Colin blinked and raised a hand to shield his eyes from the glaring sunlight as he, Eraeth, and Siobhaen emerged from the tunnel opening onto the eastern plains of dwarren territory. He pulled his horse to a halt, Eraeth and Siobhaen doing the same behind him, the animal tossing its head and prancing. He released the reins to allow it to crop at the mid-spring grasses. To the east, the grassland was broken by variegated red layers of stone outcroppings and mesas, the distinguishing feature of Painted Sands land. The reddish stone would increase in frequency, until the grassland gave way to a harsh landscape of stone, scrub, and sand of every color imaginable, finally falling into the wastelands beyond.
“Aielan’s Light,” Siobhaen gasped, throwing her head and arms back to soak in the sunlight. “I never thought I’d see the sun again. How long were we traveling underground?”
Colin smiled. “Nearly a month.”
Siobhaen reached back to loosen her long black hair from the cord that tied it away from her face. She shook her head with a scowl. “I don’t understand how they can live that way.”
“The Alvritshai used to live within the mountains beneath Caercaern and along the Hauttaeren.”
Siobhaen snorted. “Because we were driven there by the glaciers and the harsh winters in the north. We didn’t live there by choice, and we didn’t live there all year. Look at all of this land they aren’t using!”
Colin glanced around, then dismounted. “This land is what they were sworn to protect. They do use some of it-for farming and such-and they have set aside portions of it for trade, but no, they don’t use the rest of it. It’s sacred to them.”
Siobhaen shook her head. “I still don’t understand.”
“You weren’t raised with the dwarren beliefs,” Eraeth said, following Colin’s lead and dismounting, allowing his horse to graze. “Should we rest here before continuing?”
Colin grinned. “A moment to enjoy the sun would do us all good, I think.”
Eraeth pulled some dried meat from his packs and passed it around, Siobhaen lying down in the grass to soak up the sun, eyes closed. Colin took his staff and moved off to one side, scanning the southern horizon. The black clouds of a storm could be seen there, too distant to be threatening, moving away from them.
“Do you think the Cochen will send a warning to the Alvritshai and the Provinces as he said he would?” Eraeth asked as he halted next to Colin and handed him a strip of the meat.
“Yes. The dwarren take their vows seriously. Look at how long they’ve protected the Lands they were given. When they signed the Accord, they were the only ones who truly meant to keep its word to the letter. I suspect that a group of dwarren has already been dispatched to Caercaern and Corsair, sent before the gathered army headed toward the east.” He motioned toward the storm, a flare of lightning brightening the clouds for a moment. “That is what truly concerns me.”
“We’ve dealt with those storms before.”
Colin shook his head. “No, not the storm. What it portends. The Wraiths are using the Source to target both the Summer Tree and the Autumn Tree, and the Autumn Tree is in Temeritt, far from Corsair.”
“Then the dwarren should send a warning to Temeritt and whatever GreatLord rules there.”
Colin nodded. “I urged Cochen Oraju to do that, and he said he would. But I’m afraid the warning may come too late.”
“Should we try to warn them ourselves?”
“We don’t have time. The dwarren and the Provinces will have to fend for themselves.”
“What about the Winter Tree?” Siobhaen asked. When Colin turned, he found her propped up on her elbows, her dark eyes concerned. “Have they attacked the Winter Tree? Is Caercaern in trouble as well?”
“The Wraiths haven’t targeted the Winter Tree yet. At least, not that I could sense through the Summer Tree. The Source doesn’t border on the Winter Tree’s influence.”
“And what about the Spring Tree?” Eraeth said, one eyebrow raised, his tone casual.
Colin shot him a hard warning look, but the Protector didn’t back down. “What makes you think there is a Spring Tree?” he asked bluntly.
“Common sense.”
Colin snorted, then noticed Siobhaen had sat up completely, her attention focused on Colin far too intently.
“Very few have asked about the Spring Tree,” Colin said guardedly. “I gave one Tree to each race, so that there would be no squabbling, no preferential treatment or sense of entitlement from anyone. But the fourth Tree.…”
“Where is it?” Siobhaen asked.
Colin settled a dark glare on her, frowning, then said curtly, “I have told no one where it is hidden, and there is no need for anyone to know. All you need to know is that it is safe and that it is well protected.”
When Siobhaen drew breath to press him further, he moved toward his horse and pulled himself up into the saddle, his staff set across his lap. He glowered down at both of them, noted Eraeth’s unequivocal acceptance of his assertion and Siobhaen’s blatant doubt and interest.
“We need to keep moving if we’re going to stay ahead of the dwarren army underground,” he said.
Then he kneed his horse into motion and headed out onto the empty plains, not waiting for either of them.
