Authors: Benjamin Tate
Well of Sorrows (81 page)
“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.
And then time slipped, became a blur of parry and feint, his blade flicking across throats, cutting into arms and legs. He brought the hilt down on top of exposed heads, kicked with his feet to dislodge helms and shove his horse forward, heading toward Thaedoren.
He felt the Legion’s reinforcement join the fray more than saw it. A ripple spread through the mass of men, packed so tightly together they could barely move, a surge that shuddered through his legs. He glanced up in time to see resurgent hope spread through the Legion before the entire Alvritshai line was physically shoved backward. His horse screamed as it stumbled, fought for footing on ground already churned to mud, soaked with blood and riddled with the bodies of those that had fallen. He struggled to bring it around, stabbed down into a man’s face, his cattan slicing along the man’s nose before he jerked back with a shriek, his cheek sliced open and hanging, the bone of his jaw exposed—
And then his horse regained its footing. The Alvritshai line steadied as well, and it continued to hold, on all sides, against the dwarren and the Legion, to the north and the south. Lines shifted, wavering back and forth across the blood-drenched plains, no one force gaining any appreciable ground, no one race making any headway. It continued for hours, the sun sinking into the horizon to the west, over the edge of the Escarpment.
Before it had half vanished, a shudder ran through the entire ranks of the Legion. Glancing up, the position of the sun only now registering, Aeren saw a group of Legionnaires standing two hundred paces back from the line, men with flags racing back and forth on either side of the main group. King Stephan stood at the front of the group, surrounded by two of the Governors of the Provinces, glowering at the Alvritshai position, at where Thaedoren had withdrawn slightly.
The two stared at each other as the Legion began to retreat, breaking away and withdrawing back toward their camp to the north.
The Alvritshai forces pursued them, until Thaedoren motioned to his own horn-bearer, and the call to retreat echoed across to the plains, joined by the long, drawn-out beats of the dwarren drums.
As all sides pulled back, dragging wounded with them, Aeren surveyed the dead they left behind, counted the Legion on the field and those they’d kept back, then turned to Eraeth, his Protector covered in sweat and dirt and blood, some of it his own.
“We cannot win this battle,” he said grimly.
And then he signaled House Rhyssal to retreat.
22
A
EREN STOOD INSIDE THE TENT, at the head of the gathering of the Evant—only Lord Khalaek was missing—with the Tamaell Presumptive sitting to his right, Lotaern to his left, Eraeth and a few Phalanx from House Rhyssal and Resue behind them. Servants had brought trays of food, platters of cheese and fruit, and jugs of wine, passing them among the lords as they marched in from the field. Others eased their lords out of armor, while healers dabbed at wounds. Lord Waerren had taken a vicious cut to his upper arm and winced as it was stitched closed. Barak ran fingers through hair matted with blood, taking a proffered towel so he could wipe the grit and dust from his face. Each was surrounded by his House Phalanx, nearly everyone being tended, all of them grumbling or grimacing as they were poked and prodded. Moiran moved among them, helping where she could.
EREN STOOD INSIDE THE TENT, at the head of the gathering of the Evant—only Lord Khalaek was missing—with the Tamaell Presumptive sitting to his right, Lotaern to his left, Eraeth and a few Phalanx from House Rhyssal and Resue behind them. Servants had brought trays of food, platters of cheese and fruit, and jugs of wine, passing them among the lords as they marched in from the field. Others eased their lords out of armor, while healers dabbed at wounds. Lord Waerren had taken a vicious cut to his upper arm and winced as it was stitched closed. Barak ran fingers through hair matted with blood, taking a proffered towel so he could wipe the grit and dust from his face. Each was surrounded by his House Phalanx, nearly everyone being tended, all of them grumbling or grimacing as they were poked and prodded. Moiran moved among them, helping where she could.
The day’s fighting settled over Aeren like a mantle, heavy and encompassing. Exhaustion dragged down on his arms, threatening to pull him to the floor. Weariness lay thick on his shoulders. He ached in places he hadn’t felt in thirty years, since the last time they’d fought on these plains. He wanted merely to retreat to his tents, tend to his wounds, as minor as they were, and sleep.
But the Tamaell Presumptive had called a meeting of the Evant.
As soon as the healers had finished and the servants had retreated, Thaedoren ordered everyone but the Evant out, including his mother, then turned and nodded at Aeren.
Aeren didn’t wait for silence, didn’t even wait until he had the lords’ attention. He simply said again, quietly, “We cannot win this battle.”
