Benjamin Tate - Well of Sorrows

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.