Benjamin Tate - Leaves of Flame

The rolling hills at the far eastern edge of Temeritt Province filled the horizon, dotted with random copses of trees near streams and the occasional exposed plinth of granite. Farther to the northeast, he could see where the hills fell away to what the dwarren called the Flats-a vast expanse of dusty earth that stretched to the horizon. The sheer flatness of it sent a shudder through Tomson’s shoulders as his eyes scanned south and west. He could barely make out the beginnings of the cliffs called the Escarpment, the natural boundary between human and dwarren lands. Somewhere to the south would be the Serpent River, what most considered the edge of Temeritt lands, but it was lost among the hills. No one had settled beyond the Serpent, which was why Tomson was here. Most claimed that going beyond the Serpent placed settlers beyond the boundary of the Autumn Tree and within the reach of the Shadows.

Tomson had rolled his eyes at the old men in the tavern at the warning three months before, scoffed and walked away with his drink to the far corner of the room. The Shadows. An old wives’ tale, used to keep children from sneaking out into the night and getting into trouble. And the Autumn Tree was nothing but a legend as well. GreatLord Kobel used it to keep those in his Province within his grasp, to keep men like Tomson from claiming what was rightfully theirs. The threat of the Shadows was empty, nothing but a ruse to keep settlers away from the fertile plains between the Serpent and the Flats, land that GreatLord Kobel claimed belonged to the dwarren.

Tomson had been out here for two months already and he’d seen no dwarren. Nor any Shadows. Only wide open land, ready to be taken.

His horse snorted and tossed her head, breaking him from his contemplation of the southlands. He frowned at the animal’s fear-whitened eyes and flared nostrils. When he moved suddenly toward the bucket of water and his satchel, his horse flinched and shied away from him, drawn up short by the attached plow.

“Steady,” he said soothingly. “Steady there, girl.”

He knelt down and dug through his satchel, bringing out a sheathed knife and pulling the blade free. He scanned the field, searching for what had unsettled his horse, but saw nothing.

Rising slowly, he turned full circle as he made his way to her side. The muscles beneath her smooth brown coat twitched when he touched her and she snorted again. Her legs were rigid with tension, her body trembling.

“Hush.” He stroked her neck, but she didn’t gentle.

His frown deepened, his gaze shooting left and right. But the plains were quiet. No breeze stirred. The sky was an empty pale blue overhead.

And then, from the corner of his eye, Tomson caught movement.

He spun, startling the horse forward a pace before his hand closed down on the bridle to hold her. But there was nothing there, nothing visible-

Yet something had changed. Twenty paces away, a section of the unplowed grasses had caved in, as if a giant had poked his finger into the ground.

He straightened, patting the horse’s neck again as he shifted forward. His grip tightened on the handle of the knife. Sweat dripped from his forehead into his eyes and he scrubbed it away hastily. More sweat slicked his shirt to his back. The mild spring day suddenly seemed too warm.

He halted a step away from the hole. Earth fell from its edge, dangling by strands of grass a moment before breaking free. He hesitated, then knelt, leaning forward, knife held before him protectively.

The hole had no bottom. It descended into darkness, sunlight flaring down one side, exposed roots jutting from the sides of earth like worms. He breathed in deeply, smelled loam and damp grass, and underneath that a heady scent, like that of a wet muskrat.

Movement. Deep down in the earth.

He leaned farther forward, eyes narrowing-

And then his horse shrieked.

He lurched backward, heart thudding in his chest so hard he gasped and clutched at his shirt with the hand holding the knife. Falling to the ground on his side, he shoved hard with his feet, scrambling backward even as he felt the dirt at the edge of the hole give way. He fell onto his back and rolled, his horse shrieking the entire time. She reared, still tethered to the plow, feet kicking as she shook herself in fear. When she landed, her legs sank into the ground as if it were made of mud, all the way up to her knees.

She shrieked again, began kicking and thrashing, the plow jerking behind her as she tried to back up. Mud churned; through the flying grass and dirt Tomson saw blood streaking the animal’s forelegs, splattering high enough to hit her belly. Bile rose to the back of his throat, but terror clamped down hard on his chest. He watched in horror as his horse shrieked a third time, the sound so like a woman’s scream that he cringed as it grated across his shoulders and down his spine. The horse redoubled her effort to free herself from the loose soil, but she merely sank deeper, her legs caught beneath the ground, until her belly rested against the earth.

And then Tomson screamed. From the churned earth on either side of the animal, claws reached up and raked across the horse’s sides, flesh parting and blood spilling into the already softened soil. His horse screamed again, but the sound held no strength, her head already sagging forward as the ground continued to surge around her body. Tomson’s voice shattered the stillness of the rolling plains as completely as his horse’s had a moment before. Beneath his own ragged scream, beneath the low rumble of moving earth, he heard another sound, a soft sound, like the dry scratching of leaves. If he could only stop screaming, he thought he might be able to make out words.

But he didn’t stop. When his horse’s head fell to the ground and the dry hiss of near conversation escalated, he rolled onto his stomach and lurched to his feet. He staggered three steps, intent on reaching the hollowed-out knoll that he’d made his home, but on the fourth step his leg sank into the soil.

The sudden loss of stability cut his screams short as he collapsed to his hands. He clutched at the sodden grass, gasped once-

Then felt claws sink into his calf muscles and tug sharply down.

He hadn’t thought he could scream any louder than before, but he did.

Jerking his leg free, hearing a frustrated hiss from beneath the ground, he scrambled forward on hands and knees, panting, tears streaking his face, sobs escaping in the hitched breath between screams. But twenty paces later the ground gave way completely and he plunged beneath the earth.

His screams lasted another ten minutes, until they were drowned out by the soft hiss of dried leaves. Five minutes later even that faded.

Silence descended on the plains, where the handles of a plow jutted into freshly churned, bloody earth.

“Why are we waiting here?”

Colin didn’t turn toward Siobhaen, although he caught movement out of the corner of his eye and realized that Eraeth had. He didn’t need to look to know there would be a scowl on Eraeth’s face. The two had squabbled with each other their entire journey from Artillien, across the Rhyssal, Baene, and Ionaen House lands, and onto the edge of the dwarren territory simply called the Lands. No actual confrontations. But plenty of heated glares, half-muttered comments, and the occasional barb.

Colin had considered abandoning them both on multiple occasions, simply slowing time and escaping. The constant bitterness and suspicion was draining.

“We are waiting here on the edge of Alvritshai lands because of the Accord the Alvritshai and humans made with the dwarren,” he said patiently, reaching forward to stroke the neck of his mount. “The Alvritshai agreed to respect the Lands, the Tamaell himself performing the rituals at the Escarpment and offering a formal apology to the dwarren and their gods. The Accord stipulates that no one, human or Alvritshai, may enter the Lands without an accompanying dwarren escort or the express permission of the Cochen.”