Neither Aeren, Eraeth, nor any of the other four members of House Rhyssal’s Phalanx guard saw Colin until he blurred into existence twenty paces in front of their charging horses, staff canted to one side. At least two members of the escort cried out in surprise, and Eraeth barked a sharp warning, but Aeren had already pulled back on his mount’s reins. Dirt churned up from the ground as the horses on all sides were jerked to a halt, the guards cursing. One had to back away, nearly trampling Colin where he stood.
Colin didn’t flinch, his face grim as the escort regrouped, milling about around Aeren and Eraeth. “We’re too late,” he said.
“What do you mean-” Eraeth began, but Aeren cut him off with a sharp gesture.
Everyone fell silent. Aeren listened to the heaving breath of the horses, caught the whistle of the wind over the dead autumn grasses And then he heard it, in a gust from the north, the unmistakable sound of swords striking armor, almost buried beneath a lower rumble that he could mistake for the wind but knew with a sick heart was the sound of men bellowing, screaming, and dying.
Aeren felt the Phalanx’s mood change, felt the air pull taut as they shifted positions in their saddles, could almost taste the metal of the cattans as if they’d already drawn them.
“What do we do?” Eraeth asked, although it sounded as if he already knew the answer.
“Thaedoren ordered us to warn the Tamaell of the dwarren’s arrival,” Aeren said; he caught Eraeth’s nod of agreement, then turned to Colin. “Show us.”
Colin pointed toward the north and east with his staff. “There.” And then he blurred and was gone, a black smear, an afterimage on the eye And within the space of an indrawn breath, he reappeared over a hundred yards beyond.
“Move!” Eraeth commanded, and Aeren and the Phalanx kicked their horses forward, heading toward Colin. As soon as they neared the human’s location, he blurred again, reappearing farther along, leaping ahead as the horses charged across the flattened dead grass, churning up clods of dirt and roots and brittle grass behind them. The sounds of the battle built until Aeren could hear them over the pounding of his own horse’s hooves, over his own harsh breath, and he tensed. He’d seen such battles before, fought in them, grown to hate them. A wash of grief filled him, unwanted and unexpected, and he could feel his brother’s blood on his hands, warm and thick and drying in the sunlight. Tears burned in his eyes and phlegm clogged the back of his throat.
But then they crested a low rise, not even high enough to be called a hill, and the current battle came into view, a dark spill of horses, Alvritshai, and men across the battered and beaten grass.
The breadth of it sucked Aeren’s breath away and he lurched back unexpectedly, pulling his horse up short again, the animal snorting and stamping its foot. At a shout from Eraeth, the rest of the Phalanx halted as well, returning to Aeren’s side. Colin saw them halt and vanished, blurring into place so close to Aeren’s horse that he skittered to one side with a jerk.
“What’s wrong?” Eraeth asked, voice tense. He scanned the battle, eyes flickering left and right.
“We can’t charge into that,” Aeren said shortly. “There are only seven of us. We need to find the Tamaell, or the Tamaea. Or Lotaern.”
Eraeth nearly protested, straightening where he sat, but as the Protector watched the battle, the tide of men and Alvritshai flowing back and forth, he grudgingly sat back in the saddle.
The Phalanx fidgeted on their horses, a few pacing their mounts closer to the fighting. Aeren watched in silence. Screams rose into the air, tattered and torn by the wind, coming in gusts, along with the familiar coppery taste of blood. Alvritshai fell upon a human contingent, the cries of the men muted at first, then suddenly loud as the wind shifted, as if the fight were happening twenty paces away instead of over two thousand. A group of Alvritshai on horseback were repulsed by a human charge, the horses banking away, circling around, one body dragged behind, a foot trapped in a stirrup. The horse trampled two more bodies already lying on the ground as it panicked at the unfamiliar weight pulling at it, and the body jerked free, falling loosely among the dozens of corpses already littering the ground.
Aeren grimaced, bile rising at the back of his throat. He swallowed as he watched the rest of the Alvritshai group rejoin the fray at the rear.
“House Licaeta,” Eraeth said. At Aeren’s raised eyebrow, he added, “I recognize the style of the riding… and the colors on the saddle.”
Aeren frowned, focusing on the battle again, trying to pick out colors. He hadn’t looked too closely at first, too sickened by the ferocity and the deaths. “Do you see the Tamaell’s colors?”
