Benjamin Tate: Well of Sorrows

“It is done,” Tamaell Fedorem said in Andovan.

Maarten chuckled. “It is done.”

Maarten extended his hand. Fedorem smiled, reached forward to shake it.

The moment trembled. Colin felt it, its weight bearing down upon him. All of the fighting, all of the conflict between the two races, between them and the dwarren-all of it would end here. An accord had been reached, an alliance struck. Everything would change.

Except that at that moment, Khalaek, Peloroun, and a lord Colin did not recognize but who wore the colors of House Baene, leaped forward, knives gleaming.

Maarten had enough time to lurch back before Khalaek’s blade buried itself in his neck, above his armor. The Lord of House Baene sank his own blade in Maarten’s side, even as Khalaek jerked his free and struck again and again. Lord Peloroun grabbed Fedorem’s shoulders, the Tamaell clearly stunned, and hauled him back. The rest of the Lords of the Evant looked as stunned as Fedorem, eyes wide in shock, Lord Barak appearing confused.

They weren’t given time to recover. Someone in the Legion-one of the Governors, or perhaps one of the men who made up Maarten’s personal guard-shouted, “Betrayal! They’ve murdered the King!”

Shock transformed to horror and rage in the space of a breath. The Legion, its Governors at the forefront, surged forward. Khalaek roared something in Alvritshai, something Colin didn’t recognize, and suddenly the air was filled with hundreds of arrows, launched from the rear of the Alvritshai army. The Alvritshai at the front took a moment longer to recover, as if they couldn’t quite believe what had happened, what was happening, even as the arrows cut into the Legion itself, dozens dying in an instant.

Then the human army overwhelmed them.

In its midst, Colin saw the lord he didn’t recognize cut down, even as he drew his knife from Maarten’s body. Khalaek drew his cattan, pierced the first enraged Legionnaire to make it to him, then thrust the body into those behind as he retreated. Through the chaos, he saw the young Stephan screaming, his voice lost among the crash of weapons, the roaring outcry. He tried to press forward, but the Legionnaires around the young heir were dragging him back, the rest of the Legion surging around him, protecting him, all of their faces locked in rage.

The elder Stephan watched in silence, even as the battle began anew around them. He watched as he was pulled away, drawn to safety, watched as the Legion surrounded his fallen father’s body, watched as the two armies fell upon each other, the moment of accord shredding before his eyes.

“Stop it,” he said, his voice dull. When Colin didn’t react fast enough, he spun, eyes blazing, and shouted, “Stop it! I don’t want to see any more!”

Reaching out, Colin seized the moment and halted it.

He waited, giving Stephan time to think, time to adjust to what he’d seen. He hadn’t been certain what he would find here. Aeren hadn’t been able to tell him, because he hadn’t witnessed it himself. He’d only known what Aeren suspected, what Aeren had learned from those lords who had been here and were willing to speak to him.

But what had happened seemed clear.

Stephan finally stirred.

Without turning, he said softly, “Take me back.”

And Colin did.

“To me!” Eraeth roared at Aeren’s side. “House Rhyssal to its lord!”

To either side, the remains of Aeren’s Phalanx pulled back desperately toward Eraeth’s voice as he continued to shout. Aeren didn’t have time to count how many still survived, too intent on keeping the Legion from overrunning his position completely.

Lotaern and the Order of the Flames’ flaming swords and the churning earth might have worked if the Legion hadn’t had fresh reinforcements waiting.

Now, the Alvritshai lines had shattered completely, pockets of Alvritshai fighting desperately all across the field, all of them trying to retreat toward the Tamaell Presumptive’s center, his horns blaring the retreat, issuing no other orders except to fall back, the direction of the retreat changing every moment as Thaedoren withdrew as well. They’d already been driven beyond where the acolytes had called forth Aielan’s Light from the earth. They were approaching the ridge overlooking the flat, beyond which stood the Alvritshai camp.

And the Legion would not stop. Aeren could feel it. With a sinking sensation, Aeren realized that the Alvritshai could not win, that they might not even survive the battle, as the dwarren Riders had not survived thirty years before.

And then shouts rang out, spreading through the mass of Legion before him. He couldn’t see past the crush of men, but he felt the pressure pushing the Alvritshai back decrease, the faces of the men before him turning to look back, exclaiming in anger, in disbelief. Those at the front didn’t stop fighting until they realized that those behind were retreating, backing off step by careful step.

When the men Aeren grappled with finally withdrew, Aeren gasped and sagged, one hand going to his side, coming away black with blood. His own blood. He hadn’t even felt the cut, hadn’t seen the blade that had scored there, opening the flesh beneath the edge of his armor. It wasn’t a mortal wound, but he placed his hand over it and pressed, trying to halt the blood flow. His armor weighed down on him, his cattan heavy, but he remained upright as Eraeth staggered to his side, his own face covered in blood from a wound to his head.

To either side, the Legion were retreating, leaving the decimated Alvritshai behind. Aeren picked out Thaedoren and closed his eyes in relief, began counting up the rest of the Lords of the Evant. He saw Peloroun and Jydell, Waerren and Vaersoom, Waerren’s forces cut down to fewer than fifty men. None of Lord Barak’s House remained, and he didn’t see Barak either. Altogether, he estimated there were fewer than fifteen hundred Alvritshai remaining on the field.

Over four thousand had arrived at the flat.

The loss of life sickened him. It would take decades for the Alvritshai to recoup such death.

If they recouped at all.

“What…” Aeren heaved; he couldn’t seem to catch his breath, “… happened?”

“Look,” Eraeth said, and pointed.

Turning, Aeren saw where the main bulk of the Legion’s forces had regrouped. He saw the flags of the King, but not the King himself, saw those flags break away and head toward two figures walking toward them, a small group of Legion slightly behind.

Aeren frowned. “That’s Colin.”

“With the King.”

They shared a look. Then: “I thought Colin was with Moiran in the Tamaell’s tents.”

Eraeth’s frown deepened. He nearly growled. “He was.”

On the flat, the King and Colin merged with the approaching contingent of banners and horsemen. After a pause, the King led the group back to the main army as ragged cheers broke out.

“Gather the House,” Aeren said. “Regroup with Thaedoren.”

“What’s going on?” Eraeth asked.

Aeren shook his head. “I don’t know.”

As Eraeth gathered what was left of House Rhyssal’s Phalanx, Aeren moved toward Thaedoren’s pennants, wincing as pain flared in his side. Halfway there his House arrived, Eraeth leading all two hundred of them, a horse in tow. With help, Aeren made it into the saddle, someone cinching a makeshift bandage around his waist. His Phalanx behind him, he rode through the White Phalanx’s ranks to Thaedoren.

“What’s happening?” he asked.

Thaedoren shot him a look, nodded in acknowledgment then turned his attention back to the Legion. “The Legion has withdrawn. It appears to be on the order of King Stephan.”

“How did the King get to the far side of the battle?” Lord Jydell asked as he trotted toward them.