Well of Sorrows (65 page)

And Colin was Rhyssal-aein.

A short time later, Moiran emerged from the tent, wiping her hands free of blood with a wet cloth. She squinted into the sunlight and turned toward the sounds of battle.

After a long moment of silence, she said, “He’s still alive, although barely. The water of the ruanavriell—the Blood of Aielan— it helped to stanch the flow of blood, but the healer says Colin is still bleeding inside, that the damage there is . . . extensive. He’s sealed the wound, but he does not expect him to survive. The ruanavriell is not enough.”

“Colin was given into my care by Lord Aeren himself.”

She faced him, hands on her hips, her eyes intent. “I owe him a debt myself,” she said. “For Thaedoren’s life, if you are correct, as well as my own. There’s nothing more to be done here.”

Eraeth hesitated. The knife he’d drawn from Colin’s chest weighed heavily in his hand, the blood already drying.

“Go,” Moiran said, her voice gentle. “I will take care of him. You need to protect your lord.”

Eraeth handed Moiran Colin’s knife, pressing it into the soiled cloth she still held, even though she still wore the bloodstained dress and had a smear of dried blood on her cheek. “Return this,” he said, and then he dug into the pocket hidden in the folds of cloth of his shirt beneath the hardened leather of his armor and removed the cloth-wrapped vial Colin had given him on the plains, the vial that contained the Lifeblood.

He held it before him a long moment, staring at the clear liquid through the glass. He could see Colin’s pained expression, heated with anger, as he handed it over, still hunched in the grass from the seizure. Those seizures had decreased after that, until he’d begun returning to the forest to converse with the Faelehgre about the Wraiths and the sukrael.

The Lifeblood hurt him, but Eraeth knew it could save him as well.

“Take this,” he said gruffly, handing the vial to Moiran, catching her confused gaze and holding it. “If he asks for me, give this to him. But only if he asks.”

Moiran nodded.

And then Eraeth stepped away, letting his concern over Colin fall behind, resting it on Moiran’s shoulders. He motioned to one of the nearest Phalanx. “A horse! Now!”

Ten minutes later, he dug in his heels, the horse leaping forward, charging out of the camp and over the ridge, toward the battlefield below.

Aeren’s cattan met the Legionnaire’s blade with a clash, metal scraping against metal as it slid down toward the hilt. The grizzled, bearded man howled and jerked his blade away, thrusting Aeren’s cattan to the side, swinging wide. Sweat drenched the man’s face, droplets flung from his hair as he twisted, bringing his sword around for another strike—

But Aeren was quicker. His cattan sank into the break in the man’s armor beneath the armpit, in and out in the space of a breath.

The man’s roar choked off and he staggered backward, the momentum he’d built up for the swing faltering and dragging him off-balance. He tripped over the body of a fellow Legionnaire and went down, but Aeren barely saw him, spinning where he stood, searching for Thaedoren.

The Tamaell Presumptive was still astride his horse, surrounded by at least twenty members of the Phalanx, all from House Resue, and as Aeren’s gaze picked him out of the mass of men and Alvritshai fighting on the open battlefield before the Escarpment, the leader of House Resue and the Evant bellowed a challenge and charged toward the thickest group of Legionnaires, his mount plowing into the morass without hesitation. His Phalanx roared after him, cattans already bloody.

Aeren moved toward the group, his own escort—slightly scattered and dealing with the last of the men who’d hit them hard an hour before, as the three armies collided on the plains—falling in around him with a sharp order.

“What now?” Dharel asked, trotting alongside him. His face was dark, a trail of blood down one side of his neck from a cut near his ear.

“Back to the Tamaell Presumptive’s side,” Aeren said. “That last wave spread us out too far. We need to regroup.” He didn’t mention the loss of his horse, cut from beneath him when the humans had first struck, their front line so overwhelming it had split their forces nearly in two. Thaedoren had divided the army into two fronts, had struck the field at the head of a vee, each side ready to face the two opposing forces, the left—consisting of Houses Nuant, Licaeta, and Baene—confronting the dwarren, the right—Houses Redlien, Ionaen, and Duvoraen—facing the Legion. After careful consideration, he’d ordered Lord Khalaek’s men to follow Khalaek’s caitan, not trusting Khalaek’s men to follow any other lord’s directions on the field. House loyalty was fierce, and most of Khalaek’s men were already grumbling over the seizure of their lord. Thaedoren then ordered Aeren to stay close, leaving Lords Jydell and Peloroun in charge of the southern flank.