“There,” one of the Phalanx guards said, pointing, “to the left of center, where the fighting is thickest. You can see the House Resue banner.”
Eraeth asked. “Do you see it?”
Aeren stood up higher in the saddle, then caught the red and white flare of the Tamaell’s pennant. “I see it.” He settled back with a frown. “We’ll never reach him.”
“Not with only an escort of six,” Eraeth agreed.
His gaze fell on Colin and remained there for a long moment.
“No,” Aeren said. When Eraeth looked up, a protest on his lips, he repeated more firmly, “No.” He knew what Eraeth was thinking, and he wouldn’t allow it. Not for something as trivial as this. They could wait. The dwarren wouldn’t be arriving for at least another two days.
Eraeth sat back, disgruntled. “Then what will we do?”
“We’ll find the Alvritshai camp and report to the Tamaea instead.”
Eraeth shot him a surprised look, but Aeren had already begun searching the plains, drawing upon old memories of the Escarpment. Old, bloody, dark memories. He tried to push those memories away, focusing on what he remembered of the land around the Escarpment before the fighting had started. If the Tamaell had been coming from the south, and the Legion had already arrived, then the most likely place for the Tamaell to set up his encampment would be…
“There,” Eraeth said, pointing toward the east.
Aeren had already turned. He could see figures on a rise watching the battle, one of the Lords of the Evant who’d been left behind to guard the camp. On the battlefield, the lords were subordinate to the Tamaell, their individual House Phalanxes subject to the Tamaell’s orders first, then their lord’s. The tents and wagons and the rest of the support were mostly hidden behind the rise, although a few banners and the tops of a few tents could be seen.
“Let’s go.” Aeren nudged his horse into motion, picking up speed. He banked wide, keeping his distance from the battle, approaching the camp and the Phalanx on guard from the south. The Phalanx saw them approaching, and a sortie of twenty headed toward them along the top of the ridge.
Aeren swore when they rode close enough to see their colors: black and gold.
The sortie spread out, and Aeren slowed, motioning the rest of his escort to fall back slightly. He could see the rest of the encampment now, and the plains beyond, but his attention remained fixed on the Alvritshai lord who stood at the front of the sortie where it had halted, waiting.
“Lord Khalaek,” he said as he pulled his mount to a stop. He did not nod formally, and his voice was cold and stiff.
“So,” Khalaek said, looking past him toward his escort. “Have you managed to get the Tamaell Presumptive killed? Is this all that remains of the entourage sent to meet with the dwarren?” He paused for a moment, then added blandly, “Were they even there?”
Aeren gripped the reins tightly, but he refused to be baited. “The Tamaell Presumptive is following behind us, with the rest of the escort. We were sent ahead to speak to the Tamaell.”
Khalaek’s eyes narrowed in suspicion, his previous mild amusement gone. “About what?”
“That is for the Tamaell alone.”
Khalaek said nothing, but Aeren could see him considering options. His dark eyes flicked toward Colin, standing far back in the group, as unobtrusive as possible, then toward the south and east, the direction he knew they’d come from, but the plains were empty there.
Not satisified, Khalaek motioned toward the battle. “As you can see, the Tamaell is currently occupied.”
“And he left you behind,” Aeren said. “Interesting.”
Khalaek twitched the reins he held in one hand, his horse shuffling at the movement. “Someone needs to protect the Tamaea. We wouldn’t want anything to happen to her, now would we?”
Eraeth shifted forward at the underlying threat, but Aeren didn’t react.
To the west, battlehorns cried out, distantly. A gust of wind pushed past them and sent the pennant that Khalaek’s sortie carried flapping. Aeren and Khalaek held each other’s gazes, the hatred between them palpable. Aeren could taste it.
But a ripple of strange but familiar movement caught his attention out of the corner of his eye.
He turned to the east with a frown And the bitterness and hatred bled out of him in one shocked breath. “Aielan’s Light,” he said, voice filled with a terrified awe.
“What is it?” Khalaek demanded, voice tinged with anger and doubt, as if he thought Aeren’s gasp some kind of trick. But then he turned.
Aeren saw him stiffen in his saddle, then spit a curse under his breath. On all sides, the sortie and Aeren’s escort gasped, Eraeth edging his horse out in front of Aeren reflexively.