Moiran sat in her personal chambers in the Rhyssal House manse in Artillien, papers scattered across the small, low table before the settee where she reclined. Incense burned in a brazier of dwarren fashion on a pedestal in one corner, the fragrance sharp and spicy. The wood-paneled walls glowed in the light of a dozen candles strewn around the room on other tables of various sizes and shapes. A few held potted plants, vines hanging down to the floor, while others sported glass art from artisans across Wrath Suvane. Three additional chairs surrounded the main table at Moiran’s right, used when the ladies of the other Houses of the Evant visited, even though such occurrences were rare. The Ilvaeren-the equivalent of the Evant but run by the women, dealing with the trade agreements between the Houses-only met for a bonding of a lord, when a new lady would be introduced to the Ilvaeren, or upon the death of one of their own. There was simply no need otherwise. They could handle all of the necessary transactions through sealed letter and courier.
Moiran currently considered one such letter, tilting the parchment toward the sunlight coming in from the window and frowning. Lady Yssabo’s handwriting was elegant, her use of the quill superb, but the perfection of her letters could not blunt the refusal behind her words. She had no remaining grain to trade with Rhyssal House, she said. Vivaen, the Lady of House Licaeta, had asked for a larger than usual supply of barley and flax nearly two weeks before and she had seen no reason to refuse at the time. She sent her regrets.
Moiran lowered the letter, lips pursed, brow furrowed.
“If Father were here, and could see your face, he would apologize profusely for whatever he had done wrong.”
Moiran turned to find Fedaureon standing in the open doorway, a tight smile on his lips, a missive clutched in one hand, the paper crumpled. Daevon hovered behind him, unobstrusive. Even though Fedaureon’s words had been joking, they were tense.
Like his shoulders.
She arched an eyebrow at him. “And would he be wrong to apologize?”
Fedaureon shook his head with a small laugh. “Probably not.”
Her gaze dropped to the paper in his hand. “Is that from Aeren?”
Fedaureon stepped into the room, taking a seat across from her as she set the letter from Lady Yssabo on top of the pages on the table before her. Daevon took up a station to one side of the door. “It is. He sends word on the opening of the Evant. It isn’t good.”
He handed her the missive, ignoring her sharp glance. She smoothed the wrinkled parchment across her knee, Aeren’s smooth print soothing in its familiarity. He had departed for Caercaern with his escort of Phalanx and a covey of servants over three weeks before. He would already have spoken to many of the lords as they arrived, before the Evant was called into session. The Evant would have convened only three days ago.
As the realization struck, she looked up, eyes widening. “How can this be about the opening of the Evant? There hasn’t been enough time for a courier to arrive. Unless…”
“Two horses were ridden to death to bring this to us as fast as possible.”
When Fedaureon didn’t continue, she turned her attention to the letter. She read it fast, her breath quickening as the implications began to dawn on her, even as she murmured, “This isn’t possible. How could Thaedoren have allowed this? The Order of Aielan has always been separate from the Evant. Always. And now it is the equivalent of one of the Houses?”
“So it appears.” Fedaureon’s tone was serious, but Moiran couldn’t help but hear the youth in it. She didn’t think he understood what this would mean to the Evant, what it would mean to the stability of the Alvritshai.
How could he understand? He had only just begun to learn what it took to become a Lord of a House of the Evant. She had handed all of the basics of running the House to him when Aeren left for his foolhardy excursion to the White Wastes, had in effect allowed him to be the Lord of House Rhyssal, but that was nothing compared to the lord’s duties in the Evant and Caercaern.
“You don’t understand,” she snapped, more harshly than she’d intended. She tossed the parchment to the table as she stood. “The entire balance of the Evant will be disrupted. The power structure of Caercaern will shift. The Order has always had influence on the Evant, the faith of each lord affecting his decisions for that House, but this… this allows that same faith a position on the floor. The Chosen will be able to coerce the lords directly now. He’ll be able to introduce his own proposals, will wield the name of Aielan to sway those lords to his side, and with their votes-and his own-he will be able to push his policies through unopposed!” She began to pace, thinking aloud, Fedaureon watching her silently. She could feel his eyes on her as she moved. “Too many of the lords put their faith before their own interests. It’s too much power in the hands of one man. Why would Thaedoren allow it?”
“According to Father’s letter, the Tamaell did more than simply allow it,” Fedaureon said, retrieving the letter from the table. “He says that it was Thaedoren’s suggestion.”
“Your half brother would never do such a thing,” Moiran muttered dangerously.
“He must have had his reasons. The letter mentions Lady Reanne. Father says he can feel her influence in Caercaern already.”
Moiran shot Fedaureon a glare. She knew Fedaureon had never gotten along with Thaedoren and Daedalan, even though they were half siblings. There were too many years between them, Fedorem’s sons already full grown before Fedaureon’s birth, Thaedoren already the Tamaell of the Alvritshai. There had been little interaction between them, except on a political level.
That still did not excuse the bland condescension in Fedaureon’s tone.
“Tamaell Thaedoren is of your blood. You will not speak of him with that tone. Nor of Lady Reanne.”
Fedaureon held her gaze for an angry moment, before a measure of shame flickered through his eyes and he lowered his head slightly. Moiran straightened where she stood, then motioned toward the letter in his hands.
“What else does your father say? What does he suggest we do?”
Fedaureon scanned the parchment, although Moiran doubted he needed to reread the words. “He says that the Evant has ruled against the presence of the Order of the Flame in House lands unless they have the express permission of the lords to enter, but he doesn’t say anything about what we should do regarding the Order becoming a House itself.”
