thaedoren and Stephan, the Alvritshai and the Provinces.
“Very well,” Thaedoren said. “But Lord Khalaek must face the Evant first.”
Stephan shrugged. “As long as I get him alive.”
Thaedoren nodded. “I’ll make certain of that. What are your other conditions?”
“That the dwarren be included in the treaty, that Lord Aeren be there for the talks, that we meet on this field, in the open, just you, me, the Cochen, and one adviser each, along with him.” He motioned toward Colin, who didn’t react. The human’s head had dropped, hair falling over his face so that Aeren could no longer see his eyes.
Aeren shifted forward. “Speaking of Colin,” he began, but paused when both Thaedoren and Stephan turned their gazes on him. Both had frowned at the interruption, but they were too focused on each other, on the discussion. Neither had even looked at Colin. “Speaking of Colin,” he began again, “I’d ask that you allow my Protector to take him to our healers. He’s obviously wounded.”
Their attention shifted toward Colin sharply, even as he began to list in his saddle. Stephan swore and caught him before he could fall, holding him upright. “Of course,” he said. “Take him.”
Eraeth moved forward immediately, bringing his mount alongside Colin’s. With Stephan’s help, Eraeth pulled Colin’s body into the saddle in front of him and headed back toward the Alvritshai camp.
Stephan watched them for a moment, then turned back to Thaedoren. “We can discuss everything else once we’ve had a chance to recover. Tend to your wounded. I’ll send an emissary to the dwarren and arrange matters with them, as well as discuss them with my Governors.”
“As will I with the Evant.”
“Very well.”
The two leaders nodded at each other, then turned and headed back to their own armies.
“That was . . . unexpected,” Lord Jydell muttered.
“Yes,” Thaedoren said tightly, “but welcome. Assemble the Evant, and order everyone else to begin searching for the wounded on the field. And collecting the dead.”
“And what will the Evant be discussing?”
Thaedoren’s face tightened with anger. “Lord Khalaek.”

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