On the plains, still distant but approaching fast, one of the occamaen-what Lotaern would call a “breath of heaven,” and what Colin called a Drifter-slid toward them. It was beautiful in a way, its rippled distortions stretching high into the sky and even farther to either side, its center clear, like an eye. Through that eye, Aeren could see the plains beyond… but altered. Sunlight glowed on the horizon there, the clouds in the sky suffused with a purple-orange haze, the grass on the ridges a vibrant, spring green, waving in a contrary wind.
Aeren glanced up at the sun that glared down on the autumn-dead grass at his feet and shuddered. The juxtaposition-two suns, one setting, one angled an hour after midday; early spring grass against late autumn-twisted in his stomach.
“It’s huge,” Eraeth said.
“And it’s headed straight for the camp,” Khalaek hollered. He spun his mount and roared out orders, his sortie breaking into two groups, one headed toward where the occumaen bore down on the camp from the east, the other, including Khalaek, headed toward the rest of Khalaek’s men on the ridge behind them, both groups shouting and pointing as they charged their horses across the grass. The men on the ridge hadn’t seen the danger yet, were watching either the battle below or the confrontation with Aeren. After a moment of confusion, they turned… and then broke into sudden motion as Khalaek arrived. Horns sounded, piercing the air, frantic and warbly. In the camp below, men and women turned from whatever task they were doing in confusion, but they couldn’t see the occumaen, not within the confines of the tents and wagons.
Aeren swore. They weren’t reacting fast enough. The occumaen bore down with silent, deadly grace. And with sudden dawning horror, Aeren realized Eraeth had been right. It was huge, large enough and wide enough to encompass at least half the camp, if not more.
“What do we do?” Eraeth asked, and Aeren latched onto his strangely calm voice.
Thinking furiously, cursing the small number of Phalanx he’d brought with him, he scanned the growing chaos in the camp below as Khalaek’s men fanned out, charging into the tents still mounted, shoving and herding people outward, away from the occumaen’s path.
And then his gaze fell on the white and red banners near the center of the camp. The Tamaell’s banners.
His eyes widened. “The Tamaea.”
Eraeth reacted faster than he did, spinning and shouting, “Colin!”
Without any hesitation, Colin shifted and blurred.
Colin raced down the slope toward the camp, time slowed around him but not stopped. Glancing back over his shoulder, he saw Aeren, Eraeth, and the rest kicking their mounts into motion, heading down toward the camp itself, but then he shoved the Alvritshai lord from his mind and focused on reaching the Tamaea.
The Drifter loomed large to the east, a coruscating array of light, mostly white but with iridescent shadings, its arms reaching out like antennae, tasting the air on all sides. The scent of the Well, of new earth and pine and dry leaves, crashed into him, so strong he felt his body shuddering in reaction, the craving for the Well almost overwhelming. He shoved that craving aside and forced himself not to look at the black mark on his arm, the black mark that had expanded each time he’d been within reach of the Well’s power and now throbbed with pain.
He slowed as he reached the outskirts of the camp, slid among the tents, around the Alvritshai who were now scattering as Lord Khalaek’s Phalanx warned them of the Drifter. Some of them had already seen it and were fleeing into the grass, their faces etched with terror. Colin didn’t stop, slipping through their mad rush caught in slow motion, brushing by their outstretched arms and bodies, keeping the white and red banners of the Tamaell’s tents in sight. He passed Khalaek, the lord caught in mid-shout, his face contorted and ugly with panic. Two of his Phalanx in black and gold were shoving people toward the edge of camp; one woman overbalanced, crashing into the folds of the tent behind her. The scene was eerie with no sound to accompany it, but he didn’t pause, didn’t stop to help.
There wasn’t time. The taste of the Drifter had grown stronger.
He burst through a section of tents and found the White Phalanx guards of the Tamaell standing alert and on edge. But they hadn’t seen the Drifter yet, were reacting to the chaos created by Khalaek and his own Phalanx, hands on their swords. Colin moved past them, searched through the Tamaell’s tents until he saw the Tamaea’s to one side, more guards stationed in front of it. He squeezed through the half-open tent flap, praying to Diermani and Aielan that the Tamaea would be there, but he was drawn up short by the closed tent flaps on the inner rooms.
Spitting a curse, he let the world return to normal.
