Awave of weariness washed over Colin the moment Walter Traveled. He raised a hand to his face, his arms trembling, tremors coursing through his legs, wincing at the small cuts that riddled his body. When he tried to take a step forward, he stumbled, nearly fell And his grip on time slipped again.
Sound rushed back, motion, the sharp tincture of spilled blood.
Colin cried out, seizing hold again, his hands closing into tight fists in reaction.
It had only been a moment, but it was long enough for him to see the knife Walter had thrown fly toward Aeren, enough for him to see that it would hit the Lord of the Evant in the chest.
Breath hissing out through his teeth, Colin staggered to where the knife shivered in midair. Walter had been close to Aeren when he threw it. There wasn’t much space between the blade and Aeren himself, barely enough for Colin to slip between the two.
Colin reached out with both hands and grabbed the handle of the knife and pulled, trying to move it, to make it budge.
Nothing.
He growled in frustration, even though he’d known the gesture would be useless. He’d never been able to change anything once it had happened. He hadn’t even been able to brush the strands of hair from Karen’s eyes. He’d never be able to move the dagger.
But perhaps he could shift it if he just loosened his hold on time.
Steadying himself, hands wrapped firmly around the handle, he let the part of his mind that held time relax, just a little, like letting a contracted muscle release.
The blade slipped forward, slowly, the sound of the fight in the tent surrounding Colin like a low, muted murmur. He began pulling on the knife, applying a steady pressure, even as it edged toward Aeren. Sweat broke out on his face, and he gritted his teeth, the muscles in his hands and fingers cramping. The knife shifted forward an inch, then two, and Colin felt his hold on time growing tenuous.
He began to growl, the sound rising as he exerted more effort, until-the growl escalating into a roar-he released the blade and fell back, halting time again.
Panting, one hand rising to wipe the sweat from his face, he inspected the blade, its angle, its path.
Nothing had changed.
He spat a curse. Because now the blade was a handspan closer to Aeren. He could barely squeeze between the two.
Still cursing, he began to pace. “Think, Diermani damn you, think!”
He paused in front of Aeren. The lord was looking toward where Colin had stood, one hand still gripping Eraeth’s arm, hard, his grim, determined expression beginning to shift toward hope, the transformations subtle. He’d begun to turn, toward Eraeth, or perhaps Thaedoren. Colin could see it in the musculature of his neck, in the angle of his body. He had no idea the knife hung two handspans from his chest.
Colin couldn’t tell the precise location where it would strike him, but he could see that it would likely be fatal. It might miss the heart, if he turned fast enough, if the blade struck bone, if…
Colin sighed.
He couldn’t stop the blade. He couldn’t move it, and there wasn’t enough room left for him to deflect it once he restored time. The blade would hit Aeren in less than a breath, less than a heartbeat.
But he could let the knife hit something else.
Straightening grimly, steadying himself, he slid between the blade and Aeren, felt the tip of the knife catch on his shirt, then dig into flesh. The height put it near the level of his heart and he grimaced, thinking back to the time he’d used this same knife in an attempt to kill himself.
It had hurt like all hells.
But it hadn’t killed him.
He drew in a deep breath, felt the tip dig a little deeper into his chest. He shifted slightly, so that the blade was centered over the right side, so that it wouldn’t hit his heart. For a moment, he considered letting it strike his arm, but he needed to make certain it stopped, that it didn’t simply tear through flesh and muscle and hit Aeren anyway.
“And I can’t die,” he whispered to himself. He looked toward the heavens, raised one hand to grip Karen’s pendant around his neck, felt the sharp edges of the vow that he’d never been able to fulfill digging into his hand. “I can’t die.”
And then he released time. No slight relaxation like before. He didn’t need to feel the knife sinking into his flesh inch by inch, didn’t need to feel it cutting through muscle, scraping across bone.
He just wanted it to be over. So he let time go.
The knife punched into his chest with enough force to throw him backward, directly into Aeren. He screamed, the sound filling the tent, blending with the cacophony of blades clashing, lost among the blur of shouts, of commands, of battle cries that had been bellowed only moments before. White-hot pain shattered through Colin’s chest, exploded outward, so intense it muffled the noise, dampened his own scream in his ears. He felt himself falling backward, felt tears streaming from the corners of his eyes, heard Aeren shout as hands scrambled at his body, caught him and lowered him to the ground. His scream died down into a low moan, punctuated by sharper cries as the hands holding him jostled the knife before he felt the prickling sensation of dead, dried grass pressing through his shirt as they lay him on the ground.
