Leaves of Flame

by Benjamin Tate

  The Legion—­at least, the small outposts and garrisons that dotted the Province along the dwarren border and the Flats—­couldn’t handle the Horde. They needed help.

  They needed GreatLord Kobel.

  And he wasn’t even certain the GreatLord knew of the attacks yet. Gregson had sent three Legionnaires ahead of them to warn Patron’s Merge, but no one knew if they’d arrived safely to deliver the message. They hadn’t met any of the Horde on the road so far, had managed to stay ahead of their line, or at least out of its path. In the end, they were moving blindly toward Temeritt, without any guarantee that GreatLord Kobel would be able to help them.

  Ara looked up at that moment, her lined face grim, and met Jayson’s gaze, startling him out of his thoughts. He straightened in his saddle. The tavern keeper glanced ­toward Corim at her side, then gave Jayson a questioning look. He shook his head. Reassured that Corim was safe, he checked the rest of the refugees and the men on horseback that hemmed them in on both sides of the road, then turned back toward the front of the line.

  Gregson and Terson had ridden out to meet the two returning scouts. Their faces were edged with tension. One of the scouts pointed toward the distance and Jayson involuntarily glanced upward.

  Something clutched at Jayson’s heart—­the despair that the anger and realization in Cobble Kill had shoved aside—­and he swore under his breath.

  “What is it?”

  Jayson jumped at the voice, looked down to find Ara and Corim standing beside him now. She brushed aside some strands of hair that had come loose from the cloth she’d used to tie it back, then turned to see what had caught Jayson’s attention.

  The tired smile on her face went slack when she saw the black smoke that rose above the trees. Jayson felt an urge to shield Corim from the same reaction, but knew that it was pointless. He would see the smoke eventually.

  And he did, his breath sucked in sharply in response. Jayson was shocked to see the despair that widened his eyes briefly flare into sudden anger, his apprentice’s hands unconsciously squeezing into fists at his sides.

  “Is it Patron’s Merge?” Ara asked, her voice strangely lifeless.

  “I don’t know,” Jayson said, “but I think we’re going to find out.”

  The refugees had caught up to where Gregson and the others had conferred. The lieutenant of the Legion was still in deep conversation with the two scouts, both nodding or shaking their heads and pointing to the east and west. As the column slowed to a halt, the rest of its members began to notice the smoke as well, now darker and spread farther out. It had reached the upper winds, which meant that it was more distant than Jayson had first thought. He relaxed a little, even as the rest of the column’s tension heightened. People began to murmur and point, their voices edged and brittle. The days of traveling with little food and restless sleep were beginning to take their toll.

  One of the other men, a blacksmith, suddenly called out, “What are we stopping for? Is the smoke from Patron’s Merge?”

  Most of the refugees fell silent, waiting for Gregson’s answer.

  Gregson shifted uncomfortably in his saddle, shot his scouts a quick look, then sighed wearily and turned his horse to face the rest of the group. He drew himself up and said bluntly, “Patron’s Merge burns.”

  Nearly all except the Legion gasped, clutching loved ones close, their eyes darting to the faces around them and out into the surrounding trees lining the road, faces lined with panic. Corim turned to Jayson, his jaw clenched, mouth pressed into a hard, determined line. Ara had dropped her head, shoulders rigid. He heard her muttering a prayer to Diermani under her breath, the words curt.

  “What do we do now?” the blacksmith suddenly shouted. A few of the others joined him.

  As if he’d been waiting for it, Gregson answered immediately. “According to the scouts, the Horde that’s hit Patron’s Merge has come from the east. There aren’t as many towns and villages out there, and they’re easier to find. They aren’t nestled in the broken rocks and forest like they are here beneath the edge of the Escarpment. That means they moved faster than the line of Horde that’s behind us.”

  “How do you know the Horde is still behind us?” someone cried out. “What if they’re in front of us? What if we’re walking right into them?” His voice escalated on the last question.

