He urged his legs to move faster, feet pounding into the grassland, sweat already streaking down his sides, his chest heaving. A thousand paces away, he saw one of the GreatLord’s banners fall, the cloth crumpling into the morass of clashing swords and dying men. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught movement and realized some of the Legionnaires who’d been making for Temeritt were turning, those on horseback charging toward the battle. At a hundred paces, he caught sight of GreatLord Kobel himself, his face slicked in sweat and spattered with blood, twisted into a determined grimace.
Then Gregson struck the Horde’s fl ank, slowing and pulling his sword back over his shoulder two-handed, the outermost Alvritshai turning to meet him. With a battle roar, he swung the blade with all of his strength into an Alvrishai’s mount.
The horse shrieked and reared, the sound shuddering in Gregson’s arms and torso as he jerked his sword free and stumbled back. The Alvritshai who rode it spat something in his own tongue as he fought to control the steed. A breath later, the rest of the Gregson’s Legion fell on the Alvritshai to either side. Their battle cry broke through the clash of swords, the Alvritshai fighting fiercely but falling back under the initial impact. Gregson lunged forward, sweat stinging his eyes, and sank his blade into another horse’s side as the Alvritshai turned it to strike from above. Blood poured down from the cut, splattering Gregson’s chest, the animal lurching back and throwing the Alvritshai’s swing off. Rage boiled up inside Gregson and with vicious cuts and horrendous strength he began battering at the Alvritshai before him. The pale-skinned demon grimaced and parried desperately, tried to jerk his horse away, but the Alvritshai’s own forces kept him from drawing back. In such close quarters, it was all he could do to keep Gregson’s sword from his gut and his mount under control.
When the horse slid in what had once been a fi eld of grain, Gregson seized his opening and thrust his blade up under the Alvritshai’s flailing guard, between the split in his armor at his armpit. It sank in a handspan, slid free in the space of a breath. The Alvritshai’s eyes widened in shock, twisted in pain, and then slackened as he sagged forward, his blade falling from a lax grip.
Gregson tried to turn, to shift to attack one of the Alvritshai on either side, but the crush of bodies was too tight. More of the scattered Legion had joined them, answering the horn bearer’s call, surging up from behind. He was being shoved under the horse, where he knew he’d be trampled. In desperation, he reached up and seized the dead Alvritshai by the collar of his armor and hauled him down from the saddle, then leaped and clawed his way into its seat. It tossed its head, snorting and biting at the humans before it, but Gregson jerked it to the side. Leont took a vicious cut to the throat and went down, Gregson stabbing the Alvritshai that had gotten him in the back. Then a sudden flight of arrows whipped into the Alvritshai that surrounded them, at least a dozen falling from their saddles, another half dozen screaming in pain as they clutched shafts protruding from arms, legs, and chest. In the reprieve, Terson and a few of his own Legion seized their chance and commandeered their own mounts, cursing as the horses fought them.
Gregson scanned the battlefield. The Legion now outnumbered the Alvritshai and one of the gray-skinned giants was down, the other bellowing in rage as it tore into the GreatLord’s forces at the heart of the battle. More Legionnaires were headed their way, most on horseback. One contingent struck, cutting swiftly through the Alvritshai in a huge swath, like a sickle through grain.
Gripping his sword tightly, Gregson kneed his new mount forward, swinging left and right with his sword, his eyes fixed on the GreatLord’s position. He drew breath and shouted, “Temeritt! For Temeritt and the Autumn Tree!” the cry taken up on all sides by the GreatLord’s forces.The Horde’s left fl ank fell beneath the onslaught, the second giant going down under a hail of arrows. The GreatLord’s unit rallied and shoved forward, meeting Gregson and his men in the middle. They cut down the Alvritshai separated from their own forces—
And then the remaining Alvritshai broke, spinning their mounts and galloping toward the safety of the trees and the hills beyond. The Legion harried the retreat until a horn blared, calling them back.
Gregson turned, a triumphant cry rising from his own men, elation burning hot and tight in his chest. Terson clapped him hard on the back as he passed, his horse falling into step beside his as they approached the GreatLord’s men.
Kobel’s eyes widened when his forces parted and he saw who led the unit. He nodded and held out his hand, still encased in mail, then grinned ruefully and let his hand drop. “Temeritt thanks you,”he said,“as do I.But we need to get as many men as possible inside the walls. The Horde is not far behind.”
“I understand.”
Kobel considered him for a long moment, his horse fidgeting impatiently beneath him. He controlled it with one hand on the reins,then said,“I believe you do,Lieutenant.”
Then he turned away and began barking orders, the entire Legion moving instantly into action.
They rode hard to Temeritt’s gates, passing stragglers on the roads and in the fields. Nearly all turned to watch them; a few cheered. They passed into the shadow of the Autumn Tree, Gregson staring up at its immense branches, at its fiery leaves, and then they rode beyond, the walls and gates of Temeritt rising out of the plains ahead. The roadways converged on the western gate, the crowds of people fleeing the Horde’s destruction growing thick, but they parted before the blat of the GreatLord’s horns.