Sound crashed into the silence: screams, bellowing horns, the harsh rasp of the canvas tent thrashing in an unnatural wind. Colin sucked in a sharp breath-the wind must be coming from the Drifter-then filtered the raucous noise out and focused in on the sounds from inside the tent as he shoved the nearest flap aside. The room inside was empty, so he dodged down to the next, pushing it aside with his staff.
And then he heard someone snap in a troubled, impatient voice, “Oh, stop it, Faeren. If there’s something to worry about, the Phalanx will tell us!”
Colin let the flap fall and crossed the corridor to where the voices had come from, throwing the flap back more roughly than he’d intended. Inside, the Tamaea’s personal servant shrieked, drawing back at the sudden movement, her eyes wide with fright. The Tamaea turned, eyes narrowing. Her hand slid to something concealed in her sleeve.
In a cold voice, she said, “Who are you?” in Alvritshai. But then recognition flickered across her face. Tension in her shoulders-what Colin had at first taken to be regal composure-softened, although her hand did not move from its place inside her sleeve. “You’re the human Aeren brought with him.” Hope flared in her eyes, as Colin struggled to piece together the Alvritshai words. Eraeth had taught him much of the language, and he’d learned some during his time at the Well, but everyone still spoke too fast. “Has Aeren returned? Is Thaedoren here?”
Colin stepped into the room, spoke slowly in broken Alvritshai. He could understand it much better than he could speak it. “No time. A Drifter-an occumaen-is coming. Leave now.”
The Tamaea shifted uncertainly. The tent shuddered again in the unnatural wind, and behind her, the servant sobbed slightly, looking upward.
“How did you get past the Phalanx?” the Tamaea asked suspiciously.
“No time!” Colin barked, and reached out to grab her arm, to physically force her to follow him.
With a flick of her hand, the Tamaea withdrew a knife from her sleeve, holding the blade before her.
Colin froze, hand half extended. The tent shuddered again, more violently. Outside, they could now hear screams and shouts beneath the wind, closer than before. He could feel the Drifter, a pressure against his skin, tingling in the hairs on the back of his neck.
Slowly, he drew back. His eyes were locked with the Tamaea’s, pleading with her. He nearly growled in frustration, but he forced himself to remain calm. He gave up on Alvritshai and used Andovan instead. “Aeren sent me. To get you out of the Drifter’s path. Come outside and you’ll see.”
Then he turned and slipped through the opening, moving down the short corridor toward the tent’s entrance. He waited a moment there, watching for the Tamaea, for the servant, Faeren.
What seemed an eternity later, Faeren slid out into the corridor, stilled as she caught sight of him, then murmured something to the Tamaea inside. As Faeren held the flap open, the Tamaea stepped into the corridor, straightening slowly.
Colin could barely contain himself. The pressure of the Drifter now felt like a heavy blanket, smothering him from all sides, settling in his gut. The fine hairs on his arms stirred, prickling as they stood upright.
Before any of them could move, one of the Phalanx guardsmen burst through the main entrance with a desperate, “Tamaea! Tamaea, we have to leave here now!”
He pulled up short as he saw the Tamaea and Faeren in the corridor, saw the knife in the Tamaea’s hand.
And then he sensed Colin.
His cattan flashed from its sheath, the blade out and passing through the space where Colin had stood an instant before in less than a heartbeat. But Colin had already shifted, slowed time enough to see the swing of the blade, the bead of sweat that flicked from the Alvritshai guardsman’s nose as he turned, the shift in expression on the guard’s face-from panic to a grim, deadly determination.
When he let time return, he stood halfway between the guard and the Tamaea.
Faeren gasped. The guard recovered quickly, turning to where Colin now stood with a cold intensity… and a much more guarded and wary stance.
“Grae!” the Tamaea snapped over the increasing roar of the wind. “Leave him. He came to warn me of the occumaen. He’s part of Lord Aeren’s party.”
Grae didn’t relax, the look in his eyes easy enough to read. He didn’t believe her, but he didn’t want to defy her either. Colin held his gaze, ready to shift again if necessary But then the Tamaea intervened, stepping between them. Colin noticed her knife had vanished back into her sleeve as she passed. Grae was forced to lower his blade. He took his eyes off of Colin reluctantly to face her.
“Faeren, come,” the Tamaea said, stooping to brush her way out of the tent. As she did so, a gust of frigid air shook the tent, threatening to rip the stakes from the ground. Colin saw the Tamaea’s dress and hair whipped to the side as she raised one hand to protect her face and glanced upward.