  Gregson cut him off before he could fall into an all-­out rant. “Because my scouts are watching the main roads! If the Horde is making its way south, they’d have to use those roads, especially the Alvritshai with their horses. The land is too rugged, with too many clefts and gorges and streams for them to travel quickly on any other route.”

  This appeared to quiet those who were on the verge of panic, although the worried grumbling and fearful glances didn’t stop.

  Gregson waited a moment, then drew in a deep breath to steady himself. “Since we can’t find safety at Patron’s Merge, we’re going to head directly toward Temeritt, as swiftly as possible. There’s a crossroads ahead. We’ll take the western road and try to bypass Patron’s Merge and the Horde that surrounds it. I need everyone to pick up the pace.”

  The lieutenant turned his back on the bevy of groans, but the refugees began reorganizing, mothers and fathers picking up children, some of the wounded men on horses pulling the youngsters into the saddle before them. A few shouldered their packs, those that hadn’t dropped them days past when they became too heavy to bear. Two elderly women were already driving the cart that carried some of the younger children. The rest of the children were old enough to continue on foot.

  Gregson whistled and the group began to move again, at about twice the pace they’d been going before, but not fast enough for the horses to break out into a trot. The two scouts galloped on ahead, vanishing around a bend in the road.

  Terson cantered back along the line, pausing at each of the mounted guards to issue orders. When he reached Jayson, he said, “Keep alert. We don’t know how far out the Horde has scouts. Be ready for anything.” His gaze dropped meaningfully to the sword strapped awkwardly at Jayson’s side, before he rode off to the next man.

  Jayson’s hand dropped to the sheath and he swallowed back sudden nausea. He hadn’t had the sword out since Cobble Kill. He wasn’t certain he wanted to ever draw it again, yet knew that he would.

  “You need to learn to use it,” Ara said abruptly and gave him a flat stare. “If you really want to protect us. Protect him.” Her head tilted toward Corim. “I can’t be patching you up every time you nick yourself in battle.”

  Jayson felt his face flush.

  They reached the crossroads and turned west.

  An hour later, through a break in the trees, they caught sight of Patron’s Merge.

  Built on an island formed at the junction of Patron’s Kill with the Silt River, its walls soared from the water to a height of thirty feet, two stone bridges connecting the island to the main shores on either side, the middle of each bridge wooden so they could be drawn up for protection. A third bridge joined the island to the land between the two rivers to the west. Two main towers rose from the massive city huddled within those walls, the highest on the southeastern point, the second near the center of the island, part of the stone church to Holy Diermani judging by the tilted cross at the top. The city was at least twenty times the size of Cobble Kill, but from their vantage on a ridge overlooking the lands that sloped down to the river valley, Jayson couldn’t see the houses and shops crammed in between the streets and walls within. The city was too distant. He couldn’t imagine living in such close quarters, with neighbors within spitting distance, or perhaps sharing the same buildings.

  Nearly all of it was burning. Flames reached toward the sky, black smoke billowing out from the southern quarter of the city. A portion near the highest tower appeared untouched, but Jayson could tell it was only a matter of time. The Horde swarmed across the two drawbridges, both down, an undulating mass of men and creatures made indistinct and hazy by distance and smoke. An
d more of the Horde waited on the flatland along the riverbanks, a black stain against the slate blue of the rivers, against the spring greenery of the trees and the trampled fields that lay on both sides of the rivers. They’d surrounded the island completely to the north and south; only the mainland between the two rivers to the west remained open. The citizens of Patron’s Merge were fleeing across the third bridge: men, women, and children running for their lives. The bridge was so packed Jayson could see figures falling from its edge into the river below.

  They were too distant to hear anything, the silence of the battle oddly disturbing. But in his mind Jayson could hear the flames of Gray’s Kill crackling, could feel the heat of the fire and taste the ash.

  “Keep moving!” Gregson barked, his steed passing before Jayson and cutting off his vision of the dying city as he charged down the line. “Keep moving! We don’t want the Horde to see us!”

  Jayson nudged his horse back into motion. He hadn’t even realized he’d stopped.