And then, the sun nearing midday, Gregson and what remained of his garrison and the fighting men of Cobble Kill passed beneath Temeritt’s gates. He had no idea what had befallen Jayson, Ara, and the rest of those he’d protected for most of the march southward, but he vowed he would find out.
Four hours later, the gates of Temeritt were sealed shut. Any who remained outside its walls were left to fend for themselves.
Two hours after that, the re-formed Horde appeared on the hills to the north and began its march on Temeritt’s walls, a second darkness spilling across the plains as the sun began its descent to the west.
“Call for the Cochen,” Quotl said tightly. “Call him now!”
To his right, the dwarren drummer began beating out a frantic rhythm, sweat dripping down his face. His mouth was lined, brow creased in concentration.
Quotl bit back a curse as he scanned the battlefield.
The plan had been simple. Confront the Wraith army on the flat beyond, engage them and hold them as long as reasonably possible. But there had been no intention of holding them there for long. It was indefensible and beyond the reach of the archers. But it would enrage the Wraith army, especially when they withdrew to the ditches, and give the Cochen and the two clans who rode with him time to get into position unnoticed.
The trenches wouldn’t hold either, but the intent had been to try to channel the Wraith army toward the north, to where the ditches ended and there was nothing but fl at, open land between them and the northern face of the Break. The ground to the south was open as well, but only wide enough to give the Thousand Springs Clan a narrow path for retreat. It wasn’t wide enough to allow the attackers easy access to the landslide and the plain above. And Shadow Moon stood on the cliffs above, ready with arrows to further discourage them.
Quotl’s heart had hammered in his chest as the Wraith army hit the ditches and split, part of the force heading toward the south, part to the north. A small group hit the dwarren in the ditches, but the Riders there defended their turf fi ercely, driving the Alvritshai on horseback and the lizardlike orannian back. Only the lithe feline gruen were effective in the trenches, swarming over the dwarren at its far side.
But it was the orannian and a few Alvritshai attacking the southern forces that sent a spike of fear into Quotl. If the southern defenses fell, the entire plan would fall apart.
His breath quickened, and with it came the surge of power that had engulfed him before. It seethed through his arms, his chest; through it, he felt the earth beneath
him shuddering with the tread of both armies, heard the cries and screams of the dying with a brittle clarity. He focused on the south, saw the line of Thousand Springs there falter, begin to break—
And then Shadow Moon hit the orannian with a hail of arrows so thick the air appeared black. Hundreds of the lizard-skinned men fell beneath the onslaught. More arrows launched from behind the lines arced over into the enemy, and Quotl breathed a sigh of relief as the Wraith force scrambled to recover. A piercing shriek from overhead forced him to duck as one of the dreun dove, extended talons raking through the dwarren and gaezels, the fleet animals panicking as the creature’s shadow blanketed them. Shadow Moon shifted their arrow attack toward the fliers, the dreun crying out and banking left. Quotl squinted into the late afternoon sunlight to see most of the dreun circling out of range of the archers, then dropped his gaze back to the battlefield to find the dwarren of Thousand Springs rallying and pushing the orannian and Alvritshai back.
A moment later, the entire southern force spun and raced away, back onto the plains.
Thousand Springs roared in triumph and turned their attention to defending the ditches.
Quotl didn’t allow himself to feel any triumph. The battle was far from over.
Reaching through his connection to the earth, testing its potential, its power, he listened. The ground trembled beneath the hooves and feet of the attacking armies, but faintly he could feel a new tremor, coming from the south.
He listened a moment longer, to make certain, then said to the drummer, “Have the northern forces fall back now. Lure the Wraith army in.”
“But the Cochen isn’t here yet.”
Quotl spun on the drummer. Whatever the drummer saw made him flinch back, the orders already being relayed.
To the north, Painted Sands began to give ground, Clan Chief Corranu making it appear as if they did so grudgingly, drawing the combined orannian, Alvritshai, terren, and gruen forces with them. Those that had struck Thousand Springs to the south had joined them.As Quotl watched,he noticed a second group of figures near the back of the army, watching and directing. One of the figures was on horseback, dressed in the black and gold of the Alvritshai warriors.
The other was on a gaezel.
“Elloktu,” he spat under his breath, anger boiling up within to replace his shock. The betrayal of the Lands was more bitter and vitriolic than with the other Wraiths, for the shorter figure on the gaezel was obviously one of the dwarren.
He had not thought one of the dwarren could so betray his people. Or his gods. He searched the Wraith’s forces, but did not see any dwarren within their ranks. But even the betrayal of one enraged him.
Painted Sands had withdrawn behind the solitary plinth of stone that reached for the sky a hundred lengths from the Break. