Benjamin Tate - Well of Sorrows

“It’s Aielan’s Light,” Eraeth said suddenly. “The whiteness beneath the earth-it’s Aielan’s Light.”

Aeren’s brow creased skeptically But those Alvritshai near them had already heard. They whispered it beneath their breath, muttered prayers, gestured in awe, the reaction spreading outward.

On the field, the raging earth hit the most crowded parts of the battle, and at the same moment the acolytes rose from where they knelt, jerked their cattans free from the earth and pointed them toward the sky, and roared, “For Aielan! For the Order! For the Flame!”

Everyone in Aeren’s vicinity gasped.

The acolytes’ blades were limned with white light.

They rushed into the earth’s wake, pausing to kill any of the human forces who hadn’t been buried, their motions quick, merciless, hitting throat or heart before sprinting onward, into the heart of the fighting.

But the fighting had lurched to a halt, both Alvritshai and human forces stunned, even as the disturbed earth bore down on them. Some shook the shock off and began to run, fleeing toward their own lines or simply fleeing before the earth and the white light beneath. Many of the Alvritshai heard the acolytes’ war cry. To either side, Aeren felt his own men rallying, saw hands tightening on hilts, eyes hardening from shock to anger.

Thrusting his own cattan into the air, he bellowed, “For Aielan! For Rhyssal!”

And then he charged toward the nearest group of the Legion, whose attention was fixed on the approaching ridge of earth. His leg burned with pain from the knife wound and being twisted in the death of his horse, but Aeren killed two of the Legionnaires before they began to react, a few bringing swords to bear, still others breaking away toward the west. Aeren felt the writhing earth bearing down on him, felt the Legion he fought growing desperate And then it struck.

He was lifted off the ground, thrown by the force of the earth. Dirt pummeled him from all sides, flung so high and with such force that he could taste it. He breathed it in, choked and coughed on it, felt something lick up along his leg, felt its cold touch, felt it burning against his skin, recognized it as Aielan’s Light, as the same fire he had passed through to earn his pendant in the Order. Visions of that moment, of descending into the heart of the mountain beneath Caercaern, of traversing the empty halls and corridors, of marveling at the massive pillars, the carved stonework, the delicate stone stairs, flashed through his mind. But this was merely a taste of what he’d endured when he’d reached the final chamber, deeper even than the halls, hidden within the rough hewn catacombs below the ancient city where the pool of white fire blazed. There, he had submerged himself in the fire, allowed it to consume him, allowed himself to be exposed completely to Aielan and her judgment Then he was falling. He struck the ground hard, tumbled onto his side, spitting grit from his mouth, scrubbing it from his face. Alvritshai were coughing and hacking on all sides, a few groaning, holding their arms or legs where they’d twisted them on landing. Aeren dragged himself to his feet, wincing at the renewed pain in his leg, fresh blood staining his breeches, but he stumbled toward where a young human boy lay half buried in the sod, blood trickling from one corner of his mouth.

He never saw Aeren coming. His eyes were wide, staring off into the distance, tears streaming down his face, as he murmured, “I shouldn’t have taken the coin from Codger. I shouldn’t have taken the cart.”

Aeren hesitated.

A blade sank into the boy’s chest and Aeren spun.

Eraeth withdrew his cattan and met Aeren’s accusing glare stoically. “The battle isn’t over.” He motioned toward the plains behind them.

The wave of earth and white light had diminished. As Aeren watched, it threw up a few fitful geysers, as if it were gasping a last breath, and then it rumbled into stillness.

He glanced back at Lotaern in time to see the Chosen, arms still lifted, stagger, then fall, body crumpling.

Turning back, he gazed beyond where the earth had finally settled

… and saw the remains of the Legion reserve. Hundreds of men, on foot and in the saddle, waiting for the order to attack. To the side, from the Tamaell Presumptive’s position, Alvritshai and Legion were picking themselves up and dusting themselves off.

Including King Stephan.

The leader of the coastline Provinces spat to one side, wiped his mouth on his sleeve, sword still clutched tight in his other hand.. . and then he gestured.

A lone runner raised a single flag and began waving it back and forth.

And the reserve unit began to move.

Colin stood on the ridge above the Alvritshai encampment overlooking the field of battle. The dwarren stood to one side, their lines withdrawn, disengaged, although they were riled. The Legion and Alvritshai forces were in disarray, no clear lines on either side, men and Alvritshai pulling themselves up from the ground, horns beginning to sound, everyone beginning to regroup even as the Legion reserves charged toward the battle.

He’d arrived in time to witness the wave of earth, had seen it toss the Alvritshai and the Legion aside like stones as it rippled across the plains, then dissipated. He’d felt the power the acolytes had called thrumming through his feet, had felt it tingling in his skin and vibrating through him, in counterpoint to the pure ecstasy of the Lifeblood throbbing in his veins. The pain from the knife wound in his chest had receded, had become nothing more than a minor nuisance, an occasional tug that made him wince if he twisted or turned too fast or too sharply. The exhaustion that lay underneath the pain had also vanished, replaced by euphoria. He breathed in the plains air, tasted it, savored it, felt the coppery taste of blood against his tongue from the death below. He touched the desperation, the sweat, and the terror of the men who fought there, soft as silk, and reveled in the sounds of the horns, the shouts, the thunder of running feet, each distinct and brittle in his ears. Each breath, each heartbeat, each movement pricked his skin, tickling in the hairs at the base of his neck and along his arms. He bathed in the sensation, knowing it would cost him in the end, in the darkness of the mark on his arm, in the claiming of his soul by the Well, but he didn’t care.

The price was small. Nearly infinitesimal.

With the battlefield wrapped around him, he focused, picked out the banners of the Tamaell Presumptive, the pennants of the King of the Provinces, and then he reached out And halted time.

Picking his way down from the slope, he crossed the stilled battlefield, slid past individuals fighting to the death, around groups no more organized than a brawl, past horses in mid- rear, men falling, hands outstretched to catch themselves, unaware that they were already dead. He wound through splashes of blood frozen in midair, ducked beneath swords in full swing. He made his way through it all.

Until he stood before a single individual, the man he’d come to speak to, the man he’d come to convince:

King Stephan.

He peered into the King’s face, into his gray-green eyes, locked on his opponent, expression fierce as he prepared to drive his sword through an Alvritshai’s heart. He could feel the man beneath, could feel the vibrant energy of his life, even though everything was still, motionless.

Then he caught sight of another man, the King’s commander, Tanner Dain. The Legion commander fought beside the King, was in the act of stepping back, an Alvritshai’s body falling away from his blade.

Colin hesitated, then drew the mantle of the Lifeblood’s power around himself, like a cloak. He positioned himself so that Tanner Dain would see him the moment time resumed, but close enough so he could touch Stephan.