“How bad?”
“Not bad enough to fret over. She’s more concerned about the hair she singed off.” She rolled her eyes. “Now go. I’ll send someone with a bucket of water.”
Tom hesitated, the shock of everything that had happened starting to seep in. He felt his body trembling, tasted bile at the back of his throat because he knew that there were more than a few people dead. He’d seen their bodies on the grass.
Ana gripped his arm, her face stern. “Tom. We don’t have time. Brant doesn’t have time.”
Tom sucked in a large breath, noisily, swallowed the acrid taste in his mouth, and turned without a word. As he jogged across the remains of the camp between the wagons, horses whinnying and snorting, people dashing to and fro, or sitting stunned on the grass, he saw Walter on horseback, grouped together with six other men—three Armory men and three others—also mounted. And armed.
Walter saw Tom coming, said something, his face black with hatred, with purpose. The rest nodded.
Then they spun their horses and charged out across the plains, toward where the dwarren had fled.
“Walter!” Tom roared, lurching forward, but Walter ignored him. “Walter, goddamn it!”
He halted, juggled the rags and wine in his hand, then spat another curse under his breath. Walter and the others were nothing but figures in the distance.
“Tom!”
He turned toward Arten, dashed forward and spilled the supplies near Brant’s side.
“Where are Walter and the others going?” Arten asked.
“I don’t know,” Tom spat, furious. “They didn’t confer with me before they left.”
Arten grunted. “Give me the dowel.” He took the rounded chunk of wood and placed it between Brant’s teeth. “Bite down on this. It will keep you from biting your tongue off.”
Brant nodded. Arten had already ripped the wounded man’s shirt free, exposing the wound, the shaft of the arrow still protruding from it.
“What do you want me to do?” Tom asked.
“Hold him. I’m going to have to break the fletching off the arrow in order to push it through, and it’s impossible to do that without moving the arrow. He’s going to struggle.”
Tom placed his hands on Brant’s chest. As he did, one of the older children rushed forward with a bucket of water, the contents sloshing over the side as he dropped it to the ground near Arten, then stepped back and crouched down so he could watch.
Arten took the arrow in both hands, Brant hissing through the stick in his mouth. “On three,” he said, catching Tom’s gaze in warning. And then, without counting, he snapped the shaft of the arrow.
Brant screamed and bucked, throwing Tom off his body and into the grass. Tom heard Arten curse as he scrambled back to Brant’s side, grabbing hold of the younger man again. Brant twisted beneath Tom’s and Arten’s grip, body arched as he tried to roll away from the pain in his shoulder, but then he collapsed back, his scream dying down into harsh pants. Sweat and tears streaked his face, and his skin had turned a ghastly white. He’d bitten so hard into the dowel there were indentations in the wood. Fresh blood welled from his wound, thick and viscous. His skin felt hot and feverish beneath Tom’s hands.
“Now,” Arten said, his voice unnaturally calm to Tom’s ears, “we need to push it through. Ron, hold down Brant’s legs.” The commander didn’t even look as Ron slid in beside Tom and gripped Brant’s legs. Instead, he looked directly at Brant himself. “I’ll push it through as fast as I can, but you need to hold still. Once it’s out, I’ll have to clean the wound and dress it.”
Brant nodded, his breath harsh as he drew it in and out through his nostrils. Tears still welled from his eyes, and sweat plastered his hair to his scalp.
Arten nodded in return, and both Tom and Ron leaned into Brant’s shoulder and legs. “Here we go,” Arten said.
He took hold of the shaft of the arrow and pushed.
Brant growled, whimpered, bit down hard on the dowel, and caught Tom with wide, haunted, pleading eyes. Tom stared into them, into their warm hazel depths, and grimly held on as Brant began to shudder. The whimpering growl grew, escalating toward a scream, and Tom saw Brant’s eyes begin to dart around in desperation, saw them squeeze shut, then flare open as Arten did something that interrupted Brant’s growl with a moaning bark of pure pain—
Then he saw consciousness flicker in Brant’s eyes, saw it struggle to remain and then die.