And then her eyes widened, and she swore, although Colin couldn’t hear the words. They were lost to the wind.
Faeren slid past Grae and Colin and joined the Tamaea. Grae glared at Colin, turning his back only as he ducked outside. Colin followed.
The wind stole Colin’s breath away, slamming into him with a violence and force he’d never felt before. Men and women were screaming and running on all sides, dodging debris in the air as tents shivered and shuddered. Before he could turn, one of those nearest collapsed with a sudden whoomph, stakes and ropes flailing, chunks of dirt thrown into the air and whipped away. The tough canvas snapped and cracked, a few stakes still holding it in place, and then those gave and it tore free of the earth, carried up and away. Horses reared, men desperately trying to control them, a few riderless mounts tearing through the encampment as they fled.
Colin turned into the wind, dust and grit stinging his skin, his eyes tearing up… and felt his heart shudder in his chest.
The Drifter was almost upon them. He could see the setting sun through its eye, and that eye stretched up and up, higher than most of the trees on the plains. It stretched to the left and right even more, larger than the Well.
It would swallow them all.
He turned toward the Tamaea, toward Faeren and Grae and the rest of the Phalanx who’d been waiting outside for the Tamaea to join them, and bellowed at the top of his voice in Alvritshai, “RUN!”
His roar broke the Tamaea’s paralysis. Without waiting for her Phalanx, without waiting for Faeren or Grae, she spun and headed away from the Drifter, angling toward its nearest edge, her dress thrashing in the winds, slowing her down.
They ran, the pressure of the Drifter threatening to crush Colin to the ground, the scent of the forest, of loam and leaves, choking him. The taste of the Well filled his mouth, his body clenched with longing. He fled without looking back, could feel the Drifter rushing forward, the howl of the winds increasing even more, the earth seeming to tremble beneath his feet. Splinters of wood and stalks of dried grass sliced across his exposed skin, and small pebbles pelted him. A tent torn free from the ground caught one of the guards ahead and he fell, thrashing as it bore him to the ground, but none of the Phalanx stopped. None even slowed. Terror clutched at Colin’s heart, pulsed in his blood, the same terror he saw on all their faces, even the Tamaea’s. The facade of her rank had been completely stripped away, leaving nothing behind but raw panic and unadulterated fear.
Then, out of the corner of his eye, he saw the edge of the Drifter sweeping across the tents and grass beside them, sucking them into the eye, into its heart, and he felt a single moment of clarity through the pounding of his heart.
“We aren’t going to make it,” he whispered.
There, in the infinite space between one heartbeat and the next, without any conscious thought, his hand snapped out and caught the Tamaea’s arm And he shifted and pushed.
He cried out as something inside threatened to tear apart, something vital, wrenched in two different directions at once. His body tried to slow, but the Tamaea’s body held him back, like a weight, anchoring him to the real world, to real time. He’d never tried to draw anything along with him larger than a flower, a lock of hair, or his staff, never anything as large as another person. He dragged the Tamaea toward him, shoved against the pull of time harder, tried to envelope her with the throbbing pulse of the Well he could feel inside himself, which was echoed in the Drifter itself, and felt the world twisting around him, pulling taut, the muscles of his body screaming at the resistance.
Then, with a wrench, time gave, the wind halted, and the Tamaea lurched into his body. He wrapped the arm carrying his staff around her, drew her in tight, heard her scream in panicked terror as she fell, her other arm thrashing. She clawed him across the face, her fingernails sinking in deep, and then they were rolling on the ground, Colin gasping, but holding onto the Tamaea with a death grip, knowing that if he let her go, she’d be lost, caught back up in the tide of time, and the Drifter would have her.
They rolled to a stop, the Tamaea still struggling, tangled up in her dress, in the staff, until Colin cried out, “Stop!”
She halted immediately, trembling in his embrace, and with an effort that Colin felt shudder through her body, she stilled.
“What’s happened?” she heaved, her breath coming in ragged hitches. “What have you done?”
She tried to pull away from him, a new horror crossing her face, directed at him.
“Don’t,” he barked, and he heard the weakness in his voice. He could feel himself trembling as well, shudders running through his body. In a halting voice, in Alvritshai, he said, “Don’t let go… or you’ll end up… back there.” He swallowed, the tremors in his arms increasing. His grip on time slid slightly, not enough for the Tamaea to notice, but enough to make him gasp.