  Before the city passed out of sight, the church tower cracked diagonally upward as if sheared off with a blade, then slid to the side in a seething mass of smoke and embers, breaking in two as it fell.

  Moans rose from the refugees as Gregson and the rest of the Legion urged them on. Jayson caught fervent whispered prayers, saw many crossing themselves or clutching pendants or blood vows openly or through their shirts, their faces ashen.

  As the trees obscured the view and the road began descending toward the river valley below, Jayson’s hand fell to the hilt of the sword secured at his side.

  Ara was right. He was going to have to learn how to use it.

  The dwarren broke out into battle cries as soon as they emerged from the warrens into the midafternoon sunlight on the plains of Painted Sands. Quotl refrained from joining in, blinking in the blinding light as the mass of gaezels and dwarren Riders from the Thousand Springs Clan spread out in a sweeping arc from the entrance, scouts blazing out ahead of the main army as it slowed. Ahead, Clan Chief Tarramic and his closest advisers halted, searching the horizon in all directions. Quotl urged his own gaezel forward, caught the attention of all of the shamans that accompanied him, including Azuka, who would take his place as head shaman when he died. With a hand gesture, he sent Azuka and the rest to the edges of the surrounding area to begin the blessing of the land with an appeal to Ilacqua and the gods of the Four Winds for protection and strength. Gripping his own scepter, he joined Tarramic and nodded as he came to a halt beside him.

  “What do you see?” Tarramic said, motioning to the horizon.

  Quotl searched, his expression intent even though he desperately wanted to dismount. He was nearly forty years old; his bones no longer cared for long journeys by gaezel. His back ached and his legs were practically numb. But he was the head shaman.

  And sometimes the aches and pains in his joints told him more than the signs the gods left for those who could see.

  The plains of Painted Sands were different than those of Thousand Springs—­more rugged, stonier, the grass thinner and more brittle. He reached down from his seat and let his hands run through the stalks, grunting at their feel, already farther along than the grass of Thousand Springs would be at this time of year. He gripped the heads of three stalks and pulled the kernels of grain free, husks and all, and held them out on his wrinkled, weathered palm, studying them. A breeze grabbed many of the dislodged husks and sent them flying. He followed them with squinted eyes, watched the paths they took, then considered the seeds left behind and their arrangement. As he did so, he felt a sense of calm envelop him, as if he stood outside of the tension and turmoil of the army as it continued to emerge from the warrens behind them all, spilling out from beneath the ground and onto the plains like water from a gushing well.

  “Corranu and the Painted Sands Riders are over a day’s ride to the east,” he said, eyeing two seeds at the base of his middle finger. His gaze shifted to a grouping of five seeds nearer the center of his palm but to the right. “Cochen Oraju, the Red Sea Clan, and the Broken Waters Clan have already emerged from the warren to our south. I do not see Shadow Moon or Silver Grass, but—­” he pointed to a lone kernel of grain on the far side of his palm, “—­Claw Lake has also left the tunnels.”

  He frowned at a grouping of seeds caught in the creases between his fingers. All of them were withered and brown, except for one tiny seed near the tip of his smallest finger, which looked new and must have come from the tip of the one of the stalks.

  He shuddered at the sight of the diseased seeds, his stomach twisting. He counted seven total.

  “What is it?” Tarramic asked.

  Quotl glanced up, considered for a moment, still uncertain about what the single, small, unformed but healthy seed meant. Then he scattered the seeds in his palm to the ground. “The Wraith army is nearing Clan Chief Corranu’s position. We will intercept them within the week.”

  Tarramic nodded grimly, the rest of the Riders around them shifting in their saddles as they watched their leader contemplate.

  “What else do you see? Anything? Does Ilacqua not give us a sign of what is to come?”

  Quotl straightened in his saddle at the uncertainty in Tarramic’s voice, something so subtle he doubted that many of the other Riders could hear it. But he and Tarramic had known each other too long for the clan chief to hide it from him. They’d led Thousand Springs Clan side by side since Tarramic took over upon his father’s death.