The strongest Houses were facing the Legion. They were the greatest threat. The Legion were better trained, had better armor and longer reaches, and there were more of them. And the Legion had the greater conviction, the most hatred. Aeren could sense it on the field, had seen it in each of the men’s eyes as they attacked him. A good portion of the Legion here on the field were older. Old enough to remember the previous battle on this land, when the Alvritshai had turned on their allies and assassinated their King.

The memories of that battle crowded forward. Not the fighting, but the final stages of the attack, when they’d pressed the dwarren to the lip of the Escarpment . . . and then over.

The screams as they’d fallen—both dwarren and the higher, more piercing shrieks of the gaezels—haunted his dreams still.

“Look!”

Aeren slowed and spun, caught sight of Auvant, then turned to look in the direction his House guardsman had pointed.

The northern edge of the line, near where Lord Peloroun stood, had begun to crumble. Legion poured through the breaks.

“Signal House Duvoraen!” Aeren snapped, his horn-bearer scrambling to pull the curved horn from its place at his side.

The short peals of the horn rang out, ordering House Duvoraen to aide Peloroun. Aeren watched, breath held, as Peloroun fought to keep his line intact. Lord Jydell attempted to send some of his own force, but his men were already locked in desperate battle with the Legion.

As Peloroun’s line finally sagged and gave way completely, House Duvoraen, led by its Phalanx caitan instead of its lord, charged into the middle of the fray in a tight arc around Lord Jydell’s men. Aeren expelled a held breath in relief.

For a long moment, the Legion that had broken through held. Alvritshai fell to human swords. Horses stumbled and sank beneath the crushing waves of men, killing more men and Alvritshai as they panicked. The caitan’s mount reared, and Aeren heard Dharel suck air between his teeth as it wavered, threatening to tumble backward and crush the Duvoraen’s temporary leader. But then he regained control, and the horse dropped, hooves kicking, one crushing the head of a Legionnaire, the man falling like a sack of grain.

The caitan roared, so loud Aeren could hear it through the chaos of the battle on all sides, the sound flat with distance. The Alvritshai responded, both Duvoraen and Ionaen. They surged forward, gaining momentum as they charged, like an ocean’s wave approaching the shore. They crashed into the rough line the Legion had formed and shoved it back, hard, enough that the Alvritshai line rejoined with Lord Jydell.

Aeren allowed himself to breathe, grimacing at the stench of the battlefield. The smell of blood was sharp, permeated with death, an undertone of churned earth and trampled grass beneath that and, faintly, from somewhere close, smoke. Satisfied that the line would hold, Aeren turned back toward the Tamaell Presumptive. He hadn’t been certain how the caitan of House Duvoraen would react to his lord being supplanted, but it appeared that his fears were unjustified. “Call House Rhyssal to me.”

The horn-bearer nodded, raising the silvered horn to his lips. As the call to regroup faded, Aeren heard the pounding of hooves, close, and turned to see Eraeth pulling to a halt on the outside of the assembling group.

“Lord Aeren,” Eraeth said. “You called?”

Aeren grinned, Dharel and Auvant doing the same to either side. “It’s good to see you. While Dharel and Auvant are more than competent, it’s been strange not having you fighting by my side.” But then his grin faltered. “Shaeveran?”

All of the surrounding guardsmen shifted. Word of what Colin had done in the tent had been passed among them almost instantly, and nearly all of them had seen Eraeth carrying him from the field, had seen the knife in his chest, the blood that even now soaked the front of Eraeth’s shirt.

Eraeth’s expression darkened, and when he spoke there was apprehension in his voice. “I left him in the Tamaea’s care. A healer tended him, but he couldn’t say whether he’d survive. I left the Tamaea the vial Shaeveran gave into my care on the plains.”

Aeren nodded, as those of House Rhyssal who’d continued to gather to the call murmured, passing the word. “Her debt to him is as great as ours,” he said, and saw Eraeth relax slightly. Then the edge of his grin returned. “And Shaeveran has a habit of surviving longer than he has any right to.”

