Benjamin Tate - Well of Sorrows

The Tamaell appeared grim as well. He wore a simple red and white shirt over light armor, his cattan strapped to his side. He took his place at the eastern end of the table, the western edge remaining empty.

Nodding formally to both Stephan and Harticur, he said, “I thank you both for coming-”

Before he could finish, Aeren caught movement out of the corner of his eye, a flicker, a blur of shadow. He frowned, a coldness lancing into his gut, a frisson of warning. Behind him, he heard Colin shift forward, heard the human say, “Wait,” in startled confusion And then something splattered across his face, across his chest, something hot and fluid, soaking instantly through his clothing to his skin.

He jerked back, blinked, one hand already rising to touch whatever had struck his cheek And then he froze in mid-motion, eyes locked on the black-cloaked figure that stood before the Tamaell, one gloved hand fisted in the Tamaell’s shirt over his chest, holding him upright and close, the other finishing the sweep of the blade across Fedorem’s neck. The figure’s face was hidden beneath a cowl, the hood drawn down, but Aeren caught the impression of human clothing beneath, a shirt styled like the Provinces, the glitter of a belt buckle, a sword’s sheath.

He saw it all in the space of a heartbeat. Then the shadowed figure released the Tamaell, almost disdainfully, and with a smeared blur he vanished.

In the shocked, confused silence that followed, there was no sound except the patter of blood as it flew from a blade that was no longer there, as it gushed from the Tamaell’s throat, coating the front of his shirt, his head thrown slightly back. It struck the table, hit the shallow bowl in the center, staining the sheaf of wheat, the eagle’s feathers, the fruit.

Aeren felt his entire body go numb, his hands tingling, his heart stilled in his chest. He couldn’t breathe. A roar filled his ears, like the wind of the plains, harsh and hollow and constant, a howl that drowned out everything.

And then the Tamaell dropped to his knees and toppled forward. His torso struck the table with a sickening, meaty thunk, his head cracking into the side of the wooden bowl. It flipped, the wheat and feathers and fruit scattering.

The clatter of the bowl coming to rest broke the silence.

Khalaek leaped forward, cattan sliding from its sheath in one smooth motion. “We’ve been betrayed!”

His roar filled the tent and sent a shudder through Aeren’s chest, down into his gut. He heaved in a broken gasp even as the Phalanx who stood at the back of the tent surged forward with answering roars, charging onto the table toward the dwarren and the Legion. Blades snicked from sheaths as both the human guardsmen and the dwarren Riders sprang forward to protect their rulers. Aeren stepped back from the sudden din of shouts, of battle cries, of blades striking blades and hatred being unleashed.

Then a hand latched onto his arm and jerked him around. He cursed, one hand going automatically to his cattan, half drawing it before he recognized Eraeth’s face. “Get back!” his Protector bellowed. He thrust Aeren against the side of the tent, where Colin stood, wide-eyed with horror, then stepped in front of them both, cattan already readied.

The blur, the figure, the Tamaell…

Aeren sucked in shocked breath and murmured, “A Wraith.” He reached forward and grabbed Eraeth’s arm. “Thaedoren! We have to protect Thaedoren!” But before he finished, he realized that neither he nor Eraeth could protect the Tamaell Presumptive. Not from what had killed Fedorem, not against a Wraith.

Only one of them had a chance.

He spun and yelled, “Colin!”

The human caught his gaze, and Aeren saw the realization sink in through the shock, the same realization he’d come to.

Then Colin blurred…

And vanished.

A moment before the Wraith appeared and slit the Tamaell’s throat, Colin had felt a disturbance in the air, like a breeze. The hairs on his arms had prickled and risen. Something stabbed into his left arm, where the black mark from the Well swirled beneath his skin, pain searing up from his wrist to his elbow. He’d hissed, clutched at the arm with his other hand, turned to the side And then he’d smelled the Lifeblood: earth and leaves and snow.

One of the Phalanx behind them met his gaze. He stood near the entrance to the inner room where the three races were meeting, one hand holding the flap of the tent to one side, and as their eyes met, Colin felt a shock of recognition pierce through him.

Khalaek’s aide. The one who’d met Benedine in the courtyard.

He heard the Tamaell begin to speak, heard his voice cut off. “Wait,” he muttered, as a stunned silence settled over the room, broken by another sound, the sound of rain, of droplets hitting wood and grass and cloth.

He caught a glimpse of the Wraith… and then it vanished.

His hand tightened on his staff, his eyes going wide.

He’d known the Wraiths had left the forest, but the sight of the Wraith there, in the tent, cloaked in shadows His chest squeezed tight, so tight he couldn’t breathe, a strange, queasy, fluid warmth settling in his gut, making his legs tremble with weakness.

The Tamaell’s body fell. He heard Khalaek shout, felt the Phalanx around him charge forward, but everything was removed and muted. Eraeth pulled Aeren back from the escalating fray, blades and shouts filling the tent, and still the warm, tingling weakness filled him.

And then he heard Aeren cry out, “Thaedoren! We have to protect Thaedoren!” The Lord of House Rhyssal paused, one hand still clutching Eraeth’s arm… and then he spun, eyes intense with fear, with determination. “Colin!”

It wasn’t a question, it was an order.

With a sickening sensation, Colin felt the numbness break. No one here had any hope of stopping the Wraith. No one could stop it.

Except him.

And Khalaek wanted to Ascend. He wanted the Evant. It wouldn’t be enough to kill the Tamaell. He’d need to kill the Tamaell Presumptive as well.

Colin’s jaw clenched, and without even a nod in Aeren’s direction, he pushed.

The world slowed instantly, so fast Colin gasped. He’d shoved harder than he’d intended, but he didn’t pause to steady himself, didn’t even twitch at the sharp pain that shot through his side like a runner’s cramp. The mark on his arm flared with pain again as he spun, centering on Thaedoren, the Tamaell Presumptive frozen in mid-motion, sword drawn, rising to strike at one of the Legion, the man’s face twisted with rage, Thaedoren’s face cold. The Wraith stood directly behind Thaedoren. Even as Colin watched, it brought its sword around to strike. A pressure built, prickling along Colin’s skin, as the Wraith prepared to slip back into real time, the tip of its sword angled now toward Thaedoren’s back.

Colin reacted without thought. His staff swung in a wide arc, whirring through the tight confines of the tent and cracking into the Wraith’s neck.

The Wraith staggered, lurched to one side, then spun, sword flicking out to parry Colin’s second swing. Metal met wood with a solid thwack, and a chunk of Colin’s staff broke free. It slowed as it lost contact with the heartwood of the staff, froze in midair, returning to real time, but the Wraith didn’t give Colin enough time to recover. It lashed out, sword nothing but a blur, going for his stomach.

Colin sucked in a breath as he stumbled backward, his staff whipping around to shunt the Wraith’s blade aside. He cried out as he felt metal slicing through his clothing and into the skin at his side, but he ignored the flare of pain, bringing his staff up and around, trying to fling the sword from the Wraith’s grip so it would return to real time like the chunk torn from his staff, but the Wraith merely grunted and turned into the staff ’s motion. Shifting his grip, Colin brought the bottom down toward the Wraith’s feet.