“Colin,” Aeren said, his voice calm, but urgent. “Colin, can you hear me?” Hands tugged at his shirt, jogged the knife, and Colin hissed. Blood began to bubble up into his throat, choking him, and he realized it had become difficult to breathe.
In a voice barely above a whisper, Aeren muttered, “Aielan’s Light, what happened?” Then, harshly, “Eraeth!”
Colin opened his eyes, the light in the tent, the sun that glared down on the canvas above, too bright. So bright he felt his eyes watering. A shadowy figure moved into view, and with effort he focused, recognized Aeren, the lord joined a moment later by Eraeth.
“What’s he saying?” Eraeth asked.
“It sounds like ‘I can’t die, I can’t die.’ He just keeps repeating it over and over.”
“What happened?”
“I don’t know. I told him to protect Thaedoren and he vanished, but before I could turn he fell into me, and-” Aeren broke off, then said, “Thaedoren!”
Aeren’s face slid out of view and he felt the lord moving away. The sounds of the fight intensified, the voices of everyone blurring into a senseless mess of Alvritshai, dwarren, and Andovan.
Colin swallowed the blood in his mouth, fresh pain tearing through his chest. He could feel the knife where it had lodged against his rib cage, could feel it scraping against one of his ribs. His entire right side throbbed, and he felt the blood soaking his shirt, felt it pooling beneath his back. His right side felt hollow, yet leaden with weight.
He swallowed again, his mouth strangely dry even though it continued to fill with blood, and he tried to speak.
Eraeth leaned forward, close enough Colin could feel his breath, could smell his sweat, dark and musky, like turned earth. “What, Colin? What are you trying to say?”
“Lift,” Colin gasped. He motioned feebly with one hand. “Lift.”
Eraeth’s lips pressed into a thin line, his expression one of doubt, as if he’d refuse But then he grunted, shifted to Colin’s shoulders, and with more gentleness than Colin would have expected, lifted his torso up so that Colin could see.
He sought out Thaedoren first. Walter had vanished, but he had no doubt that the Wraith would try to kill Thaedoren again if he could. But Thaedoren stood surrounded by Aeren and at least three of the Phalanx, the group already beginning to retreat from the table, one of the Phalanx members dragging the Tamaell’s body with him. Colin choked, tasted still more blood in the back of his throat, swallowed it down.
The look on the Tamaell Presumptive’s face was terrifying.
Colin waved his hand, and Eraeth set him back down on the ground. Waves of heat washed through his body, and darkness had begun to edge his vision, a darkness tinged with a deep yellow. He fought it, not wanting to pass out, knowing that it was inevitable. It was how he’d healed when he’d stabbed himself in the heart in the forest, knew that’s how he’d heal from this.
But then Aeren knelt down next to him, Thaedoren standing above, looking down, the rest of the Phalanx surrounding them on all sides.
“Colin,” Aeren said, “what happened to the Wraith?”
“Walter,” Colin breathed. The darkness had begun to converge, the heated ache in his chest throbbing outward.
Aeren frowned in confusion. “No, the Wraith, Colin. What happened to the Wraith?”
Thaedoren sank down beside Aeren in a crouch. “We don’t have time for this, Lord Aeren. The dwarren are retreating, and the Legion is pushing us hard. I don’t know how long we can hold them here. And once they reach the field…”
He trailed off, but neither Colin nor Aeren needed him to continue.
Once they reached the field, it wouldn’t be a conflict between a select group from each race. It would be an outright battle.
Just like before. Everything that Aeren had feared, everything that he’d attempted to forestall, would happen again.
“Colin,” Aeren began But a spasm rocked through Colin’s chest. He gagged on blood, his chest rising from the ground as he rolled and choked and spat the blood to the side. Hands held him in place, kept him from thrashing around as he coughed up the blood.
When he settled back, his tongue sliding over his teeth, slick and coppery tasting, he saw a flicker of shadow.
Ten steps distant, Walter blurred into view at Lord Khalaek’s back as the lord and his men pressed the Legion forces back. Walter looked as bad off as Colin felt, perhaps worse, his hand clutching at the wound in his side, beneath his armpit. But he didn’t notice Colin, didn’t even glance to the side. His face-eyes sheathed in darkness, mouth drawn down in rage-never wavered from Khalaek’s back.
With his free hand, his sword now sheathed at his waist, he reached out, grabbed Khalaek by the shoulders And then the two vanished.
Colin held his breath, eyes going wide…
Then he rolled onto his back, stared up into Aeren’s face, caught Thaedoren’s hard expression, and said, “Proof. Need proof.”
“What are you talking about?” Aeren said.