A few of the men chuckled. Aeren felt the moment of dread, of depression and despair, slip away and thanked Aielan’s Light, sending a prayer for Colin along with the thanks. He had his doubts about Colin’s survival—he’d seen the wound, seen the blood and the paleness of Colin’s face as Eraeth gathered him into his arms— but he’d be damned if he let his men see them.

“What now?” Eraeth said. He scanned the field, gazing at the line to the north. The southern line against the dwarren had held, but that was because the dwarren had kept half of their force in reserve and were only fighting defensively. They’d made no push to take ground or break the Alvritshai line, focusing most of their attention on the more aggressive Legion forces trying to break through their ranks to the west.

As Eraeth eyed the dwarren lines, his brow furrowing, Aeren said, “They’re waiting. To see how the battle plays out.”

“Or to see if this is some type of trick,” Eraeth said. “Like the last time they were on this field. They’re wary it may happen again.”

Aeren nodded. But before he could respond, Dharel said, “Movement in the Legion ranks.”

Both Aeren and his Protector turned toward the north, but Eraeth had the advantage of height, still astride his horse.

“Two groups, a hundred men each,” he reported. “Reserve units. They’re heading toward the Tamaell Presumptive’s position.”

“Dharel, left flank, Auvant, take the right, we’ll support the Tamaell Presumptive.”

“Until he sounds a retreat or we’re all dead,” Eraeth threw in with a feral grin.

Both Dharel and Auvant chuckled, then spun and began shouting orders, the House Rhyssal Phalanx falling into line behind them. Eraeth stood down from the horse and handed the reins to Aeren. After a moment’s hesitation, Aeren swung up into the saddle. Eraeth took position to his left, the horn-bearer to his right. Someone had salvaged the Rhyssal banner—a deep blue field with the red wings of the eagle flaring to both sides—and carried it a few paces behind.

Eraeth tugged at his arm, and he glanced downward. “The Wraith?”

Aeren frowned, thought back to what he’d seen of the Wraith when Colin had pulled Thaedoren and himself back so they could witness Khalaek’s betrayal.

The Wraith had been wounded as badly as Colin, if not worse. He’d been clutching the side of his chest at first, blood pouring out of him, more blood than Aeren thought a human could possess.

And then Khalaek—with the Wraith’s sword leveled at his throat, touching it with enough pressure to draw blood—had punched the wound hard.

Aeren had seen a flare of metal in Khalaek’s hand a moment before it struck, some type of dagger or knife jutting out between the fingers of the clenched fist.

“I don’t think the Wraith will be an issue,” Aeren said. “Not right now.”

When Dharel and Auvant signaled ready, Aeren turned toward the Tamaell Presumptive’s line, less than a hundred paces distant. He could see Thaedoren in the center of the mass of men and Alvritshai, could see the House Resue colors as the line shifted back and forth, undulating like a river. And beyond them, the Legion reserves, thundering forward on horses, coming from both sides.

He raised his cattan, readied it. He felt the exhaustion from the battle already fought, felt the weariness in his arms, in his legs.

Then he signaled the horn-bearer.

As the first clear note sounded, he kicked his horse into motion, eyes forward, locked on Thaedoren, the Tamaell Presumptive who would become the Tamaell once the battle ended . . . if he survived.

And Aeren intended him to survive.

With that thought he cried out, his men breaking into battle cries to either side.

And then they struck.

Aeren felt the impact through his entire body, juddering up from his horse as it plowed into the Legion’s ranks, the Alvritshai that had held them back opening up before them as they heard the roar of their approach. Aeren brought his cattan down, slashing through the throat of the Legionnaire in front, letting the blade’s momentum carry it to the side before adjusting its motion and punching it down through the chest of another man. He planted his foot on the man’s shoulder as blood fountained from his mouth, the man’s scream drowned out in his own blood, then shoved, his cattan slipping free. He nudged his horse forward, caught Eraeth’s blade flickering with the dying sunlight to the left, saw the horn-bearer, horn now at his side, cattan free, scream as a Legionnaire’s blade took him in the side. Another Alvritshai in Rhyssal colors took the horn-bearer’s place.