He wouldn’t be able to hold them here long. Not both of them.
“We have… to move,” he managed, stirring.
“You’re shuddering,” the Tamaea said. Now that he’d told her not to let go, she seemed determined not to move at all. “Are you hurt?”
“No. But we have… to move… Must move.” He glanced significantly at the Drifter.
The Tamaea looked in its direction, and he felt her stiffen. It hovered over the tents, the chaos caught and held, debris in the air, Faeren, Grae, and the Phalanx suspended in midcharge, their terror clear. The iridescent arms of the Drifter, invisible except for here, swept back and forth greedily, as if tasting everything before it gathered it into its eye. One of those arms flickered past overhead, and the Tamaea flinched.
“It’s so beautiful,” she whispered, but her voice was layered with dread.
Colin pushed her away slightly. “We have to move.”
She responded to the urgency in his voice, wincing as she shifted away, his grip on her arm so tight her skin had turned white with the pressure. He tried to relax it, but he was afraid to let her go.
They climbed to their feet, Colin stumbling, his legs giving way beneath him, using the staff for support. The Tamaea caught him, held him upright. “What’s wrong?”
“My legs,” Colin gasped. “Weak. Holding you here is-”
He cried out as he stumbled again, and the Tamaea shrugged his arm over her shoulder, supporting his weight.
“Then let’s move,” she said, and she began half-dragging, half-pulling him forward. She’d regained some of her composure and drew the mantle of the Tamaea around her like a shield.
They staggered out of the tents, past men and women, horses and guardsmen. The farther they moved, the looser Colin’s grasp on time grew, and slowly the Tamaea began to notice as first they felt the breath of the wind, then gusts, and on all sides the people and debris began to take on visible motion. She lurched forward at a faster pace, the world picking up speed around them.
“Can’t-” Colin gasped, swallowing hard. “Can’t hold it.”
And then he lost his grip completely.
Both of them cried out as they fell to the ground, Colin releasing his hold on her arm. The wind howled overhead, spattering them both with debris, and Colin rolled to his side.
To catch the verge of the Drifter sweeping past overhead, the ripples of the distortion no more than six feet away. Every hair on his body prickled and stood on end, energy pouring over him, filled with the taste of the Well, the loam and leaves so thick on his tongue he thought he’d swallowed dirt. His body shuddered with the ecstasy of the Well, with its blatant potency, and he felt tears streaming down his face.
Then it passed by, the sensations fading, the roar of the wind dying, and he collapsed onto the grass on his back.
Beside him, he felt the Tamaea stir, sit upright And then she screamed, “Faeren!” A tortured scream, choked with tears.
He felt the Tamaea scrambling to her feet and, body shaking with weakness, a strange lethargy stealing through him, he managed to roll back onto his side. He couldn’t lift his head. The effort was too great.
He watched, dead grass pricking his cheek, as the Tamaea stumbled out into the remains of the camp. Where the Tamaell’s tents had stood, there was nothing but a swath of exposed earth. To either side, the ground was littered with collapsed tents, tattered canvas still fluttering to the ground. And bodies. Most were beginning to stir, moans and groans replacing the fading winds. The Tamaea worked her way through the detritus, took a few steps out into the empty earth, and then halted.
Faeren, Grae, and the rest of the Phalanx who had run with them from the Tamaea’s tent were gone, swallowed by the Drifter, along with a significant chunk of the camp itself.
And the Drifter hadn’t faded.
Colin fell onto his back again.
No, the Drifter wasn’t finished. He could still feel it.
“Look!”
Aeren shifted his attention from trying to control his frenzied mount out toward the plains, in the direction the Phalanx member had pointed. The group of Phalanx-from both House Rhyssal and House Duvoraen-had gathered on the ridge above the camp, other Phalanx members and servants scattered among them. All of them had expressions of exhaustion and horror on their faces as they watched the huge occumaen wreak havoc among the tents. It pushed its way westward, tents flailing in its winds like birds, debris whirling in a deadly storm. People ran in all directions as it plowed its way forward, swallowing tents and earth whole. Those caught at the edges were sliced in half. Aeren could see at least two crawling away from it, a woman without an arm and a man without legs. Those closer to the eye simply… vanished. Once the occumaen passed by, they were gone, nothing left behind, simply gone.