Colin’s hands reached out, caught hold of Aeren’s arm and Thaedoren’s hand in a death grip. He didn’t know if he could take them both, or how long he could hold them there, not after the great effort it had taken to save Moiran, not with the knife digging into his chest, but he had to try. “Proof,” he breathed, then squeezed his hands tight, made certain he had their attention. “Don’t move. Don’t speak.”
And then he pushed.
It felt as if someone had taken the knife in his chest and ripped it out by dragging it down and to the side, tearing through bone, through lungs and muscle and gut, opening him wide. He wanted to scream, to shriek until his throat tore, but he knew he couldn’t, knew he had to be quiet, hoped and prayed that both Aeren and Thaedoren would remain silent as well, and so he clamped down on the scream, bit down hard on his tongue; he tasted fresh blood, but he focused on that small pain to take his mind away from the agony that his chest had become. And through that agony, through the exquisite pain, he felt the world slow and settle.
And he heard Walter’s voice, black and deadly.
“That wasn’t the original deal,” Walter said.
“No, it wasn’t,” Khalaek spat, contemptuous. “That was before my esteemed colleague, Lord Aeren, brought forth this preposterous treaty, before the Tamaell Presumptive was brought back from his banishment, before this foolhardy envoy left Caercaern and came to the plains!”
“None of that is my concern. I only care about the Well. I’ve done what you asked-done more by killing the acolyte. The Tamaell is dead. Now give me the location of the Well.”
Colin felt the muscles in Thaedoren’s arms tense, heard the Tamaell Presumptive draw in a ragged breath, but he squeezed hard, warning him to keep silent. Thaedoren’s blood pulsed beneath Colin’s fingers, a quickened throb, but he restrained himself. Colin stared up into Aeren’s widened eyes, saw the lord relax, saw Thaedoren’s face beyond, the Tamaell Presumptive’s eyes locked on the two figures Colin could not see, the muscles in his jaw clenching.
Colin heard someone shift.
“You’re bleeding,” Khalaek said, his voice low.
“I’ll heal.”
“What happened?”
“I ran into an old acquaintance.”
Khalaek drew in a deep breath. “Perhaps I made a mistake in dealing with you. Perhaps you aren’t as strong as I thought.”
Silence. And then Khalaek gasped. At the same time, Colin heard the faint scrape of metal against metal as a sword was drawn.
“You,” Walter said, his voice deadly, “are simply a convenience. The Well will be found, whether you help us find it or not. The Lifeblood will be restored. All of it. Every last node. You provided a way for us to shorten that task, nothing more.” The rustle of clothes, followed by a gasp from Khalaek. “Now, tell me where the Well is.”
Colin couldn’t see what was happening, but he didn’t need to. He’d begun trembling, his hold growing more and more tenuous. His vision had narrowed down to a thin tunnel, the darkness creeping inexorably closer. The effort to hold himself, Aeren, and Thaedoren here had escalated it.
As he struggled to hold it a moment longer, he heard movement, something swift, followed by a meaty thud. Khalaek gasped And then Walter yelled. A sound of pain and fury, a sound that consumed the tent, that reverberated in Colin’s ears. He winced, heard Thaedoren swear, the words bitten off, and then felt the Tamaell Presumptive leap forward, jerking out of Colin’s grasp. He brushed the handle of the knife still protruding from Colin’s chest And the white-hot pain wrenched at Colin’s hold on time. He couldn’t hold the scream in this time. But even through that pain he felt the world slide back into place, heard Thaedoren barking orders, heard the clash of blades return yet again as Aeren shouted a command to Eraeth, the Protector blinking, looking confused, but reacting to the urgency in Aeren’s voice. He bellowed orders, the escort of Phalanx breaking away from the Legion forces, drawing back. At a look from Aeren, Eraeth grunted, reached down, slid one arm beneath Colin’s armpit, the other beneath his knees, and without warning heaved him up and ran for the back of the tent.
The pain filled him. Eraeth hadn’t had time to be gentle. What had been isolated to Colin’s chest now pummeled his entire body. He gagged as fresh blood filled his mouth again, spat to one side, the yellowed blackness of his vision closing in entirely. He hung on to consciousness long enough to feel the breeze as they exited the tent, long enough to hear the horns being sounded, the drums pounding, calling the dwarren to battle. He hung on long enough to feel Eraeth’s dash away from the tent toward the safety of the Alvritshai army juddering through his body, his free arm flailing, the other trapped between his body and Eraeth’s chest. He hung on long enough to listen to Eraeth’s blistering curses.
And then all sensation faded-all sight and sound, the smell of Eraeth’s sweat, the silky texture of his bloodstained shirt where it pressed against his face.