Brant’s body slumped to the ground, and as it did, Arten slid the splintered end of the arrow free of the fresh wound beneath Brant’s armpit. Blood gushed from both cuts, but Arten had already set the arrowhead aside, the wood stained black. He began cleaning the wounds with the wine and water, using the rags to stanch the flow. He held the rags tight, pushing with his weight, and after a long moment withdrew them.
When new blood welled up through the cuts, he cursed.
“I’m not a doctor,” Arten said, pressing the rags down hard again. “But if we can’t get the blood flow to stop—”
He didn’t need to finish.
Ron suddenly gasped and lurched back, tripping over his own feet and falling to the ground. Tom spun, half standing, then halted.
Aeren stood a few paces away, Eraeth and another of the Alvritshai flanking him. He stared down at Brant, then held something toward Tom, murmuring in his own language. Tom hesitated, then stood and accepted what Aeren offered.
A small, clear, glass vial filled with what looked like pinkish water.
Tom looked at Aeren in consternation, but the Alvritshai motioned toward Brant, mimicked pouring the water over Brant’s wounds.
Tom returned to Arten’s side. “He wants us to pour this over the wound,” he said, as he began to remove the cork from the top of the bottle. It was sealed with wax, so he used the knife Arten had given him earlier to break it.
“And you’re going to use it?”
“We don’t have a choice. The blood isn’t stopping, and they haven’t given us any reason to distrust them so far.”
Arten didn’t respond, but he did pull the rags back from the wound and let Tom dribble some of the liquid onto the cuts.
Nothing happened at first, the pinkish water mixing with the blood, diluting it. Arten shifted, ready to start pressing the already saturated rags against the wounds again, but Tom halted him. “Look. It’s stopping.”
The flow of blood had grown sluggish. Tom poured a little more of the fluid onto the wounds, held his breath, then exhaled as the bleeding stopped completely. Both wounds were still there, on the chest and beneath Brant’s armpit, but they had clotted, and no new blood flowed from them.
Arten dipped his hand in the water from the bucket so he could wash the excess blood away from Brant’s wounds, but Aeren said something, clearly a warning, and he stopped.
“Maybe the water will wash away whatever this pink stuff is,” Tom said. He sat back, stared down at Brant’s slack face. “Bind it. And take him to Ana.”
Then he stood, noted with a troubled turn of his stomach that the rest of the Alvritshai were gone, then stepped toward Aeren and his two guards. “Thank you for this.” He motioned with the small bottle, tried to hand it back. There was still liquid in the bottom of it.
Eraeth frowned, said something with scorn in it, as if he’d been insulted, but Aeren shook his head. He pushed Tom’s hand back, closing Tom’s fingers around the bottle. “Keep.”
Tom nodded, and Aeren turned to survey the surrounding grass.
Where the dead lay.
Tom swallowed, gaze flicking from body to body. Flies were already gathering, buzzing in small clumps around the drying blood, the gaping wounds. He felt sick, skin flushed, as he counted nine men dead. Ten, counting the young man who’d foolishly raced after the escaping horse.
No. Eleven. The man he’d seen impaled by the spear before he’d even arrived at the wagons had been dragged into their circle by two of the women.
And then there was Clara.
> He closed his eyes, bowed his head a moment to steady himself, then turned his face to the sky so he could feel the sunlight on his face. He breathed in the scent of smoke, of blood, of death, but also the grass, the earth, the trees.
He opened his eyes when he heard horses pounding toward them, and he saw Walter and the rest returning, driving their mounts hard. The anger that rose when he heard them stilled when he saw the panic on Walter’s face.
“Get everyone on the wagons,” Walter barked, his mount skidding to a halt before Tom and Aeren, the other riders not stopping, heading toward the wagons, shouting for everyone to move. “We have to get out of here. Now. As fast as possible.”
“What is it? What did you find?”