Breath of Heaven. They’d been called to Aielan.
He felt an overwhelming horror creep through him, his body going numb with shock. His heart still pounded from the mad dash into the camp, yelling and bellowing, trying to goad people up and away before the occumaen hit, followed by the scramble to get out of its way himself. One of his own Phalanx hadn’t made it, he and his horse caught in its eddies as they tried to flee.
Now, body still numbed and shaking, he saw what the Phalanx guard had pointed out.
There, on the edge of the occumaen, he saw a smear of motion, a shadow drawing away from the distortion that lurched and solidified into Colin and the Tamaea. His heart leaped with hope, and then the two stumbled and fell to the ground.
The arm of the occumaen-the Breath of Heaven-passed above them. Their bodies rippled with its distortions, as if they were trapped beneath heat waves… and then it slid by, leaving them unscathed.
An uncertain cheer spread through the group, led by his own Phalanx, who understood what the smeared shadow had been. The rest picked up on it when the Tamaea lurched to her feet and staggered toward the remains of the camp. He thought she’d fall to her knees in the churned up dirt where tents had stood mere moments ago, but he saw her shoulders stoop instead.
“Berec, Larren, take a contingent down to get the Tamaea, immediately!”
Aeren turned toward Lord Khalaek as his men broke into swift action, bellowing orders as they went. “That man-that human-saved the Tamaea’s life,” he said.
Khalaek looked at him in disdain, then glanced around at all of those closest, who’d heard what Aeren had said, who’d witnessed what Colin had done. He stiffened at some of the looks he got. “He’ll be treated… well.”
Khalaek practically growled it, but Aeren nodded.
Eraeth suddenly appeared at Aeren’s side. “The occumaen,” he said, but didn’t finish.
“What?” Aeren and Khalaek snapped at the same time.
Eraeth grew suddenly formal, face blank, body rigid. “It’s headed directly toward the battle.”
Both Aeren and Khalaek spun, saw the occumaen churning over the ridge. From this side, there was no eye, no glimpse into another stretch of plains, no second sun and spring grass. From this side, it appeared to be nothing more than a ripple of heat waves.
“Sound the horns!” Khalaek roared. “Sound them for retreat!” Then he kicked his horse into motion, the rest of the House Duvoraen Phalanx charging after him. They hadn’t been gone two breaths when the sound of a horn pierced the air, joined a moment later by two others, all pealing out the long note for retreat.
“Come on,” Aeren said, motioning to Eraeth.
They followed Khalaek’s men to the crest of the rise and stared down into the flat beyond, where the Legion and the Alvritshai armies still fought. Khalaek continued to sound the retreat, even as he and his men raced across the flat. Dust rose behind them as they banked wide around the occumaen.
On the field, the mass of men surged back and forth, oblivious to the distortion. As Aeren watched, the sounds of Khalaek’s horns finally caught the attention of those at the back of the Alvritshai army. He saw the ripples in the army spread as word was passed, new horns joining Khalaek’s, and Alvritshai began to break away from the rear, men and horses fleeing. Khalaek altered course, swinging his group wide and circling the army to the left. But still the conflict raged in the middle, swords flashing in the afternoon sunlight, blood flying, men falling.
The occumaen drifted closer, its distortion obscuring part of the army to the north. Aeren saw the first men in the Legion break away as they spotted the danger, practically stumbling over each other in their haste to retreat. The horns grew more frantic, the smooth notes blatty and warbled.
Eraeth edged forward, his hands tight on the reins of his mount. “They aren’t going to see it in time.”
Aeren pressed his lips together, but said nothing.
Then, when it seemed that the occumaen would plow through the edge of the two locked armies, three short blasts sounded, the single horn piercing through the cacophony of all the rest.
The Alvritshai army abruptly turned and broke away from the lead group of Legion. Aeren saw the Tamaell’s flags pulling back from the center, saw the Legion spilling into the gap, a few men chasing after the retreating Alvritshai.
But not the King. His banners remained behind. Banners flashed back and forth among all of King Stephan’s groups. Aeren couldn’t read the signals, but when the men began pulling back, he knew they’d also called a retreat. The men charging after the Alvritshai either hadn’t seen the orders, or were blatantly disobeying them.
It cost them their lives.