All of that died, and the darkness closed in.
Eraeth didn’t stop running after leaving the tent. He didn’t pause to throw Colin’s sagging body over the back of a horse, didn’t even halt when Thaedoren shouted, “The Tamaell is dead! Sound the horns! Sound them for battle!” the Tamaell Presumptive-the Tamaell now-swinging up into his saddle. Appalled gasps ran through the Phalanx who had waited outside the tents as the Tamaell’s body was dragged into view, but Eraeth ignored it all, ignored the mournful blare of the horns as the entire group mounted, horses whickering and dancing as they picked up on the escalating tension. He locked his gaze on the line of the Alvritshai army in the distance and ran.
Drums began to pound to his right, ragged at first, then slipping into a steady, inexorable rhythm. He heard the thunder of gaezels charging across the grassland and ground his teeth together. To his left, a battle cry erupted from the waiting Legion, and he risked a glance to the side, saw the King’s entourage galloping toward the human lines, flags already flashing, the men there mobilizing.
And then Thaedoren’s escort charged past him, dirt thrown by their passage pattering against his legs. The Tamaell’s body bounced on the back of an unmanned horse being led by the Phalanx, and Lord Khalaek had been lashed to his own horse, the Tamaell’s men surrounding him. Khalaek rode with an arrogant pride, back rigid, shoulders set, but with a wild look in his eyes.
“Moiran!” Aeren shouted as he passed, motioning toward Colin. “Take him to Moiran!”
Eraeth nodded and slowed, Colin’s weight beginning to wear him down, the adrenalin rush fading, the pounding of his heart lessening. Thaedoren reached the Alvritshai army, and an instant later the White Phalanx roared in outrage, the sound spreading outward in a wave as word of what had happened in the tent spread to the other House Phalanx, a gasp of shock at the Tamaell’s death, followed by a roar of escalating rage. The Tamaell Presumptive was surrounded by the Lords of the Evant. At a sharp, dismissive gesture from Thaedoren the escort surrounding Khalaek jerked the lord’s horse toward the camp, Khalaek rocking in the saddle. The horse carrying Fedorem’s body followed, both heading back toward the camp beyond the ridge.
And then Thaedoren turned to face the field. He took a moment to survey the two other armies, his gaze flickering left and right… and then he began issuing orders.
Eraeth entered the edge of the army as the first horns began to blow, each a different tenor, each with a different pattern as the orders were spread. He fought through the ranks as the men of the Phalanx began to move, Colin’s legs catching on one guardsman until Eraeth turned sideways. He stumbled down the back of the ridge as the army broke away into the flat beyond and nearly collapsed, but he caught himself, hitching Colin’s body into a higher position in his arms. His muscles ached, but he staggered forward, passing through the tents, past servants and Phalanx warriors scrambling to prepare, the reserve already assembling near the front of the camp.
And then he was there, at the Tamaea’s tents.
He shoved through the interior tent flap and stood, breath coming in gasps, to find the Tamaea leaning over the Tamaell’s body. Tears streaked her face, although she was not sobbing. Her hands were adjusting the Tamaell’s shirt, tugging it back into place, unmindful of the blood that stained her fingers, but the motions were abstract, fumbling, her hands shaking slightly. The Phalanx who had brought the body stood to either side, backs to the tent walls, shifting uncomfortably.
Moiran finally seemed to realize that her ministrations were useless. Her hands paused, hovering over Fedorem’s body… and then they dropped into her lap. Blood from her fingers smudged her dress in brushlike patterns, but Moiran didn’t notice.
“Oh, Fedorem,” she murmured, her voice hoarse, thick with phlegm.
She sensed Eraeth’s presence and glanced to the side.
Eraeth flinched at the stricken look in her eyes. But even as he did so, the blankness faded as Moiran focused on what Eraeth carried. Her eyes narrowed, and her lips pressed into a thin line.
“Lord Aeren told me to bring him to you, Tamaea,” Eraeth said.
Moiran hesitated, her body trembling. Then her stooped shoulders straightened. She glanced down at Fedorem and smiled bitterly, painfully. “There’s nothing I can do for you.” She leaned forward and kissed Fedorem’s forehead. As she straightened, she wiped fresh tears from her face, leaving a smear of Fedorem’s blood behind.
Then she stood, her eyes hardening. “Not here. The next room. We’ll leave my husband to Aielan’s Light in peace.”
Eraeth didn’t argue, even though his arms were straining to hold Colin’s body aloft. He followed Moiran into the next room, where she began moving chairs and blankets and a platter of fruit aside to clear room around a low table. “Set him here.”