“He’s leaving that up to us, then.” She paused, then added, “Up to you.” When Fedaureon looked up, she said, “You are the Lord of Rhyssal House in his absence, not me. So what do you suggest?”
She watched as he considered, his brow furrowed in thought.
“There isn’t an overt threat yet, although both you and Father seem to think so. We should warn the Phalanx in our House lands, especially those who are patrolling the borders.”
“Anything else?”
Fedaureon considered, glanced toward Daevon, who merely raised one unhelpful eyebrow. “Increase the Phalanx guard here in Artillien.”
“Nothing more?”
He frowned. “No. The creation of a new House within the Evant isn’t enough to warrant anything more, not until the Order of Aielan has done something more blatant.”
“What about the members of the Order of the Flame that are already within Rhyssal House lands?”
Her son glanced down at the letter in his lap. “Father says that they have been ordered to return to Caercaern, unless given permission to remain by the lord of that House. He wants those within Rhyssal to leave, but we have to give them a reasonable amount of time before we can act. I don’t think we can do anything about them at the moment.”
He looked up, seeking her approval. But he was old enough and wise enough not to need it. She didn’t need to validate his decisions any longer. She couldn’t. He needed to begin standing on his own.
Instead, she said, “Very well, Lord Presumptive of Rhyssal House. You should make your wishes known to the Phalanx and the rest of the House.”
Fedaureon stood uncertainly, then departed, Daevon bowing formally and falling in behind him. She heard her son issuing orders before he’d reached the end of the hall, his voice sharp with confidence, all of the uncertainty gone. She nodded to herself, pleased, then moved to the table to pick up parchment and quill, dipping the nub into the bottle of ink to one side.
Fedaureon may not be able to do more without some further sign of aggression from Lotaern and the Order, but the Ilvaeren had no such political bounds.
She began to draft a letter to the ladies of those Houses allied most closely with Rhyssal. Halceon Nuant and Sovaeren Baene needed to be apprised of the situation as soon as possible. Perhaps they would be able to help. She wasn’t certain how, just yet, but as Tamaea, she’d learned long ago to keep her options open.
“We have to get word to GreatLord Kobel immediately,” Gregson said as soon as they entered the town of Cobble Kill. “Terson, begin drafting a missive as soon as you get back to the garrison. Curtis, Ricks, send out the alarm and begin gathering the rest of the Legion in the commons, along with anyone in town with a sword or who knows how to fight. And someone fetch the councilman.”
Terson nodded sharply and took off ahead of them, Curtis and Ricks following a horse-length behind, cutting past the few people who lined the street and the commons. Jayson watched them for a moment, then turned to find Gregson looking at him.
“What do you and the boy intend to do?” the lieutenant asked.
The question sent a jolt through Jayson’s body, prickling along his spine and shoulders. He involuntarily straightened in the saddle and sucked in a sharp breath. The numbness he’d felt since seeing Lianne’s body shuddered through him, and he glanced quickly toward Corim. He hadn’t permitted himself to think since they’d left Gray’s Kill, Gregson not even allowing them time to burn or bury the bodies. As soon as they’d verified that Lianne and Corim’s parents were dead, he’d ordered them back on horseback and herded them toward Cobble Kill. Jayson hadn’t protested and it never crossed his mind to stay behind. There was nothing left of Gray’s Kill, even though his mill remained standing. There were no farmers now, no one to bring grain to be milled.
But he hadn’t considered what he would do in Cobble Kill either.
“I don’t know,” he said and caught Corim’s eye. “I… I haven’t had time to think.”
Gregson nodded. “For now, I want you to stay here,” he said, and Jayson realized they’d stopped before Ara’s tavern. “Ara will put you up at the GreatLord’s expense. I’ll need to speak with the councilman of Cobble Kill. He may want to speak with you himself. And perhaps some of the other dignitaries in the town. After that… well, we’ll see. I may have to send you and the boy to Temeritt to give them your own accounting of what happened.”
“Temeritt?” Jayson swallowed. “I’ve never been farther than Jenkin’s Peak.”
Gregson’s eyebrows rose.
He jumped when a bell suddenly clanged, shattering the afternoon stillness. All heads in the commons turned toward the noise, including Gregson, who hadn’t even flinched.
“That’s the call to arms,” the lieutenant said.
On the stone plaza, men and women traded quick glances, women herding children back toward their homes, their errands forgotten. The men’s faces turned grim, hustling off in the direction Terson and the others had taken.
The doors to one of the main houses that looked out onto the square abruptly flung open and an elderly man stepped out onto the street, glaring toward the sound. Two other men appeared in the doorway. The man spat on the ground to one side, then noticed Gregson astride his mount before the tavern. His expression twisted into a grimace and he headed straight toward them.
Gregson sighed, but straightened in his saddle. “Councilman Darren.”
“What is the meaning of this?” the councilman growled as he approached, motioning toward the clamor from the garrison. “Why are you summoning the Legion? I have visitors, merchants of significance to two trading houses, including one Signal. This interruption to our business is intolerable!”
Jayson’s gaze shot toward the two men who had sidled out onto the front steps of the stone manse, looking after the councilman curiously. They were dressed in the vests of the trading companies, although the dark blue of the man on the right was obviously of finer quality, even from this distance. He must be the Signal.
Gregson’s eyes darkened. “Your business dealings are of no concern to me, Councilman. The safety of this town is.”
Darren spluttered. “I fail to see how the safety of the town is threatened at the moment.”
“Have you not heard?” Gregson said stiffly. “The village of Gray’s Kill has been razed to the ground, nearly all of the villagers slaughtered.”
The councilman stared at the lieutenant, eyes wide, mouth open.
Doubt had just begun to filter through the initial shock in the man’s eyes, changing almost instantly into disbelief and rage, when Jayson heard a hiss followed by a thunk as something struck the councilman in the chest.
Jayson’s heart lurched even as the councilman staggered, gaze dropping to the black arrow that protruded at a sharp angle just below his heart. Blood already stained his shirt, seeping downward. One hand rose to clutch at the shaft of the arrow, tugging at it weakly.
The councilman turned a confused look toward Gregson. “What-” he began, his voice no more than a whisper.
Then his legs gave out and he thumped down to his knees.
Jayson gaped, frozen, unable to process what had happened. The arrow didn’t make any sense; it had come from nowhere.
Then Gregson kicked his horse forward, his narrowed gaze shooting toward the rock promontory that overlooked the town.
Jayson looked just in time to see a figure stand and draw, the bow black against the blue sky, tufts of clouds scudding along behind him. Then he gasped, jerked forward, encumbered by his seat in the saddle, but managed to grab Gregson’s arm and haul him backward.
The arrow shot past Gregson’s shoulder and sank into the flank of his horse.
The animal screamed and reared, wrenching Gregson from Jayson’s grip and throwing him from the saddle, before charging across the commons, trampling the councilman as it passed.
“Diermani’s balls!” Gregson spat as he scrambled to his feet. On the promontory above, ten more archers had appeared. “Those aren’t dwarren,” he whispered. “They’re Alvritshai.”
Arrows lanced down into the commons, breaking the tableau as women shrieked and men dodged toward cover. Gregson’s horse had vanished down the southern road. The two tradesmen stared in shock at the councilman’s body, the attackers hidden from their sight by the councilman’s manse. Jayson couldn’t think, his breath coming in short huffs, his entire body humming. Reaching for Gregson had been pure instinct, nothing more.
Gregson suddenly spun. “Warn Terson,” he barked, then slapped Jayson’s horse on the rump. The animal lurched forward, nearly throwing Jayson from the saddle. He cried out, hissing as the muscles in his legs spasmed, but caught himself. He heard Corim’s frantic shout from behind him, twisted in the saddle in time to see Gregson hauling the apprentice down from his horse moments before two arrows sank into the animal’s neck. It reared, screaming shrilly, feet kicking, but Gregson and Corim were already sprinting toward the protection of the tavern’s corner, the Legionnaire roaring warnings at the men and women caught in the open square. Jayson’s heart seized as three men and one woman fell to the cobbles, and then something skimmed across his own back, tracing a line of fire from shoulder to side, tugging at his clothing. He spun in his seat, grabbed at the reins and leaned forward over the horse’s neck as it careened through the fleeing people of Cobble Kill. More arrows rained down, shattering on the stone of the roadway. He heard a roar of rage, saw a man spin as an arrow took him in the throat, saw a woman dragging her daughter’s body into the cover of the stable yard, blood glistening bright on the stone beneath her-
And then the erupting chaos of the commons was left behind as his horse galloped down the southern road. Jayson gasped at the sudden calm that descended, although he could still hear the screams from the town behind. His heart thundered in his ears, the horse’s body thudding into his chest beneath him. His thoughts flickered from Corim to Terson to Gregson, torn between responsibilities, and he choked with indecision.
“Gregson has Corim,” he whispered to himself, voice ragged. He swallowed against the sudden sourness in his mouth and throat.
And then the garrison appeared ahead. Men were already gathered in the roadway, some of them pointing back toward the town with their swords, bellowing questions. Three of them surrounded Gregson’s horse, holding it steady as Terson jerked the arrow from its flank. It whinnied and shied away from him, but the Legionnaire ignored it, frowning down at the bloodied shaft in his hand.
At a shout from one of the men, Terson glanced up, caught sight of Jayson’s horse charging toward them, and stepped directly into the animal’s path.
Jayson’s bit back a curse and pulled hard on the horse’s reins to bring its frantic bolt to a halt. As it dug into the road, he rose in the saddle and roared, “The town is under attack!”
“From where? By whom?” The cries came from all directions, but Terson caught Jayson as he fell from the saddle, others stepping forward to calm his horse.
“Archers,” Jayson gasped, his body trembling with adrenaline. “Archers are on the promontory overlooking the town. They’re firing down into the commons. And they aren’t dwarren. They’re Alvritshai.”
