Leaves of Flame (63 page)

“The Source is inside,” Colin murmured.

“How do you know?”

“Because I can feel it.” He could hear it in the edge of his voice as well. It sounded heavier, huskier, the pull of the Lifeblood strong. He hadn’t felt so close to losing control since he’d first left the Well nearly two hundred years before. Like then, his body trembled—­with power, with urgency, with need. He could taste the Source, the mixture of loam and snow thick on his tongue. His hand tightened and
flexed against the wood of his staff and he tried not to shudder.

Beside him, Siobhaen said, “It’s strong. Even I can feel it. I sensed the Well in the northern wastes. But this… this I can
feel
, throbbing in my gut.”

Eraeth frowned.

Below, Colin thought he caught a flicker of movement in one of the shadows. He stepped forward, taking the first step down toward one of the entrances, but Eraeth’s hand on his shoulder halted him.

The Protector shook his head. “I’ll go first, Siobhaen behind, you in the middle. We don’t know what we’ll find down there.”

Colin shot a glance toward Siobhaen, her expression hard and unforgiving, angry that Eraeth had taken the lead, but in total agreement. Both of them had set aside the awe and immensity of the city as he had earlier. They were House Phalanx members now, guarding their lord.

Colin nodded grudgingly. “Very well.”

They moved swiftly down the stairs, noted other entrances at regular intervals around the building as they did so. Eraeth kept ten paces ahead of Colin, motioning him back if he came too close. Within moments they were at the edge of the building. If there had been doors, they were nothing more than dust now. The entrance yawned open, darkness lay beyond. Eraeth signaled to Siobhaen, who nodded, sweeping their surroundings as Eraeth ducked into the building. Colin held his breath, listening intently, breathing in the dusty rock scent of the dead city, tasting the Source. He pushed down his sense of unease and urgency. His heart thudded. Sweat dripped down his face.

He gasped when Eraeth reappeared. The Protector motioned them inside.

Colin slid into the shadows, the air within much cooler. They passed through an empty corridor, small chunks of
rock littering the ground where it had fallen from the cracks riddling the ceiling. They passed through dimly lit rooms, Eraeth moving silently ahead before waving them forward. The walls were mostly blank, the rooms empty, except for an occasional vivid flash of color from painted murals or the remnants of a shattered pedestal or column. Doorways were rectangular, walls smooth, ceilings arched and high.

Then Eraeth halted at a doorway wider than the others. After a long moment, he pulled Colin closer, both crouching down low.

The room beyond was vast, open to the sky, wide tiers like round steps leading down to a huge Well, at least twice the size of the one in Terra’nor. The bluish glow emanated from the Well, but the level of the water within was too low to be seen.

Colin scanned the far side of the Source. Entrances similar to the one they crouched near circled the Well. Huge chunks of crystal littered the floor; remnants of what Colin now realized must have been a crystal dome over the Well. Alcoves dotted the walls, whatever they had once held now gone. He saw no one within the space—­no Wraiths, no Shadows, nothing.

The Source pulled at him, called to him.

“I need to see the Lifeblood,” he whispered, more to himself than to Eraeth, and then he stood.

Eraeth grabbed his shirt and shoved him toward Siobhaen, who reached to hold him. Without thought, Colin seized time, felt the heady rush of the Lifeblood as he did so, felt its power surging through him, ready to slip from the two Alvritshai guardians to reach the Source, but with an effort that left him heaving he fought off the reaction. He knew by Siobhaen’s widened eyes that he must have blurred, that his intent had been obvious, but he ignored her betrayed look and waved Eraeth out into the open chamber, gesture curt. He leaned against the wall as Eraeth
turned, tried to control his breathing, his heart, and focused on the Protector.