“The dwarren.” He flicked the reins in his hands, his horse skittish. Walter’s gaze darted across the open plains, searching, not resting on any one location. “That was only a scouting party,” he said. “They have an army, headed this way. And from what we saw, they could come at us from anywhere.”
“How?” Tom asked, his anger touching his voice. Behind him, he could hear the others driving the rest of the wagon train into panicked motion.
Walter held his gaze, his face as serious as Tom had ever seen it. “Because they live underground.”
Tom frowned. “Show me.”
“We must leave them. You have done enough. They can fend for themselves.”
“As the others did?” Aeren glared at Eraeth. His Protector’s flat but forceful statements infuriated him. “No. You saw what happened to the other wagons, what the dwarren did to them.”
“You approached this group against my advice. You tried to warn them back, to get them to return to the lands below the Escarpment, where there is relative safety from the dwarren and the plains. And when they would not listen, you led them to the burned wagons and the dead in hopes that they would return then.”
“The warning came too late!” Aeren spat. He stepped away from Eraeth and his other guardsman, ignored the look that passed between the two. He watched the settlers instead, the group of men racing about, gathering together a small scouting group while the rest prepared the wagons for travel. Women were salvaging what they could from the burned wagon and gathering up the wounded, loading the man that had taken an arrow in his shoulder into the back of one, some of the smaller children in the others. He had never seen so many children at once. Alvritshai children were rare and precious. They certainly would not have been allowed onto the plains at such a young age. The robed one, who appeared to be an acolyte of some kind, moved among them all, parents and children alike, comforting them, leading some in short prayers while they clutched the strange pendant he wore. A few were gathering up the dead, laying them together to one side.
Aeren felt something dig into his chest at the sight of the bodies. “It came too late,” he repeated.
Eraeth moved to his side. “Yes, and you ordered us to help defend them against the dwarren scouts. But if there are scouts, then the army will not be far behind. You know they cannot defend themselves against the dwarren armies, even with our help. And it is doubtful they will be able to outrun them.”
“Except that the dwarren army isn’t interested in them.” Aeren turned to Eraeth, saw his Protector scowl. “The dwarren scouts weren’t looking for these people, they were looking for their own kind. We’ve stumbled into one of their tribal wars. If we can determine where the other dwarren tribes are coming from, perhaps we can elude them.”
Eraeth’s eyes narrowed. “You are correct. The dwarren are not interested in the human wagons. That does not mean we should risk our lives—Alvritshai lives—for these . . . these savages!”
Aeren’s brow creased at the venom in Eraeth’s words. He held his Protector’s gaze, then asked, “When will the other Phalanx members return with news of the other dwarren’s whereabouts?”
Eraeth hesitated. “Not for some time.”
“Then we have time to help them further.”
Anger flared in Eraeth’s eyes. “No. You have risked yourself and the rest of your Phalanx already by simply contacting these people, let alone aiding them against the dwarren. And now you have given them the Blood of Aielan, the proof of the success of your Trial, all to save one man’s life? A man you did not even know! You have more than satisfied your obligation to these people. I refuse to allow you to continue. You will rejoin the House contingent waiting to the north and return to Alvritshai lands with us. Immediately.”
Shock coursed through Aeren at the tone in his Protector’s voice, even as Eraeth turned away, toward the other Phalanx guardsman. He’d spoken to him as if he were a child. No, as if he were a student.
But he was no longer Eraeth’s student. “Protector!”
His voice cracked across the grass, loud enough and forceful enough that even the group of humans paused in their activity. Eraeth stilled, back stiff, then turned.
Aeren closed the distance between them in two short steps, stared hard into Eraeth’s eyes. “I have passed the Trial. I am now a full member of the House, with all of the rank and privileges and responsibilities that such entails. And whether you like it or not, these people are our responsibility. It began when we shared our food and wine with them. Or had you forgotten? We entered a bond with them then, and I intend to see that bond fulfilled, for the honor of my House.”