Terson shot him a strange look, then bellowed, “To arms! Every man who’s here, grab your swords and form up! Curtis, sound the alarm. This isn’t a call to assemble any longer; it’s a call to war. Now move! Move, move, move!”
The entire group of men broke and scrambled, some charging toward the garrison that wasn’t much more than a wooden outpost on the side of the road with a stable in the back. The steady clang of the bell suddenly changed, another joining it, the combined sound now frantic. Ricks barreled out of the garrison, still fully armored from the ride to Gray’s Kill.
“What’s happening?” he asked.
“Get the men armed and organized here on the roadway as quickly as possible, then we’ll head toward Cobble Kill.”
The young soldier dashed off toward the stables, shouting orders as he went.
“Tell me what you saw,” Terson ordered, turning on Jayson.
“I only saw archers on the rock bluff overlooking the town. They nearly got Gregson before he ordered me to warn you and sent me here.” He tried not to think about Corim, about the others caught in the square.
“Are these the same men who attacked Gray’s Kill?”
“I didn’t see any Alvritshai or archers that night. I only saw the creatures and the dwarren.”
Terson swore. Behind him, men were struggling into armor, additional horses being herded from the stable to the road by a group of stableboys, saddles hastily being cinched tight. “Cobble Kill isn’t designed to withstand an attack,” Terson growled as he watched. He suddenly motioned toward Ricks. “Get me a spare sword. Now!”
When the soldier returned, he handed the weapon to Jayson. “Have you ever used one before?”
Jayson took the sheathed blade in both hands as he shook his head, surprised at how heavy it felt. He swallowed once, his heart already quickening. He couldn’t seem to clear the sourness in his throat. “No.”
Terson grunted and slapped him on the back. “Do the best you can.”
He shoved Jayson toward his horse and turned to the rest of the men, most of them ready and waiting. Jayson hastily began belting the sword around his waist.
“I want Curtis to take you four and try to circle up to Grant’s Overlook and deal with those archers. The rest of us are going straight into Cobble Kill. Got it?”
The entire group broke out with a “Yes, sir!” Curtis motioned his selected men to one side. Someone brought Terson his horse and he mounted, Jayson drawing his horse to the side of the road and swinging up into the saddle. The sword felt awkward and cumbersome at his side, but he held onto its pommel with a death grip. He could hear his pulse pounding in his head, sweat causing his shirt to stick to his back. His upper shoulder stung and he reached back with his free hand. He felt nothing except a rent in his shirt, but his fingers came back with traces of blood.
He suddenly recalled the lancing pain he’d felt as he’d raced from Cobble Kill. He must have been grazed by an arrow.
The thought sent a shudder through his muscles, but he didn’t have time to think about it. Terson suddenly ordered the group forward. Heels dug into his horse’s flanks and he charged down the road toward the town at the back of the group of soldiers. After Curtis’ band broke away, heading into the forest to one side, he counted no more than thirty men remaining, only twenty of them Legionnaires, the rest commoners.
He had a moment for his stomach to roll in apprehension, to notice that the others had already drawn their swords-
And then they were passing the outskirts of the town, cottages and buildings appearing along the sides of the road amongst the trees a moment before the forest gave way completely and they broke into the wide commons.
The flagstones were littered with bodies, but otherwise empty.
Arrows shot into the group instantly, the man next to Jayson crying out as one took him in the shoulder. He spat curses as he wrenched the shaft free without slowing. Through the clamor of the horses’ hooves on the stone, he heard Gregson bellow, “Over here!” and saw a flash of movement from the direction of the stable yard.
Terson swung toward the lieutenant, the rest of the men following in a tight, disordered group. Gregson stood at the door to the stable’s barn, two other men holding the doors wide open. They charged through into the straw-scented shadows within, the barn barely holding all of them. Jayson twisted in the saddle as men drew the doors of the barn closed behind them, scanning the people within, searching for Corim. He saw the two merchant men from the trading companies, a woman with two children clutched close to her side, Ara from the tavern, and an assortment of other men and women, maybe seventy townsfolk in all. Someone close was muttering, “This can’t be happening, this can’t be happening,” the litany repeating over and over. Jayson tried to turn his horse but the quarters were too cramped. In frustration, he yelled out, “Corim! Are you here?”
“I’m here!”
Corim thrust through a huddle of women and elderly men to one side, fighting his way to Jayson’s side.
A heaviness around Jayson’s heart eased. “Thank Diermani,” he muttered.
“Report,” Gregson ordered as soon as the barn doors closed.
Terson shoved his way to the front of the barn. Nearly everyone quieted, hushed and panicked voices falling silent to listen.
“I’ve sent Curtis and a small group up to the promontory to deal with the archers. The rest of those who’d managed to gather at the summons are here.”
“You didn’t see any other Alvritshai? No other attackers besides the archers?”
“None.”
Gregson frowned. “There must be another group somewhere nearby. They wouldn’t have archers watching the town otherwise.”
“Perhaps we spooked them by ringing the bell,” Ricks said to one side.
Gregson glanced around at the townsfolk huddled in the stalls and loft of the barn. “If that’s the case, then we’d better get everyone out of here as soon as possible, before the main force arrives.”
This brought frightened murmurs from everyone, the unease of those still on their mounts transferring to the animals as they jostled against each other.
Ara pushed to the front of the group. She carried a scythe in her hand, and Jayson noticed that many of the others had makeshift weapons gathered from the barn. “What about those who sought shelter in the taverns or the other shops? And where do you think we’ll be going? This is our home. I’ll not be leaving without a fight.”
A few of the men grumbled agreement.
“Cobble Kill wasn’t designed to be defended,” Gregson barked, before the murmurs had grown too loud. “Our only real advantage is that no one can approach it easily through the forest. They’ll likely come by the roads, but we can’t hold those with the hundred people here, only twenty of those trained Legion, the rest with scythes and pitchforks! We couldn’t hold them even with the entire town gathered-men, women, and children!” The grumbling quieted.
“We have to flee,” Gregson continued. “There’s no other choice. Terson, we’ll use those mounted to protect the rest of the townsfolk as we leave. I want everyone to gather in the center of the barn, the horses to either side. When we open the doors, the Legion will go out first and then the rest will follow. Take the southern road. Did everyone hear? Take the southern road once we’re out and keep on going! Don’t stop for anything-food, clothing, nothing! Our only chance is to reach Patron’s Merge. Their town is walled and is protected by the rivers.”
At the fear-sickened murmurs that followed and the sudden shifting of bodies as everyone tried to follow directions, punctuated by curses and low sobs, Gregson nodded, then drew Terson, Ricks, and a few of the other Legion to one side. Jayson had been jostled close enough to overhear.
“We need to forewarn the surrounding towns,” the lieutenant muttered. “As soon as we get free of Cobble Kill and hit the crossroads, I want Tirks and Vanson to break off and head toward Ulm’s Kill and Farriver. Warn them and order them to continue spreading the word.”
“What do we tell them?” a blond-haired man said. He couldn’t have been more than twenty.
Gregson frowned at that. “Tell them Gray’s Kill was razed by an unknown group, and that Cobble Kill has been attacked. Tell them dwarren and Alvritshai have been sighted, along with some other creature that we’ve never seen before. Tell them whatever you Diermani-well please, Tirks, but get them to arm themselves! I don’t know if these are bandits or raiders or something worse, but they need to be prepared.”
Tirks didn’t react to Gregson’s gruff tone. Gregson scanned the fidgeting group of townsfolk behind the restless horses, then caught Jayson’s gaze. Jayson’s heart suddenly quieted. Gregson appeared calm and controlled, and he felt some of that calmness seep into him. Even though the Legionnaire’s expression was grim, it was still confident.
Jayson drew in a steadying breath, let it out slowly. He was still trembling, his body tingling and on edge, but he’d regained some of his composure.
He turned to catch Corim’s attention, leaning down over the saddle when his apprentice moved closer. “Stay with the Legion, no matter what happens.”
Corim nodded, his face serious but lined and anxious. Jayson noted he carried a knife, but said nothing.
Everything was changing, moving too fast. A strange energy filled the confines of the barn, the too-sweet scent of straw now overlaid with a stench of fear and the warmth of too many bodies. Jayson wiped sweat from his forehead.
“Ready?” Gregson bellowed.
Jayson spun back to the barn door. The Legion had dispersed, remounted, and were now spread across the front of the group. Four of the townsmen had taken hold of the doors, ready to swing them open. Someone had given up his horse to Gregson. Everyone who had swords had drawn them. Jayson reached around and pulled his free with a grating snick and held it awkwardly as his horse shifted beneath him, snorting and stamping its hoof. He swallowed against the lump that had risen in his throat, tasted the straw dust in the air, the scent of fodder and horseshit.
Then Gregson nodded toward the men at the doors and they shoved them open wide.
Blinding sunlight streamed into the front of the barn, but Jayson kicked his horse forward as the Legion burst through into the yard beyond, fanning out with practiced movements, allowing room for the townsfolk to pass between them. Gregson roared, “Move it! Come on, run, Diermani curse you!” and the people surged forward, one of the children shrieking, another sobbing with his head buried in his mother’s shoulder where she carried him on her hip. All of the men on horseback shouted and urged them forward into the sunlight. Jayson found himself shunted to one side just outside the barn doors, waving his sword high, pointing toward the main street, shouting nonsense to keep everyone moving. He saw Corim pass, the boy’s eyes wide-
And then the arrows started. Shafts spat into the group, four of the townsfolk and three of the riders felled in the space of a heartbeat. Jayson’s heart faltered, his throat locking, as one of the women screamed.
The entire group lurched forward in a wave of panic. He saw someone fall, get trampled underfoot, heard the Legion roaring orders and cursing at the same time as more arrows snicked down from the heights.
Suddenly, Gregson was beside him yelling, “Go, go! There’s no one left in the barn!”
Jayson kneed his horse after the townsfolk, saw them break through the yard onto the street, spreading out on the road, nearly all of them turning sharply to the south, toward the garrison, arrows flying down like black rain. Three men broke away and headed north toward the bridge, one of the men on horseback screaming for them to come back. Two arrows took the rider in the back; he slumped over, his mount panicking and charging forward. One of the three men fell, a shaft jutting up from his leg. His scream sliced through Jayson’s gut like a knife.