The occumaen plowed into the edges of both armies, its arms catching those who’d stayed to fight a little too long and those who’d been unable to retreat fast enough. Banners on both sides were caught in the occumaen’s winds, thrashing as dust churned upward. Closest to the occumaen, bodies of horses and men were lifted from the ground where they’d fallen earlier, and Aeren would have sworn the winds were tinged a black-red from the blood already spilled on the battlefield.
It sliced cleanly through the two armies, and when it passed, it left behind a scar of churned earth, as it had in the Alvritshai encampment. When Aeren saw the Tamaell’s banners still raised, he released the breath he hadn’t realized he was holding in a harsh sigh. The two armies, separated by the scarred earth, milled about for a long moment, long enough that Aeren thought they might engage each other again. He felt the old, bitter anger building inside him. The occumaen drifted out past the flat, to the edge of the Escarpment that could barely be seen in the distance, and then beyond. It hovered in thin air, still drifting, and then wavered as it began to dissipate.
Both sides of the battle turned from the field. Aeren relaxed back into his saddle and watched as the Alvritshai moved wearily up the slope toward them, the Tamaell’s escort edging to the front ranks. The Legion withdrew to the north, where Aeren could make out their own encampment, untouched by the occumaen.
As the Tamaell’s escort approached, Aeren stepped forward, Eraeth at his side. The Tamaell sat in the saddle, back rigid, his armor coated with dust and blood, his face smeared with sweat and grit. He carried himself stiffly, yet with a deadly grace, the exhaustion from the day’s battle apparent only around the edges of his eyes and in the angry creases in his brow. All the men around him appeared the same-except Lord Khalaek-although their fatigue was easier to see in their slumped shoulders and hunched backs.
Fedorem saw Aeren’s approach and slowed. The army began to slow as well, until an order was passed back. The Phalanx-the Tamaell’s and the rest of the Houses of the Evant-began spilling around them toward the camp. Groans escaped most men as they saw the destruction the occumaen had caused, some of shock, others of worry.
Khalaek must have already informed Fedorem, for he didn’t react to the state of their camp at all. Instead, he scanned Aeren’s group and called, “Where is the Tamaea? Where is Moiran?”
“She is-” Aeren began.
“Here, my Tamaell.”
Aeren’s escort parted, and the Tamaea stepped through, her clothes stained with mud and grass, her hair in disarray. A smudge of dirt marked her forehead, as if she’d wiped at it with her arm.
She halted a step away from the Tamaell’s horse, and for a moment it appeared that Fedorem would not react. He sat, staring at her, his face unreadable, although Aeren thought he trembled.
Then he swung down from his mount and drew Moiran to him in a hard embrace. He murmured something to her, his face pressed into her hair, and tears shone in Moiran’s eyes as she hesitated and then held Fedorem in return, clutching his battered and bloody armor to her, uncaring.
Aeren and the rest of the escort that surrounded them shuffled and looked elsewhere. Such displays were not generally shown in public, especially not among those in the Evant.
They clung to each other a moment longer, until the Tamaell pushed Moiran back. The Tamaea regained her composure immediately and said, her voice rough, “It was the human, Colin, who saved me from the occumaen. I would not have survived otherwise.”
Surprise flashed across Fedorem’s face, replaced with a solemn expression as he searched among the Alvritshai faces. Not finding Colin, his gaze settled on Aeren. “Where is he? I wish to thank him personally.”
“He is with Lotaern and the acolytes, recovering. The Order has already begun tending to the wounded, at the Tamaea’s request.”
“I see. Then I will attend him later.” His stance shifted, and he stepped away from Moiran toward Aeren. “Lord Khalaek informs me you’ve come with a message from my son.”
“I have.”
“What is it?”
Aeren looked toward Khalaek and narrowed his gaze. He couldn’t tell the Tamaell about the sukrael, not with Khalaek standing there.
“Out with it!” Fedorem barked, startling everyone.
Aeren straightened where he sat and met the Tamaell’s angry, brooding gaze. “The Tamaell Presumptive has met and spoken with the dwarren Gathering, as you requested, and they’ve refused to deal with the Tamaell Presumptive.”
Khalaek snorted in derision, as if he’d expected no less.
But Aeren wasn’t finished.
“Instead, they wish to speak to you directly, Tamaell. They’re coming here, to the Escarpment. And they’re bringing their army with them.”