The reaction was instantaneous and explosive. The lords spluttered or growled, would have stood had they not been as exhausted as Aeren himself. Their protests escalated, until Lord Peloroun leaned forward and shouted, “Preposturous! How can you say this at this stage? We have only been on the field for a few days!”
“And how were you faring during those few days? How much ground did you gain before the dwarren arrived?” Aeren shot back.
The rest of the lords fell silent at the vehemence in Aeren’s tone, surprised. Aeren had never been quick to anger, but he was furious now. “We didn’t come here to fight,” Aeren growled. “We came here to
end
the fighting, to negotiate a peace with the dwarren. There was never any intention to stage a prolonged battle, especially against two separate armies on the same battlefield!”
end
the fighting, to negotiate a peace with the dwarren. There was never any intention to stage a prolonged battle, especially against two separate armies on the same battlefield!”
“That was not the intent,” Peloroun said, voice hard, “but some of us knew that forging peace was merely a weak lord’s—a
diplomat’s
—dream, nothing more.”
diplomat’s
—dream, nothing more.”
Aeren ignored the slight. “And so you brought your Phalanx, nearly five hundred strong from your House alone by the time we’d reached the borders.”
“Two thousand more joined us while you and the Tamaell Presumptive went off to meet with the dwarren,” Peloroun said. “Or were you not aware of the reinforcements the Tamaell had arranged?”
“I was aware of them. And it is still not enough. Not when you factor in the loss of over two hundred Alvritshai on the battlefield today. Two hundred Alvritshai sent to Aielan’s Light!”
“Ha!” Peloroun spat to one side. “What does a diplomat know of war?”
Aeren drew in a deep breath to calm himself, glanced around at the other lords, saw some of them with skeptical expressions, clearly siding with Peloroun.
But a few were frowning.
He focused on Peloroun. “Think back to the field today, Lord Peloroun. Think back to the battle.”
Peloroun grunted and sat back grudgingly. “Our lines held.”
“Barely. The dwarren lines held as well, and the Legion provided a serious threat. They nearly broke through your own ranks on the northern flank. If not for House Duvoraen in reserve to bolster it, the Legion would have overrun Lord Jydell’s forces.” Some of Jydell’s men nodded in agreement.
“But it isn’t House Ionaen’s weakness that I wish to emphasize,” Aeren continued, and Peloroun’s eyes sharpened. “What I want to point out is that neither the dwarren nor the humans committed their entire force. Harticur—Cochen of the dwarren Gathering and commander of its Riders—sent only half of them to the front lines—”
“He was acting in defense only!” Peloroun protested.
But Aeren overrode him. “—and King Stephan kept over a third of the Legion in reserve. He sent a mere two hundred men to bolster his line near the end of the fighting today, and it nearly broke us!”
More grumbling and nodding from the rest of the lords and their caitans. Most were frowning now, at least two in whispered conversations, comparing notes and observations on the battle. They’d had little time to talk since it had ended.
Aeren wasn’t finished. With a sharp look at Thaedoren, the Tamaell Presumptive giving an almost imperceptible nod, he said, “And then there’s the matter of supplies.”
Peloroun practically leaped forward. “Supplies are on their way as we speak. Arrangements were made before the convoy even left Caercaern.”
“We couldn’t have accounted for the occumaen. It plowed its way through the heart of our camp and nearly wiped out our current resources. According to the latest inventory, we have enough supplies with rationing to last for five more days. The next load of supplies isn’t scheduled to arrive for at least ten days.
“We’re outnumbered, and in another few days, we’ll be out of food.”
The silence that followed slowly gave way to muted murmurs. He caught fragments of a few of the conversations, lords verifying their own supplies after the occumaen’s passage with their caitans. Lord Peloroun leaned to one side, not taking his eyes off Aeren, to listen to his own caitan, and his frown deepened.
Finally, the mood in the tent now black and apprehensive, Peloroun said, “If what you say is true—and from what my caitan tells me, it is—then what do you propose we do?”
He already knew what Aeren was going to say, Aeren could hear it in his voice, but he answered anyway. “Withdraw.”
For the first time since the meeting had started, Peloroun surged to his feet, his face contorted with rage, with indignation, his hands clenched into fists at his sides, barely restraining himself from crossing the short distance separating them. “You expect us to retreat after the bastards killed the Tamaell?” he spat through clenched teeth.
Aeren opened his mouth to respond, but Thaedoren was the one who answered, his low voice filling the room, cutting everyone’s protests short.
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