Benjamin Tate - Well of Sorrows

On the plains below, the Legion stood to the north. Aeren could just see the banners of the King, surrounded by those of the Provinces. It appeared that all of the Governors stood with the King. Most of the Legion were on foot, those mounted grouped behind the King himself.

The dwarren Riders had gathered to the south. They’d set up their camp during the night, their drums a continuous thundering presence until nearly dawn, when they’d suddenly fallen silent. That silence had been almost worse than the constant sounding of the drums. Those still awake in the Alvritshai camp had looked up from whatever they were doing, then returned to their tasks, unsettled.

Now, there were no drums. The dwarren were mounted on their gaezels in a loose formation, nothing like the ordered ranks of the Legion, or even the Alvritshai. A few pennants marked the general location of each of the clans, but unlike the Legion, the clan chiefs appeared to be scattered among their own men.

The large gash the occumaen had left in the plains separated the dwarren and human armies, a dark line that cut diagonally from the Alvritshai armies toward the cliffs of the Escarpment to the west.

The plains were eerily silent. There were no storms on the horizon, only a few scudding clouds. The air felt hollow and empty, yet tight with anticipation, with expectation.

Aeren felt dread eating away at his stomach. He’d felt this same tension over thirty years before, on this very ground. Only back then he’d been filled with the hope that the battle would end all the fighting, all the conflict, all the bloodshed. An alliance had been formed, and with it the first tentative ties between the Alvritshai and human races.

Except that those ties had been torn to shreds during the battle that followed, destroyed and thrown to the ground by Khalaek and then, shockingly, by Fedorem himself.

Aeren resisted glancing toward Khalaek’s position, his hand gripping the reins so hard his fingers had gone white. His horse stirred again and tossed its head, picking up on his tension.

The Tamaell turned, sought him out. Aeren straightened in his saddle and shoved the sickening roil in his gut aside.

No words were spoken. They’d discussed what Aeren would do long into the night, after the dwarren’s arrival. The Tamaell simply nodded.

Aeren kicked his horse forward, Eraeth and two other Rhyssal Phalanx-Dharel and Auvant-accompanying him. The Tamaell’s escort parted before them, then closed ranks behind as Aeren picked up speed, racing out onto the flat, toward a point midway between all three of the gathered armies, in the center of the occumaen’s path. He listened to the snap of the truce banners carried by Dharel and Auvant beneath the thundering of his horse’s hooves and his own heart, heard that thunder change tenor as he reached the edge of the exposed dirt left behind by the occumaen. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught movement and saw a small party of Legion break away from the human army and move to intercept them at the center of the field, carrying the same banners of truce. He turned toward the south, to where the dwarren army waited, but saw nothing.

He clenched his jaw grimly. This wouldn’t work unless the dwarren sent out representatives as well.

When he reached position, he pulled his mount up sharply, then waited, his horse prancing slightly. Eraeth and the others brought their mounts to a halt as well, ranging out behind him. To the right, the members of the Legion party were already halfway there.

To the south, the dwarren had still not moved, although Aeren noticed new activity. He muttered a small curse, then turned his attention to the approaching human representatives.

There were five of them, all members of the Legion, fighting men. They halted their mounts nearly twenty paces away, and as the two groups sized each other up, Aeren realized he recognized their leader: the commander who’d been in the meeting hall in Corsair.

Nodding grimly, Aeren said, “Commander.”

The Legionnaire smiled without any trace of humor. “Lord Aeren. I see you’ve brought reinforcements.”

Aeren frowned at the coldness in the man’s voice. “The dwarren weren’t invited.”

The commander held himself loosely in the saddle, but Aeren wasn’t deceived; his horse wouldn’t stop fidgeting. He regarded Aeren with a blatant stare, brow slightly creased, jaw clenched. A fresh cut marred his forehead over his right eye. “We’ll find out soon enough,” he finally said, and jutted his chin out toward the dwarren army.

Aeren turned to look.

A group had broken away from the dwarren, streaking toward them on gaezels and a single horse. Aeren tensed on seeing the horse, then realized it belonged to the Tamaell Presumptive, who hadn’t returned to the camp the night before.

He allowed himself to relax slightly, although having Thaedoren arrive with the dwarren wouldn’t help alleviate the commander’s suspicions. But perhaps he could use those suspicions to his advantage.

“Did you call the Drifter?” the commander asked suddenly. “It’s said you can control the elements-the wind, the water, the very earth.”

Eraeth snorted and rolled his eyes.

“No,” Aeren said, ignoring his Protector. “We did not call the Drifter. As your scouts have probably already reported, the occumaen destroyed a large portion of our own camp and killed at least fifty Alvritshai. Another thirty are missing. Why would we call something so destructive and unleash it on ourselves?”

“Perhaps it got out of control,” the Legionnaire muttered.

Aeren didn’t bother to respond, but he saw a fleeting expression of doubt cross the commander’s face.

Then he heard the pounding of the gaezels’ hooves as Thaedoren and the group of dwarren arrived. They banked away, then turned and swept past the group, curling around into a position the same distance from both Aeren’s and the Legion’s groups, all except Thaedoren, who rode up into position behind them on his horse. Thaedoren nodded at Aeren, his expression unreadable. He was obviously deferring to the dwarren.

Aeren was not surprised to find the dwarren led by Garius. The clan chief ’s nose and ear chains glinted in the sunlight, the beads woven into his beard clicking against each other as he nudged his gaezel out in front of the rest of his group. He’d brought six other dwarren with him, plus Thaedoren.

Garius glared at Aeren, then at the Legionnaire, before returning his gaze to Aeren. “What is the meaning of this?” he asked in dwarren. He motioned toward the two groups.

Aeren straightened in his saddle. “The Tamaell of the Alvritshai, Fedorem Arl Resue, wishes to end the bloodshed on the plains. He proposes that all three leaders of the three races-King Stephan Werall, Cochen Harticur of the Red Sea Clan, and himself, along with a suitable escort-gather here, on this ground to discuss a treaty among our peoples.” Aeren waited while someone from each party translated from Alvritshai to their own language.

A silence settled, held for a long moment And then was broken by a harsh laugh from the Legionnaire. “You want to talk peace? After what happened here over thirty years ago?” His voice lowered dangerously. “You would dare suggest peace on this ground, at this place.”

“It is precisely because of what happened here, at this place thirty years ago that Tamaell Fedorem suggests we talk,” Aeren said. “A mistake was made, one that he wishes to rectify.”

“A mistake!”

Aeren winced at Garius’ deep-chested, enraged roar. The clan chief had edged his gaezel closer, and for the first time Aeren noticed that he brandished a sword, the weapon laid across his lap.

“A mistake!” Garius’ gaze was scathing. “You slaughtered us. You cut us down and then drove us off of the Escarpment. You call that a mistake? It was butchery!”