“Leave them!” Gregson roared as two of the Legion turned to help them. “Let them go! They made their choice!”
Jayson spun his horse, clenching his jaw as he heeded Gregson’s orders and abandoned the men, urging his mount after the rest of the fleeing townsfolk. An arrow shot through the space between his face and his horse’s neck, sent a shivering jolt of fear through his legs, but he pushed on, herding everyone toward the main road south, shouting, his sword held out uselessly before him. Gregson was charging back and forth along the rear of the group, still bellowing orders. Two more of the townsfolk fell to the deadly shafts and then a cry rose up on the promontory.
Jayson turned in time to see one of the archers fall from the rock face, the hail of arrows ending as Curtis and the rest of the Legion appeared on the outcropping, the archers turning to fight them. Most of the townsfolk slowed, those on horseback cantering in place as two more archers fell, a cheer rising from the group. Hope flared in Jayson’s chest, burning so hot he tasted it in the back of his throat. He roared, thinking of Lianne, of all of the men and women of Gray’s Kill who had never had a chance. As Curtis and the other four men took out the last of the archers, throwing their bodies over the edge to the forest below, all of the grief and despair that had throttled him since that first night was subsumed by a chaotic, fierce joy strangely mixed with vicious anger. It swelled inside his heart, tasting of bitter revenge and relief.
The relief was short-lived.
Even as the cheer died down and the townsfolk’s fear began to dissipate with shaky laughs, Gregson shouted, “Keep moving! This isn’t over. That was only a scouting party-”
Whatever he would have said next was cut off by a thunderous growl that shuddered across the commons and reverberated off the promontory of rock. Everyone turned in the direction of the northern road, where the two men had fled earlier, along with the horse with its dead rider. The man who had been shot in the leg had crawled to one side of the road and sat hunched near Ara’s tavern door.
“What in Diermani’s name was that?” Ara said from the middle of the townsfolk. Her hand rested on Corim’s shoulder protectively.
Before anyone could answer, the animalistic roar split the silence again, followed by the sharp crack and shush of a tree falling. A few of the people cried out and stepped back. The horses snorted and shied away as more branches snapped, something large moving through the forest along the northern road. Gregson trotted his horse across Jayson’s field of vision, pacing before everyone gathered in the roadway, his brow creased in a tight frown.
Beyond him, the tops of the trees began to sway with movement, even though there was no breeze. Insanely, Jayson heard Gregson’s voice from earlier in the barn saying, Our only real advantage is that no one can easily approach through the forest.
Another splintering crack followed and one of the swaying trees fell, everyone moving back another pace, even those on horseback.
Then, through the crackle of trodden branches and breaking limbs, Jayson heard a soft chittering noise and a chill tingled through his arms and legs, prickling in his fingers.
“It’s them,” he whispered, his mouth suddenly dry. “It’s the creatures.”
Gregson shot him a sharp look.
Behind him, the massive trees over the stream suddenly shuddered and parted, a monstrous gray shape trailing broken branches and bracken appearing. Its body was huge, twice the size of a man, two gigantic arms hanging at its sides. It paused at the edge of the creek, yellowed eyes scanning the town, its stony head swiveling on a thick neck. The creature snuffled the air, the nostrils in its craggy face crinkling, and then its eyes latched onto Gregson and the group of petrified townsfolk.
It sucked in a huge breath and bellowed, the sound splintering the shocked silence. More than one person screamed, the sounds melding into a strange war cry, and as the thunderous sounds broke, the catlike creatures with the pallid, empty eyes Jayson had fought while fleeing Gray’s Kill spilled from the undergrowth around the monster’s feet and scampered across the bridge. Even as Jayson choked on his own breath, men on horseback appeared on the roadway, the riders dressed in black-and-silver armor, dozens of them emerging from the shadows of the trees around the twist in the road.
Not men, Jayson thought, ice-cold fear settling in the pit of his stomach as the mounted riders drew closer. Alvritshai.
Even as one of the Alvritshai at the forefront of the attackers raised a black horn to his lips and blew, a single, clear note piercing the town, the smaller creatures surged forward, the still spring air filled with their hissing. They fell on the man cringing against the tavern in an instant, his screams jarring Jayson from his paralysis. He spun, eyes seeking out Corim automatically. Pointing to the southern road with his sword, he yelled, “Run! Go, now!” the words so loud and forceful something in his throat tore.
Corim moved before anyone else, turning to sprint toward the southern road, clutching at Ara and dragging the tavern woman along with him. The tableau broke, people screaming, pointing, lurching forward as the smaller creatures streamed toward them from the far side of the commons, moving faster than Jayson remembered from that night, bodies sleek, like liquid in motion, brown-black in the sunlight, ears flattened against their knobby skulls. Gregson managed to bellow, “Legion, to me! Protect the flanks!” before the first leaped to latch onto his leg. He cried out, his horse rearing and screaming, his sword swinging as three more joined the first, the things crawling up the horse’s side. The Legion members charged forward with fierce cries, and Jayson saw blades flash in the sunlight, blood flying as they cut into the creatures. The massive stone giant, at least twice as tall as Jayson, roared again and thrust itself from the tangle of the trees, its entire body a solid mass of hairless gray-brown flesh. It staggered across the stream, water sparkling in the light, a branch the size of Jayson’s thigh in one hand. It swung it like a club as it reached the first Legion riders, knocking one clear of his mount and flinging him across the commons.
