Leaves of Flame (69 page)

The same pained, grim look flashed through Eraeth’s eyes.

He didn’t answer.

“Is that the last of the Cochen’s forces?” Quotl asked. His voice still sounded odd to his ears, throbbing deep in his chest, and many of the dwarren who rode past gave him strange looks. Nearly all of them reached for the totems woven into their beards, some muttering prayers and raising them to their mouths to be kissed. Even those wounded, covered in blood and battle-­weary, paused a moment before being ushered on by the shamans who tended them.

Quotl tried to ignore them, as he had ignored the reactions of Azuka and the others on the battlefield. But it was becoming increasingly difficult to brush the looks aside.

Azuka nodded. “The last of those in the main group have entered the cavern, including the Cochen, the clan chiefs, and the Archon.” Azuka shot him a sidelong look as he mentioned the Archon, which Quotl also chose to ignore.

“Then seal the warren.”

Azuka opened his mouth to protest—­the order should have come from the Archon or the Cochen—­but stopped himself, casting another glance at Quotl before nodding and kneeing his gaezel forward through the throng of dwarren toward the main entrance. Quotl remained behind, his gaze sweeping over those that filled the wide tunnel without really seeing them. A sense of inevitability enfolded him, numbed him. The power that had suffused him on the battlefield had waned, but his connection to it had not broken. It had merely subsided into the background.

He didn’t know what had happened, didn’t understand what it meant, but he was beginning to think it was more than simple chance. He’d overheard some of the rumors
that were already threading their way through the dwarren ranks. Whispers that he’d been touched by the gods, that Ilacqua worked through him, even that he’d become a god himself.

He’d snorted in contempt at that last. But it was a troubled snort.

From far down the tunnel, he heard a rumble of stone that escalated and grew. He reached out to touch the wall beside him, his gaezel fidgeting beneath his weight as it felt the rock trembling. The roar of falling rubble increased, then peaked. As it began to fade, a cloud of dust and grit suddenly engulfed the entire corridor, moving swiftly past all of the gathered dwarren, the Riders crying out in alarm and breaking into fits of coughing. Torches guttered in the gust of air, a few sputtering out. Gaezels shifted restlessly. Quotl held his breath as long as he could, then sucked in a lungful of air, tasting the dry dust of stone in the back of his throat a moment before his lungs protested and he began coughing as well. As soon as the cloud of grit passed, it began to settle, everyone covered in a light gray-­white film. Riders brushed themselves off and the hacking and wheezing faded.

“Who ordered the collapse?”

Quotl winced at the outcry, the voice instantly recognizable, a sour taste twisting his mouth into a grimace. He straightened, ran a hand down his dust-­coated face, and prayed, wishing fervently for his pipe.

“I did,” he said, raising his voice to be heard even though the Riders that were within range had fallen silent. “I called for the collapse of the entrance.”

He turned to face the Archon.

On the far side of the tunnel, at least a hundred strides away, Kimannen spun in his seat, face contorted in rage. He stood with the Cochen, the clan chief covered in blood, his arm held out to the ministrations of one of Red Sea’s shamans.
Two of the other clan chiefs—­Corranu of Painted Sands and Asazi of Broken Waters—­flanked the Cochen and the Archon, also wounded.

“The sealing of the warren is the Archon’s responsibility,” Kimannen spat. He dragged his gaezel around and headed toward Quotl, the Riders between parting before him, their gazes flickering back and forth between the two.

Quotl stiffened, reaching forward to still his gaezel when it snorted in defiance. “You were preoccupied with the Cochen and his wounds, although I see that one of your shamans has seen to them.”

Kimannen glared at the mild rebuke, halting a short distance away. “You overstep your bounds, Quotl. You always have.”

At the threat that underlay the words, the Riders surrounding Kimannen stirred, a grumble of discontent rumbling forth. The Archon did not appear to notice.

Quotl’s eyes narrowed. “Would you have left the warren open?”

“Of course not. We cannot allow the Wraith army access to the tunnels, to the Confluence.”

“Then I have merely anticipated your orders.”

“That is not the point!” the Archon shouted, trembling slightly. But when the murmur of dissent rippled among the Riders at his tone, he shot dark looks to either side. Confusion passed across his face, and he drew his gaezel back at the looks the dwarren were giving him, looks as dark as those he’d flung at Quotl.

He returned to face Quotl, the glare becoming a glower of hatred, of resentment.

He edged his gaezel closer, so that they stood side to side. His features smoothed, the anger draining away, although this close Quotl could still see it simmering deep in the Archon’s eyes. He drew himself up to his full height and said, “You wielded the power of Ilacqua I sent you well on
the battlefield today. I can feel it inside of you still. I see now that I was mistaken. It was Ilacqua who guided you in sealing the warren behind us, yes? As it was Ilacqua, through me, who guided you at the Break?”