As Eraeth laid Colin down on the table, the Tamaea snapped to the two guardsmen who’d followed them, “Get me fresh linen and a bowl of warm water, and fetch one of the healers.”
One of the guards dashed out of the tent, but Moiran didn’t wait for him to return. She knelt down beside Colin, checked his eyes, felt for his pulse. “What happened?”
“He saved Lord Aeren,” Eraeth said, but he hesitated. “Or that’s how it appeared. It was hard to tell. It happened too fast to follow.”
Moiran nodded, her hands moving over Colin’s body, searching for more wounds, for bruising, for broken bones. She frowned as she came across a cut along his upper arm, at another, deeper slash along his side, but in the end, her gaze returned to the handle of the knife protruding from the right side of Colin’s chest.
They both looked up as horns sounded in the distance, followed by the clash of weapons.
Moiran winced but turned back to face Eraeth. “And Fedorem?”
Eraeth shifted uncomfortably. “One of the Wraiths.”
“And Khalaek? Why was Khalaek brought back under guard?”
Eraeth thought back to the tent, to when Colin had reached out and grabbed both Aeren and Thaedoren, had told them not to move, not to speak… and then all three had vanished.
He didn’t know where they’d gone, had barely had time to react before they’d returned, Thaedoren already leaping over Colin’s prone figure, face contorted in rage, heading toward Khalaek, the Lord of the Evant inexplicably stumbling backward, as if he’d been thrust away by someone, although no one was there.
He’d been facing away from the fight with the Legion, when a second before he’d been fighting alongside his own Phalanx.
“I’m not certain,” Eraeth said. “But I think Lord Khalaek helped the Wraith kill the Tamaell.” He looked down at Colin, the human barely breathing. “I think Colin stopped the Wraith from killing the Tamaell Presumptive and showed Thaedoren that Khalaek and the Wraith were allied in some way.”
Moiran’s face lightened at the mention of Thaedoren. “Then Thaedoren is safe?”
When Eraeth nodded, she sighed in relief. But within moments, her eyes darkened again, with hatred. “Khalaek will be dealt with,” she said flatly, and Eraeth found himself stiffening at her tone.
The healer arrived, carrying bandages. “Tamaea, the White Phalanx said-”
He halted, sucking in a deep breath as he caught sight of Colin, of the blood, the knife jutting from his chest. “Aielan’s merciful Light,” he whispered.
Then he shook himself, face turning serious. He shoved Eraeth aside, moving into position on the opposite side of the table from the Tamaea, motioning the guardsman who’d returned with him to bring the bowl of water he carried closer. After a quick survey of Colin’s body, similar to what Moiran had done, he sat back.
“I don’t think he’ll survive. The knife wound…” he shook his head. “If he were Alvritshai, it would be a mortal wound. The damage on impact was extensive, but he appears to have been jostled around. The blade has moved, causing more extensive damage to the surrounding areas. He should be dead already.”
Moiran sat back. “He’s still breathing.”
“And he shouldn’t be. I don’t understand it.”
Eraeth edged forward, caught their attention. “He’s not Alvritshai.”
“Even for a human-” the healer began, but Eraeth cut him off.
“He’s not human either.” At the perplexed look on the healer’s face, Eraeth turned toward Moiran. “In the tent, after being struck, he kept repeating, ‘I can’t die, I can’t die.’ He didn’t pass out until after we’d left the tent. He’s been touched by the sarenavriell.”
They sat in silence a long moment, Colin between them, his chest rising and falling, slower than normal, but still moving.
“Take it out,” Moiran said. When the healer began to protest, she insisted, “Take it out! And if you have any of the water of the ruanavriell, use it on him. I don’t care how rare it is, or that he’s human.”
The healer shot her a black look, but he set about arranging his bandages, removing needle and gut and a small vial of the precious pink-tinged water of the ruanavriell. He wet a cloth in the bowl and passed it to Moiran, then ripped Colin’s shirt down the middle, exposing his chest. Moiran began wiping the blood clear, the cloth instantly stained a dark red. The skin beneath was a pasty white, bruised in a few places, and more blood seeped from the wound around the knife, sluggish and thick. She frowned but continued her work as the healer prepared.
The healer, gut threaded and in hand, hesitated, looking at the handle of the knife.
“What’s wrong?” Moiran asked.
“Taking the knife out may kill him.”
“I thought you said he should already be dead,” Eraeth muttered.
The healer replied. “Twice over if you dragged him all the way here from the tent.”
Moiran snorted in disgust. But before she could say anything, Eraeth crouched down, grabbed the handle of the knife, and jerked it out of Colin’s body.