Jayson hesitated behind the first line of Legion, along with a few of the other non-Legionnaires on horseback, none of them trained to fight, but all of them carrying swords. Jayson’s heart thundered in his chest, his gaze shifting left and right, the sights and sounds of the battle overwhelming. He didn’t know where to look, didn’t know how to react, blades cutting down into the sleek hairless cats, three men dodging the larger creature’s blows, while the Alvritshai riders came inexorably closer, the column now at the beginning of the bridge. More kept appearing behind them, hundreds in sight already, without any sign that the column was going to end.
That realization twisted something deep inside of Jayson, the frigid, queasy fear that seized him roiling and hardening into something solid, into anger and hate.
“This isn’t a group of bandits,” he heard himself whisper, the man who wavered beside him shooting him a confused look. “These aren’t raiders.” His voice hardened along with the realization, along with his heart. His eyes narrowed. His shoulders squared and his back straightened. He spun his mount to catch the attention of those who’d hung back from the main fighting. “This isn’t a raiding party!” he shouted. “Look at them! Look at how many of them there are! They aren’t here to sack your homes and then go, they’re here to seize everything and slaughter us all!”
Not waiting to see their reaction, he dug in his heels and felt the skittish horse beneath him answer, charging toward the back of the fray. He plowed into the creatures swarming over Gregson, at least ten in all, swinging his sword wildly, his horse kicking and trampling the hissing monstrosities underfoot. His blade connected with one, the contact jarring up into his arm, but he swung the blade to one side and flung the body free, black blood splattering in an arc. Heat seared up from his gut, the heat of rage, and as his blade flashed and spun, as his body jolted with each impact against flesh and each stamping of his horse’s hooves, he saw images of Gray’s Kill across his vision. The gnawed-off nubs of Corim’s mother’s fingers, the blood-splattered table, the bodies littering the streets before Diermani’s church, and Lianne’s hand lying pale and lifeless in rancid stew. All of the grief and anger that had remained beneath the surface suffused him, shuddering through every strike, every flailing blow. One of the creatures bit into his leg, claws and teeth sinking deep, and he hissed and swung, hitting it with the flat of the blade with enough force to rip it free, but cutting himself with his own sword in the process. He cried out at the white-hot pain in his calf, felt the warmth of blood soaking his breeches, but ignored it to cut savagely into another creature scrambling up his saddle. The creature shrieked, its own blood spattering Jayson’s face and chest as it fell back.
Something grabbed his sword arm, spun him around. He lashed out with the sword, but steel met steel, blocking the blow, and he found himself face-to-face with Gregson, the Legionnaire’s face tortured into a grimace, bloody with cuts.
“Fall back,” he shouted, shoving Jayson toward the empty southern road. All of the townsfolk had fled. “Fall back now! There’s no way we can hold off the Alvritshai. Retreat and protect the townsfolk!”
The lieutenant gave Jayson one last push toward the road and then slid past him, shouting the same orders to all of the others. The Alvrithsai riders had crossed the bridge and were filling the far side of the wide commons, watching the battle coldly, their pale faces hard and implacable. Jayson had never seen an Alvritshai before, but there was no mistaking their sharp features, the angular cheekbones, and dark hair of the hearthfire tales. He shuddered at their arrogance, at their calmness. They did not seem concerned about the twenty-odd horsemen who fought their catlike creatures and the rugged giant who’d killed five men and three horses. Instead, the leader-the Alvritshai at the forefront-merely raised a hand to halt their progress and then gestured.
“Retreat!” Gregson roared again, the edge of command in his voice. “Now!”
Jayson spun his horse and kicked it hard toward the southern road, nearly every one of the Legion and the others like him breaking away from the fight and doing the same. He glanced over his shoulder and saw at least twenty archers raise bows from among the Alvritshai ranks. He swore, his back feeling like a giant target, and hunched himself forward over his mount’s neck.
He heard the snap of the bowstrings and the outcry of at least two men as the arrows struck. One of the men who’d pulled ahead of him slumped and fell from his saddle, his body hitting the road with a sickening thud, but Jayson didn’t slow. The man’s horse continued on, unencumbered now, mane and tail thrashing with the wind of its passage. The two-story buildings and the cottages fell behind, Jayson’s breath ragged, burning in his lungs.
A moment later, the garrison appeared. They passed it without pause.
“Keep going,” Gregson yelled from somewhere off to one side and behind, his words almost lost. “Don’t stop until we catch up to the townsfolk.”
Jayson didn’t intend to stop even after that. Cobble Kill was lost.
There was nothing to do now but make for Patron’s Merge.