Eraeth stepped toward the Well cautiously, sword ready, eyes searching constantly. He spun as he moved, checking all directions, slipping between the crystal shards and stone debris as he neared the lip of the Well. Colin’s unease grew, along with the urgency, prickling along his skin. The Source hadn’t been completely awakened, but it was close. He could sense it nearing its peak. The currents he had followed to reach it had begun to slacken. He needed to stop it now before the Source filled completely.

He needed to seal it away.

He pushed away from the wall, Siobhaen hissing disapproval as he stepped through the doorway, Eraeth already at the lip, a sheer drop to whatever lay below, no ridge of stone like at Terra’nor. The Protector had relaxed, brow creased in confusion as his sword lowered.

“I see no one,” he said, “which makes no sense. The Wraiths should be here.”

The unease crawling across Colin’s shoulders intensified as he stepped out from the shelter of the doorway and wound his way toward Eraeth, an unease he suddenly recognized. He’d felt this way once before, recently, in the northern wastes.

He heard Siobhaen scrambling to keep up behind him.

“They are here,” Colin said. “They would never leave the Source undefended. They know in order to affect the Lifeblood I need to be here, at the Source, to touch it. This is a trap. They’ve known we were coming for days.” Nearing Eraeth, he suddenly raised his voice, shouting into the depths of the collapsed dome. “Haven’t you, Walter?”

Both Eraeth and Siobhaen shifted into guarded stances, all three of them scanning the vastness of the space. His shout died, no sound replacing it except a hollow gust of wind blowing through vacant windows.

Broken a moment later by a low laugh.

Walter abruptly blurred into existence near the top of the steps, his gray-­brown cloak settling around him as he halted. He regarded them silently, smiling, darkness swirling beneath the skin of his face.

“Yes, Colin, I have been waiting,” he finally said. “We’ve all been waiting.”

And then, along the entire breadth of the steps surrounding them, Shadows emerged into the faded sunlight.

“S
END WHATEVER CIVILIANS are still here back to the city,” GreatLord Kobel ordered as soon as he and the rest of the lords and commanders stepped from the tent. Gregson came behind, ducking under the opening as the sounds of the battle slammed into him, Terson following. “We’ll hold the line as long as we can to give them a chance to reach Temeritt safely.”

“What about our own forces? I don’t think the Horde is going to let us retreat peacefully.”

Kobel didn’t turn to face Lord Akers. “We’ll send as many of the Legion back as we can while the rest hold the Horde.”

Akers looked skeptical.

“It’s the best we can do,” Kobel said, then reached for a helm held by a waiting recruit.

A short distance away, a covey of horses waited for the GreatLord and his entourage. The rest of the commanders and lords began preparing for battle, tugging on armor, mailed gloves, helmets. Gregson and Terson were forgotten, until Lord Akers noticed them waiting.

He sidled his horse close and leaned down. “Find your men and head for Temeritt!”

Gregson saluted, clenched fist across his chest, then began searching the confusion at the back of the army. “We need to find our group,” he said to Terson, his second motioning toward the western edge. As they cut through the Legion’s rear forces, horns blared all along the line, signaling the retreat. Everyone hesitated, and then chaos erupted, Gregson and Terson forced to dodge men as they began breaking away from the front line.

Gregson caught sight of Curtis and the rest of the Legion who had made it off the Northward Ridge with them, all surrounding the thirty civilians, including the miller Jayson, Corim, and Ara. They were huddled together, staring at the army as it heaved around them.

Additional horns sounded, more desperate than before. Gregson jogged up to Curtis and the others. “They’re calling a retreat. We need to get everyone moving toward Temeritt. We don’t have much time.”

Another horn, this one faltering mid-­blast, then cutting short.

“That wasn’t a call for retreat,” Terson said grimly.

“Part of the line’s collapsing.” Gregson spun on his own Legion, on the civilians that were rising far too slowly at the soldiers’ urging. Suddenly, his patience snapped; he wasn’t going to lose control as he had on the ridge. “Terson, get those damn civilians moving now! The rest of you, everyone with weapons, form up! Protect the retreat!”