Colin spasmed, chest heaving upward, his eyes flying wide as he coughed up more blood while rocking over onto his side. His eyes caught Eraeth’s, held them for a moment. Eraeth couldn’t tell if the human was conscious, if he knew what Eraeth had done.
But the healer did. Cursing, he pushed Eraeth out of the way, rolled Colin onto his back once he stopped coughing, tilting his head to the side so the blood could drain, then turned back to the chest wound.
When he leaned forward, vial ready and needle poised, Moiran glaring as she fought the dark flow of heart’s blood, Eraeth nodded to the two Phalanx and stepped out into the tent’s corridor.
He stood for a long moment, hand clutching the bloody knife in one hand, trying to control the tremors caused by the thought of Colin’s death, the nausea that burned like acid in the back of his throat. He swallowed, steadied himself, then let his hand fall back to his side.
Moving to the front of the tent, he stepped out into the afternoon sunlight and stared up at the cloudless sky. Distantly, he heard the low rumble of fighting and he turned, his ear automatically picking out the direction of the disturbance.
The urge to ride into battle made his hands twitch. He crossed his arms over his chest to control them, forced himself to wait, even though he knew Aeren had ridden into battle with the Rhyssal House Phalanx.
Aeren had ordered him to take care of Colin. Not in so many words, but he knew his lord.
And Colin was Rhyssal-aein.
A short time later, Moiran emerged from the tent, wiping her hands free of blood with a wet cloth. She squinted into the sunlight and turned toward the sounds of battle.
After a long moment of silence, she said, “He’s still alive, although barely. The water of the ruanavriell-the Blood of Aielan-it helped to stanch the flow of blood, but the healer says Colin is still bleeding inside, that the damage there is… extensive. He’s sealed the wound, but he does not expect him to survive. The ruanavriell is not enough.”
“Colin was given into my care by Lord Aeren himself.”
She faced him, hands on her hips, her eyes intent. “I owe him a debt myself,” she said. “For Thaedoren’s life, if you are correct, as well as my own. There’s nothing more to be done here.”
Eraeth hesitated. The knife he’d drawn from Colin’s chest weighed heavily in his hand, the blood already drying.
“Go,” Moiran said, her voice gentle. “I will take care of him. You need to protect your lord.”
Eraeth handed Moiran Colin’s knife, pressing it into the soiled cloth she still held, even though she still wore the bloodstained dress and had a smear of dried blood on her cheek. “Return this,” he said, and then he dug into the pocket hidden in the folds of cloth of his shirt beneath the hardened leather of his armor and removed the cloth-wrapped vial Colin had given him on the plains, the vial that contained the Lifeblood.
He held it before him a long moment, staring at the clear liquid through the glass. He could see Colin’s pained expression, heated with anger, as he handed it over, still hunched in the grass from the seizure. Those seizures had decreased after that, until he’d begun returning to the forest to converse with the Faelehgre about the Wraiths and the sukrael.
The Lifeblood hurt him, but Eraeth knew it could save him as well.
“Take this,” he said gruffly, handing the vial to Moiran, catching her confused gaze and holding it. “If he asks for me, give this to him. But only if he asks.”
Moiran nodded.
And then Eraeth stepped away, letting his concern over Colin fall behind, resting it on Moiran’s shoulders. He motioned to one of the nearest Phalanx. “A horse! Now!”
Ten minutes later, he dug in his heels, the horse leaping forward, charging out of the camp and over the ridge, toward the battlefield below.
Aeren’s cattan met the Legionnaire’s blade with a clash, metal scraping against metal as it slid down toward the hilt. The grizzled, bearded man howled and jerked his blade away, thrusting Aeren’s cattan to the side, swinging wide. Sweat drenched the man’s face, droplets flung from his hair as he twisted, bringing his sword around for another strike But Aeren was quicker. His cattan sank into the break in the man’s armor beneath the armpit, in and out in the space of a breath.
The man’s roar choked off and he staggered backward, the momentum he’d built up for the swing faltering and dragging him off-balance. He tripped over the body of a fellow Legionnaire and went down, but Aeren barely saw him, spinning where he stood, searching for Thaedoren.
The Tamaell Presumptive was still astride his horse, surrounded by at least twenty members of the Phalanx, all from House Resue, and as Aeren’s gaze picked him out of the mass of men and Alvritshai fighting on the open battlefield before the Escarpment, the leader of House Resue and the Evant bellowed a challenge and charged toward the thickest group of Legionnaires, his mount plowing into the morass without hesitation. His Phalanx roared after him, cattans already bloody.
Aeren moved toward the group, his own escort-slightly scattered and dealing with the last of the men who’d hit them hard an hour before, as the three armies collided on the plains-falling in around him with a sharp order.