All eyes were on Quotl. Doubt had crept into the murmurs of dissent from the Riders, doubt Quotl knew he could crush with a few words. He could challenge Kimannen here and now, seize the Archon’s position before all of those gathered. It was not how the Archon was chosen, but this was the Turning. The world was slipping toward chaos, and perhaps that was the best reason to wrest control from Kimannen. They needed a strong Archon now more than ever.

But they also needed stability, especially among the clans. Kimannen hadn’t kept control for so long because he was powerless. He had allies among the clans, knew how to manipulate them to get what he wanted. Most of the shamans knew that a few were more powerful than Kimannen when it came to Ilacqua’s blessings, knew that Kimannen’s personal communion with the gods had been slipping recently. But they couldn’t afford a dispute among the shamans at this time. Not after the battle.

Quotl allowed himself to relax, his hand moving to calm the gaezel he rode. “Ilacqua guides me in all things, Kimannen, here and on the battlefield.”

Kimannen’s nostrils flared at the use of his name, rather than his title, but he answered, “As I suspected.” His gaze raked those watching. “The warren is sealed by Ilacqua’s will! Prepare to depart!”

Then, attention back on Quotl, leaning forward, so that only Quotl would hear, he said coldly, “You are not the Archon.”

He jerked his gaezel’s head around and headed back ­toward the Cochen. Oraju and the other clan chiefs had remained silent, but watchful. Corranu caught Quotl’s
attention and nodded, the motion subtle but laden with respect. Oraju’s expression was impossible to read.

As soon as Kimannen turned his back, Quotl sighed. Tension in his shoulders drained away.

“Kimannen did not send you Ilacqua’s strength on the battlefield,” Azuka said from behind him.

Quotl started. He hadn’t heard the shaman return. He frowned at him, as if his inattention had been Azuka’s fault. “Who is to say? The Archon was distant. Perhaps he appealed to Ilacqua to aid us.”

Azuka’s penetrating stare didn’t falter. “The shamans know. And most of the Riders on the field.
They saw you
.”

A queasy unease ran through Quotl’s gut at the intensity in Azuka’s voice and his hand twitched toward his pipe. He waved his hand in frustration. “What did they see? I am nothing but a shaman, an old one at that, well past my prime.”

Azuka smiled. “True. But you’ve changed.”

“How? How have I changed?”

Azuka’s eyes widened. “You can’t see it, can you?”

Quotl answered with a heated glare and Azuka settled back in his seat. His brow creased in thought.

“It’s hard to explain. I’d have said that you glowed, but that’s not accurate. You appear the same, and yet there’s
more
. More life, more energy, more
you
. I can sense you even when I cannot see you, and what I feel emanating from you is…” He groped for a moment, then sighed, shoulders sagging. “What I feel is hope.”

Quotl remained silent. Azuka’s words made him uncomfortable, the stares of those Riders around him were worse. Throughout the chamber, dwarren began to pick themselves up and remount, those who were being attended by the shamans now finished. The clan chiefs were issuing orders, preparing to ride back toward the Confluence. They would need to discuss strategy, need to decide which of the
warren entrances would have to be collapsed to keep the Wraith army at bay. Patrols would have to be established on the main routes in the east, a warning system put in place, supplies organized and all of the clans coordinated in the defense of the Confluence and the Lands.

The amount of planning and preparation staggered Quotl.

“You have been touched by the gods, Quotl, whether you like it or not.”

Quotl would have protested, but realized he couldn’t. Not when he could still feel the power he’d found on the battlefield coursing through him. Not when he could still feel the Lands beneath his feet.

Gregson stiffened, his heart aching, his throat hot and tight. He stood on the third wall of Temeritt in the darkness, the night sky open above, the stars brittle and clear. He’d been on the walls for hours, weary from the fighting, from the long, arduous march from Cobble Kill, the horrifying collapse of the Legion’s defenses near the Northward Ridge and the flight to Temeritt. But he could not sleep. He’d come here seeking solace, the familiarity of the Legion, the camaraderie of men who’d trained in the barracks here in Temeritt, beneath the GreatLord’s eye, in the shadow of the Autumn Tree.

He would not find any solace tonight. No one in Temeritt would.

The Legion manned the walls to either side, armored, with spears and pikes held straight at their sides. Between them stood other men—­some of them no more than boys, really, ten or twelve, but men now—­clad in odds and ends, with whatever armor they could find that would fit them, carrying weapons that were unfamiliar and unwieldy at their sides. A gasp had run along the length of the wall moments
before, some men shifting forward, others back. Some had fallen to their knees while others signed themselves with Diermani’s skewed cross and muttered prayers beneath their breath. A few were weeping.

They all watched what Gregson watched, what all of the citizens of Temeritt watched, even though he couldn’t see them in the city below. He knew they were there, standing at windows, or lying on rooftops. He could
feel
them in the city that sprawled to either side and behind. He could smell their fear, like rank sweat, could smell their horror.

For below, on the low hills that surrounded the city, the fires of the Horde’s camp flickered. Thousands upon thousands of fires.

At the center of the Horde’s army lay the Autumn Tree.

And the Autumn Tree burned.