Gregson shoved them into position, the men moving too slowly. He could feel the tension of the battle at his back, could feel it escalating as the Horde picked up on the Legion’s intent. Terson bellowed orders and with Ara’s help the few civilians remaining began staggering toward the south, additional groups of Legion breaking away from the lines and streaming toward the direction of Temeritt on every side. Supply wagons were being turned, horses fidgeting and protesting the sudden frantic activity. Curtis shouted,
“Gregson,” and the lieutenant turned to see his twenty-­odd Legionnaires trotting after the civilian group. He broke away from the rear of the front lines, shouting, “Keep moving!” as he motioned with one hand.

They had made the crest of the first hill, had passed beneath the limbs of the first copse of trees, half a day’s ride from Temeritt, when panicked horn cries shattered the evening light.

Gregson spun, gaze sweeping across the battlefield behind, the thin line of Legion left to hold the Horde back faltering.

“It’s collapsing,” Gregson whispered.

He watched in horror as the minimal defense buckled in three places, the line between wavering, men roaring, horns crying, horses screaming, the air humming with rage, with defiance, with desperation—­

And then the line gave.

Like a dam breaking, the Horde rolled up and over the Legion, spilling from the broken line in a black flood. Across the breadth of the battlefield, the beginnings of the orderly retreat collapsed. The Horde fell on the stragglers and the slower wagons and carts of supplies. Gregson’s stomach clenched as the screams rose. The eastern flank of the Legion held, but gave ground. The western flank was shoved up against the Northward Ridge and quickly surrounded. Gregson’s hand fell to his sword even as he took a step in their direction, but he ground to a halt, forcing himself to turn away from the sickening sight as the trapped Legionnaires were cut down. Swallowing against the bile in the back of his throat, the skin at the corners of his eyes tight, he found his own small group watching him intently.

“We can’t help them,” he said, voice rough, like gravel. “We’d only die trying. We have to get as many people as we can to Temeritt while the Horde’s distracted.”

He hated himself for saying it, saw a few of the men
­staring starkly toward the ridge, hands tensed on sword hilts. He didn’t wait for them to protest, stepping forward, hardening his voice, his expression. “Go! Move, move, move!” He grabbed Leont’s shoulder and pushed him toward the south, heard Terson growl, “You heard the lieutenant!” Jayson did the same with the remaining refugees, he and Ara urging the rest onward, deeper into the trees.

Convinced they were moving again, Gregson glanced back to see the Horde scattering on the battlefield behind, the center line of resistance completely gone. A significant portion had turned to focus on the two remaining flanks, but the rest were charging up the hillside after those fleeing toward Temeritt, no order or organization to their attack. The retreat had become a rout.

He couldn’t see GreatLord Kobel’s banner anywhere.

Fighting back a wave of despair, he turned and ran after his own men.

They fled, ducking through trees and sprinting across fields. The evening light began to fade and from the falling darkness they could hear ragged screams and the sounds of men and creatures crashing through the forest to either side. At one point, three riderless horses charged past, their saddles streaked with blood, the animals’ eyes wide with terror. When Terson and a few of the men tried to cut them off, to capture them, they veered away and vanished into the harsh silver moonlight. Moments later, they burst into a clearing where a small group of six Legionnaires were being harried by a pack of the catlike creatures. Drawing his sword, Gregson fell on the creatures with a vengeance, all of the fear and desperation he had experienced over the last few weeks coming to the fore. Sweat stung in his eyes as he lunged, growling without words, his sword sinking into flesh. His own Legion joined him, rallying to his side and killing the last of the hissing monstrosities in moments. Gregson staggered back from the slaughter, ran a hand
across his forehead, felt stinging dark blood against his face, but Terson was already herding the group onward. Curtis threw one of the rescued Legionnaire’s arms over his shoulder, the man covered with slashes across his face, arms, and legs. The other Legionnaires were in better condition. One of them was one of the Legion’s horn bearers.