  Tarramic wanted reassurance. He hadn’t agreed with the Cochen’s plan at the Gathering.

  Quotl turned in his saddle to scan the horizon and the Riders as the last of them emerged from the tunnel. Tents were already being raised, holes driven in the ground and poles hoisted for the clan chief’s main tent. They had ridden hard since the Gathering at the Sacred Waters, splitting off from the Cochen’s main force after the first few days and riding on alone. They would be meeting up with the Painted Sands Clan east of here within the next two days, once their main provisions arrived.

  But the storms to the northwest were what caught his attention.

  Without conscious thought, he nudged his gaezel a few steps in that direction, then instantly cursed himself as Tarramic and the Riders around him tensed, one drawing a sharp breath and expelling it in a short prayer.

  “Is it an omen?” Tarramic asked, voice tight.

  Quotl cursed himself again and desperately wished he could take out his pipe and leaf. He found it more calming than the rattling of his scepter.

  Instead, he closed his eyes and drew in a deep breath, letting it out in a slow hum, hoping to calm the Riders with the sounds while at the same time calming his own heart. He brought his scepter forward, shaking it to the north, south, and west, modulating his humming as he did so.

  When he opened his eyes, he saw Azuka waiting for him a short distance away. Behind the shaman, purple lightning flared through the black clouds. The storm appeared to boil up out of thin air, roiling westward from a clearly defined line, sheets of gray rain slanting down from their base to the plains below. More lightning lit the storm’s depths, the darkness highlighted in bluish whites, greens, and dirty yellows, like old bruises.

  “The storm is not an omen,” Quotl lied. “The gods are troubled, but it forms to the west, and moves away from us, leaving the Riders untouched.”

  Tammaric nodded and relaxed slightly, the others around them doing the same. Only Azuka frowned at this pronouncement, and Quotl shot him a warning glare to keep him silent.

  “Then we will camp here until the supplies have arrived,” the clan chief announced. “Echema, select two Riders and find Clan Chief Corranu. Tell him of our location and the rest of Oraju’s plans. And warn him of Quotl’s Seeing of the Wraith army’s location.”

  Echema nodded and spun his gaezel, pointing to two others before all three charged out after the scouts who’d departed earlier.

  Tammaric’s gaze swept over the rest. “Set up patrols and order the Riders into
training after they’ve had a chance to feed and care for their gaezels. I want everyone here gathered in my tent this evening, including you, Quotl.”

  The Riders dispersed, Tammaric retreating to where his tent had nearly been finished and ducking through the outer flap. Riders and aides were toting a few chests, pillows, and other assorted amenities in through the two side entrances. Quotl heard the clan chief barking orders, but turned away, finally allowing himself to dismount with a wince and groan as he twisted and bent, trying to release the tension in his back and shoulders.

  Azuka stepped forward as one of the Riders led Quotl’s mount away for grooming, Quotl’s bags left in the grass beside him.

  “You lied about the storm,” Azuka accused, although he kept his voice low.

  “He and the others needed reassurance, not discouragement. And the truth of the storm cannot be changed.” When Azuka grunted, Quotl pierced him with a glare. “Do you know the truth of the storm, Azuka? Do you know what it means?”

  The shaman suddenly looked uncertain. “It means the gods are angry, that the winds are troubled, and it bodes ill for the battle to come.”

  “Ha! It bodes ill for the battle to come because it tells us that we are no longer beneath the protection of the Summer Tree. The Wraiths and their army will be at full strength when we finally meet. And none of us can do anything about it.” He shifted his glare toward the storm. “I will warn Tarramic and the others at the meeting, but for now they need to relax as they plan and prepare if we are to have any chance of stopping the Wraith army.” And giving the Shadowed One the chance to find and halt the attack on the Summer Tree.

  He suddenly realized what the small seed represented, and one of the many tensions in his shoulders relaxed.

  The Shadowed One had made it past the Wraith army, then. Good.

  “Head shaman?”