Benjamin Tate - Well of Sorrows

“What do you see?” Harticur asked.

“The world is Turning, and the Four Winds have begun to blow. Nothing is clear.” Corteq stared at the tendrils a moment longer, his eyes slightly dilated, then grunted and leaned back. “Tread carefully, Cochen. Your choice will determine the fate of the People of the Lands.”

Harticur frowned, the rest of the clan chiefs stirring uneasily.

“We should attack the humans. It is a chance to avenge our unsettled ancenstors’ spirits,” Sipa said, and Garius saw at least three of the dwarren nodding in agreement, including Shea.

Harticur’s brow furrowed, and he looked up at Garius.

Garius thought for a long moment. This was his last chance to convince Harticur, the last chance to sway him toward peace. “We are at the Cut. If you attack and the humans rally, if the Alvritshai join them…”

Tension tightened the corners of Harticur’s mouth and he nodded.

“Do you think they will make a difference?” Eraeth asked, nodding toward the ranks of the Order of the Flame behind them.

Aeren shifted in his saddle, turning from his perusal of the churned plains to look back, squinting into the light of the rising sun. “I don’t know,” he said carefully. “Lotaern wasn’t forthcoming about what they could do. But he claims that they are more than simple warriors.”

The acolytes had formed up into lines, four deep. Dressed in armor similar to what most of the House Phalanx wore, they could have blended into any of the surrounding Houses and been indistinguishable from the rest of the Alvritshai… except for their white tabards. Those tabards blazed in the morning sunlight, the stylized flames on their front picked out in gold. He recalled seeing these acolytes emerging from the Sanctuary in Caercaern, felt the same sickening twist of dread in his stomach as he had then.

“The Order was never meant to have a Phalanx,” he murmured, even as Lotaern rode to the front of his acolytes on his white horse, a standard-bearer with the blue and white flame emblem on his banner a step behind.

“It appears he has one now,” Eraeth said.

Aeren glanced toward his Protector. “We’ll see for how long.”

Eraeth merely grunted.

During the meeting of the Evant the night before, Aeren had seen the deepening lines of concern on the Tamaell Presumptive’s face as they planned, as Lotaern revealed more and more about his warriors, his Order of the Flame.

But the Order and its army could wait. He turned his attention back to the ranks of the Alvritshai and the field.

The Houses of the Evant were set up the same as the day before, spread out in a wide v-shape, Thaedoren and House Resue at its point, where it would intersect both the dwarren and human forces. The Duvoraen Phalanx had been kept back as a reserve at Lord Barak’s and Vaersoom’s insistence; they were even more concerned over their loyalties after the allegations of Khalaek’s involvement in the Tamaell’s death, though they had fought well. In fact, they demanded that the caitan be relieved of command and the force given over to one of the Lords of the Evant instead. Peloroun opposed the action, supported by Aeren, much to the Lord of House Ionaen’s surprise. After much argument, Thaedoren settled the matter by pointing out that the Duvoraen had already proven themselves as reserve units and that Khalaek’s men had proved they would follow the caitan of House Duvoraen’s commands.

Everyone else had claimed the same positions along the line and now stood waiting as the sky lightened, the sun finally emerging completely above the horizon behind them. Aeren fidgeted in his saddle, unable to find a position that didn’t aggravate the aches and bruises from yesterday’s battle. The parley tent had collapsed and been ground into the earth, one stake with a fold of cloth still attached jutting upward toward the sky. He stared at it a long moment, a different ache building in his chest. To either side, he could see the dwarren and human lines, too distant to discern faces but close enough to see movement among the men. Banners flapped in a gusting wind. Horses stamped and huffed, jangling their bridles.

He glanced at his own men and met Dharel’s eyes, Auvant’s, a few others. Dharel gave him a short nod, his expression tense, set and ready. All of House Rhyssal was ready. The breeze smelled of anticipation, of sweat and fear, of grass.

Drums sounded, and Aeren spun to see Harticur and a string of Riders sweeping down the length of the dwarren line. To the north, runners scattered from King Stephan’s escort, set a hundred paces in front of his own army. The throbbing pulse of the drums escalated, and the dwarren broke into a roar. The runners for the human army halted, unfurled their flags-red and black, cut diagonally across the rectangular field-and all along the line men voiced a battle cry.

And through it all, the Alvritshai horns sounded.

“So it begins,” Aeren said, so softly only Eraeth could hear. “Again.”

All three lines began to advance, the dwarren on their gaezels streaking forward, their drums a frenzy of sound now, pounding as the thunder of the gaezels’ hooves grew. The Alvritshai and humans advance more slowly, but as the lines drew closer together, the pace increased. The humans broke from their march to a trot. Their front line grew ragged as a few men surged forward, ahead of the rest.

“Steady!” Eraeth bellowed. “Hold!”

Aeren heard Thaedoren barking the same orders to his left, yet he found himself nudging his horse forward a little more, a little faster. He could feel the tension boiling in his blood, could feel it building.

On the field, the dwarren’s far edge swung inward, its center slowing. It struck the end of the human line And as if that contact had been a command, the rest of the humans surged forward. No longer contained, no longer making an attempt at control, they simply charged.

The two armies-dwarren and human-converged, crushing into each other, the connection speeding toward him. Sound filled Aeren’s head, a roaring of wind, a crash of thunder, and without thought he released his horse, released the sound inside his mind in a bellow. The lines folded in upon each other, closer and closer, until they struck the point of the vee, until there was nothing in Aeren’s field of vision except the human army, rushing toward him, eating up the churned mud and grass as they sprinted forward And then they struck, Alvritshai and human lines merging into one, and Aeren felt nothing but the wind and the clash of his cattan.

Moiran glanced up from where she knelt in her tent, needle poised, as the first of the Alvritshai horns cried out.

A shudder ran through her. She held still for a long moment, listening to the pealing notes, so calm and clear at first, then breaking, becoming more scattered, somehow more desperate, as the armies met. She imagined she could feel the earth trembling beneath her from the tread of thousands of feet. Or perhaps it trembled at the senselessness of it all, a shudder at the spill of blood, at the death.

Her heart quickened, its beat hard for a moment as she thought of Fedorem, of his body lying nearby, in another room. But she seized the threatening emotion, grasped it tight even as the tears began to burn at the corners of her eyes. She’d allowed herself to cry the night before, after tending the Lords of the Evant before their meeting and seeing to the needs of the wounded. She’d cried until her ribs ached, until she felt hollow and empty, until she thought there were no more tears, and then she’d cried more. All in solitude, in the confines of her tent, the White Phalanx Thaedoren had set to guard her dismissed. They hadn’t wanted to leave. She’d had to shout at them, nearly breaking at that point, her hands knotted in her dress. She thought it was her hands that had convinced them. Or perhaps it had been the pain in her voice.