“What now?” Dharel asked, trotting alongside him. His face was dark, a trail of blood down one side of his neck from a cut near his ear.
“Back to the Tamaell Presumptive’s side,” Aeren said. “That last wave spread us out too far. We need to regroup.” He didn’t mention the loss of his horse, cut from beneath him when the humans had first struck, their front line so overwhelming it had split their forces nearly in two. Thaedoren had divided the army into two fronts, had struck the field at the head of a vee, each side ready to face the two opposing forces, the left-consisting of Houses Nuant, Licaeta, and Baene-confronting the dwarren, the right-Houses Redlien, Ionaen, and Duvoraen-facing the Legion. After careful consideration, he’d ordered Lord Khalaek’s men to follow Khalaek’s caitan, not trusting Khalaek’s men to follow any other lord’s directions on the field. House loyalty was fierce, and most of Khalaek’s men were already grumbling over the seizure of their lord. Thaedoren then ordered Aeren to stay close, leaving Lords Jydell and Peloroun in charge of the southern flank.
The strongest Houses were facing the Legion. They were the greatest threat. The Legion were better trained, had better armor and longer reaches, and there were more of them. And the Legion had the greater conviction, the most hatred. Aeren could sense it on the field, had seen it in each of the men’s eyes as they attacked him. A good portion of the Legion here on the field were older. Old enough to remember the previous battle on this land, when the Alvritshai had turned on their allies and assassinated their King.
The memories of that battle crowded forward. Not the fighting, but the final stages of the attack, when they’d pressed the dwarren to the lip of the Escarpment… and then over.
The screams as they’d fallen-both dwarren and the higher, more piercing shrieks of the gaezels-haunted his dreams still.
“Look!”
Aeren slowed and spun, caught sight of Auvant, then turned to look in the direction his House guardsman had pointed.
The northern edge of the line, near where Lord Peloroun stood, had begun to crumble. Legion poured through the breaks.
“Signal House Duvoraen!” Aeren snapped, his horn-bearer scrambling to pull the curved horn from its place at his side.
The short peals of the horn rang out, ordering House Duvoraen to aide Peloroun. Aeren watched, breath held, as Peloroun fought to keep his line intact. Lord Jydell attempted to send some of his own force, but his men were already locked in desperate battle with the Legion.
As Peloroun’s line finally sagged and gave way completely, House Duvoraen, led by its Phalanx caitan instead of its lord, charged into the middle of the fray in a tight arc around Lord Jydell’s men. Aeren expelled a held breath in relief.
For a long moment, the Legion that had broken through held. Alvritshai fell to human swords. Horses stumbled and sank beneath the crushing waves of men, killing more men and Alvritshai as they panicked. The caitan’s mount reared, and Aeren heard Dharel suck air between his teeth as it wavered, threatening to tumble backward and crush the Duvoraen’s temporary leader. But then he regained control, and the horse dropped, hooves kicking, one crushing the head of a Legionnaire, the man falling like a sack of grain.
The caitan roared, so loud Aeren could hear it through the chaos of the battle on all sides, the sound flat with distance. The Alvritshai responded, both Duvoraen and Ionaen. They surged forward, gaining momentum as they charged, like an ocean’s wave approaching the shore. They crashed into the rough line the Legion had formed and shoved it back, hard, enough that the Alvritshai line rejoined with Lord Jydell.
Aeren allowed himself to breathe, grimacing at the stench of the battlefield. The smell of blood was sharp, permeated with death, an undertone of churned earth and trampled grass beneath that and, faintly, from somewhere close, smoke. Satisfied that the line would hold, Aeren turned back toward the Tamaell Presumptive. He hadn’t been certain how the caitan of House Duvoraen would react to his lord being supplanted, but it appeared that his fears were unjustified. “Call House Rhyssal to me.”
The horn-bearer nodded, raising the silvered horn to his lips. As the call to regroup faded, Aeren heard the pounding of hooves, close, and turned to see Eraeth pulling to a halt on the outside of the assembling group.
“Lord Aeren,” Eraeth said. “You called?”
Aeren grinned, Dharel and Auvant doing the same to either side. “It’s good to see you. While Dharel and Auvant are more than competent, it’s been strange not having you fighting by my side.” But then his grin faltered. “Shaeveran?”
All of the surrounding guardsmen shifted. Word of what Colin had done in the tent had been passed among them almost instantly, and nearly all of them had seen Eraeth carrying him from the field, had seen the knife in his chest, the blood that even now soaked the front of Eraeth’s shirt.