Eraeth held his gaze, unflinching, although the anger and defiance in his stance had abated. Something else flickered there instead—pride, regret.
Resignation.
He let out a low breath, then nodded. “Very well.”
The tension in Aeren’s shoulders relaxed, and he found himself trembling. He caught the other Phalanx guardsman’s gaze, then turned toward the group of humans. Tom had stepped forward, concern on his face, but Aeren motioned him away. Tom hesitated, then returned to the group of men ready to mount their horses.
“We will help them,” Aeren said, “for as long as we possibly can.”
Like fucking prairie dogs.
Paul’s words came back to Tom as he lay on a ridge of ground, Walter, Arten, and another Armory guardsman to the side. Eraeth had crawled up to the ridge with them, but Aeren and the other Alvritshai were behind, hidden from sight in the depression behind the ridge, along with the horses. Tom hadn’t thought the Alvritshai would be able to keep up with the horses on foot—and they hadn’t, but they hadn’t ,been that far behind them either.
Below, in a large, flattened portion of the prairie, a hole gaped in the ground, a cavernous opening that slid into the ground in a gentle incline so wide it could hold at least three wagons side by side. The opening was shaded by a huge multicolored tent, the material bent and twisted around thick poles driven into the ground, the entire edifice practical but at the same time strangely artistic. The curves of the tent, which billowed out in the wind from the plains like sails, flowed from one stretch of cloth to another, the colors blending into one another, shades of tawny gold and muted blues and greens. They all seemed to flow to a vivid red center.
The large tent was surrounded by hundreds of smaller tents. They spread out from the central tent in a haphazard fashion, as if they weren’t permanent structures, although none of them were set up before the entrance to the burrow.
The entire tent city teemed with dwarren and gaezels. Men charged back and forth from the entrance to where nearly a thousand others had gathered on the plains before the burrow, divided into ranks of twenty. Most of these divisions were on foot, but a few were mounted on gaezels or held the fleet animals in check to one side.
As Tom watched, a sickening pit opening up in his stomach, a few more divisions emerged from the burrow and formed up near the back of the group.
“Diermani’s Balls,” the Armory guardsman said to one side, his voice low. “There’s more than a thousand of them now.” At Arten’s glance, he added, “There were only a few hundred when we were here before.”
“Did they see you?” Arten asked.
&nbs
p; “I don’t know. We charged up the ridge, following their trail in the grass, but as soon as we saw them we turned and headed back.”
“Saw,” Eraeth said, succinctly and with conviction.
Tom and Arten turned toward him.
Arten grunted. “It doesn’t matter. Their scouts know we’re there. And it looks like they’re headed in our direction. Let’s hope Paul and Sam managed to get the wagons loaded and headed out, although I’m not sure where we can run.” He frowned. “I don’t see any wagons. Or women.”
Eraeth grunted and motioned to the gathered force, the air, the tents, and the ground. “Dwarren above, wagons below.”
“They supply the army from belowground?” When Eraeth nodded, Arten said, “Then they must have more entrances like this.”
“So what do we do?”
Arten turned to look at Tom, his face grim. “We run, and hope that they don’t find us.”
Eraeth slid back from the ridge, moving to Aeren’s side. Aeren listened to what he had to say, then instantly turned to the other Alvritshai guard and gave him orders. The other guard tore out across the plains, heading in a straight line, but not toward the Andovan wagons. Instead, he angled slightly away from them, east and north.
“Where’s he going?” Arten asked.
Tom wondered the same thing. He began slipping down off the ridge, the rest following. That hollow pit in his stomach had expanded, and he found he couldn’t focus on anything. He kept thinking about Ana, about Colin. He’d dragged them to Portstown, had forced them to stay, then drafted them into this expedition onto the godforsaken plains.
“Where are you going?” Arten asked, as Tom slid into the saddle of his horse.
“Back to the wagons,” he said, and heard the roughness in his voice, the rawness. “Back to my family. It’s the only chance we’ve got.”
Well of Sorrows Page 21
