Benjamin Tate - Well of Sorrows

Harticur studied Thaedoren’s face intently, then nodded slowly as he leaned back. He said something to the other dwarren, received a few grudging nods and grunts of assent in return.

“The urannen-the sukrael,” he said the Alvritshai word carefully, “have left the forest. They’ve begun to attack the dwarren. They’ve invaded our cities, our tunnels, our sacred grounds.”

Thaedoren nodded. “They have attacked our easternmost House lands as well. Entire villages have been found dead.”

Harticur growled, a low rumble from the chest. “The same for us. It is why we have Gathered, why we have chosen a Cochen. Something must be done. It is why we are here, why we came. If the urannen have begun to move, if the world is Turning, we cannot fight among ourselves. We cannot fight with you. We must fight the urannen, fight the terren, the gruen and the kell.”

All the dwarren stirred at the mention of the Turning, shifting uncomfortably in their seats as Harticur named each of the creatures. Aeren had no idea what the terren, gruen, and kell were, but he felt a shiver course through him as their names were spoken.

Drawing himself upright, Harticur glanced around at his fellow clan chiefs, received sharp nods from all of them, including those who’d dissented earlier, then turned to Thaedoren.

“The Gathering wishes to discuss a formal treaty with the Alvritshai.” Aeren felt relief flood through him, more powerful than the unease he’d felt as the dwarren mentioned the Turning and the other creatures. His hands, chest, and arms tingled with the release of tension, and he exhaled sharply.

But Harticur was not finished.

“But we cannot do so here, with you,” he said gravely. “We must speak to the Tamaell, with all of the Alvritshai lords. We have been promised a formal apology for the desecration to our Lands, to appease Ilacqua, and an agreement to honor those Lands. So it is the agreement of the Gathering that we will travel with you to the Tamaell’s side. We will come to the Escarpment to meet with the Tamaell.”

“The Tamaell didn’t inform the entire Evant of the attacks of the sukrael.”

Thaedoren turned to Aeren as they watched the dwarren encampment break down in a mad rush of short dwarren figures. Close by, the ancient shaman directed a large group of dwarren as they tore down the meeting tent, chanting the entire time in a frenzy, with an occasional disapproving shake of his head and a black frown. The meeting with the clan chiefs had barely ended, and the remnants of the storm were still on the southern horizon. Harticur hadn’t given any of them, Alvritshai or dwarren, time to react. Within a heartbeat of his pronouncement, he’d stood and ordered the dwarren to prepare for the march.

“It was decided that until we knew more, the attacks would be kept secret,” Thaedoren said.

“Decided by whom?”

“Be my father and Lord Vaersoom. And Lotaern. My father has been working closely with him regarding these attacks, since the sukrael fall under Aielan’s purview.”

Aeren nodded. “Then there’s something you should know.”

And Aeren told him of what he and Lotaern had discovered regarding Lord Khalaek. Thaedoren’s attention was still fixed on the dwarren encampment at first, but by the end, it was centered on Aeren.

“You should have warned us sooner,” he said at the end, his voice edged with anger.

“I have no evidence to support my suspicions about Lord Khalaek, and our rivalry within the Evant is well known. Any accusation I made would have been seen as a personal attack, nothing more. Would you or Fedorem have believed the word of a human?”

“That was for us to decide!” Thaedoren snapped, and Aeren drew himself upright defensively. But Thaedoren suddenly turned away, looking down toward the Alvritshai camp, which was nearly packed up. Aeren felt new tension radiating from him, a palpable force, evident in his stance, in his clenched jaw, in the hardness of his features.

“Someone has to get back to the convoy,” he said suddenly, tightly. “As fast as possible.”

“Why?”

“Because having the dwarren join us at the Escarpment was never part of the plan. Someone has to warn my father. And someone needs to tell him about the possibility that the sukrael and these Wraiths may be working with Lord Khalaek.”

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.