Eraeth’s expression darkened, and when he spoke there was apprehension in his voice. “I left him in the Tamaea’s care. A healer tended him, but he couldn’t say whether he’d survive. I left the Tamaea the vial Shaeveran gave into my care on the plains.”
Aeren nodded, as those of House Rhyssal who’d continued to gather to the call murmured, passing the word. “Her debt to him is as great as ours,” he said, and saw Eraeth relax slightly. Then the edge of his grin returned. “And Shaeveran has a habit of surviving longer than he has any right to.”
A few of the men chuckled. Aeren felt the moment of dread, of depression and despair, slip away and thanked Aielan’s Light, sending a prayer for Colin along with the thanks. He had his doubts about Colin’s survival-he’d seen the wound, seen the blood and the paleness of Colin’s face as Eraeth gathered him into his arms-but he’d be damned if he let his men see them.
“What now?” Eraeth said. He scanned the field, gazing at the line to the north. The southern line against the dwarren had held, but that was because the dwarren had kept half of their force in reserve and were only fighting defensively. They’d made no push to take ground or break the Alvritshai line, focusing most of their attention on the more aggressive Legion forces trying to break through their ranks to the west.
As Eraeth eyed the dwarren lines, his brow furrowing, Aeren said, “They’re waiting. To see how the battle plays out.”
“Or to see if this is some type of trick,” Eraeth said. “Like the last time they were on this field. They’re wary it may happen again.”
Aeren nodded. But before he could respond, Dharel said, “Movement in the Legion ranks.”
Both Aeren and his Protector turned toward the north, but Eraeth had the advantage of height, still astride his horse.
“Two groups, a hundred men each,” he reported. “Reserve units. They’re heading toward the Tamaell Presumptive’s position.”
“Dharel, left flank, Auvant, take the right, we’ll support the Tamaell Presumptive.”
“Until he sounds a retreat or we’re all dead,” Eraeth threw in with a feral grin.
Both Dharel and Auvant chuckled, then spun and began shouting orders, the House Rhyssal Phalanx falling into line behind them. Eraeth stood down from the horse and handed the reins to Aeren. After a moment’s hesitation, Aeren swung up into the saddle. Eraeth took position to his left, the horn-bearer to his right. Someone had salvaged the Rhyssal banner-a deep blue field with the red wings of the eagle flaring to both sides-and carried it a few paces behind.
Eraeth tugged at his arm, and he glanced downward. “The Wraith?”
Aeren frowned, thought back to what he’d seen of the Wraith when Colin had pulled Thaedoren and himself back so they could witness Khalaek’s betrayal.
The Wraith had been wounded as badly as Colin, if not worse. He’d been clutching the side of his chest at first, blood pouring out of him, more blood than Aeren thought a human could possess.
And then Khalaek-with the Wraith’s sword leveled at his throat, touching it with enough pressure to draw blood-had punched the wound hard.
Aeren had seen a flare of metal in Khalaek’s hand a moment before it struck, some type of dagger or knife jutting out between the fingers of the clenched fist.
“I don’t think the Wraith will be an issue,” Aeren said. “Not right now.”
When Dharel and Auvant signaled ready, Aeren turned toward the Tamaell Presumptive’s line, less than a hundred paces distant. He could see Thaedoren in the center of the mass of men and Alvritshai, could see the House Resue colors as the line shifted back and forth, undulating like a river. And beyond them, the Legion reserves, thundering forward on horses, coming from both sides.
He raised his cattan, readied it. He felt the exhaustion from the battle already fought, felt the weariness in his arms, in his legs.
Then he signaled the horn- bearer.
As the first clear note sounded, he kicked his horse into motion, eyes forward, locked on Thaedoren, the Tamaell Presumptive who would become the Tamaell once the battle ended… if he survived.
And Aeren intended him to survive.
With that thought he cried out, his men breaking into battle cries to either side.
And then they struck.
Aeren felt the impact through his entire body, juddering up from his horse as it plowed into the Legion’s ranks, the Alvritshai that had held them back opening up before them as they heard the roar of their approach. Aeren brought his cattan down, slashing through the throat of the Legionnaire in front, letting the blade’s momentum carry it to the side before adjusting its motion and punching it down through the chest of another man. He planted his foot on the man’s shoulder as blood fountained from his mouth, the man’s scream drowned out in his own blood, then shoved, his cattan slipping free. He nudged his horse forward, caught Eraeth’s blade flickering with the dying sunlight to the left, saw the horn-bearer, horn now at his side, cattan free, scream as a Legionnaire’s blade took him in the side. Another Alvritshai in Rhyssal colors took the horn-bearer’s place.
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.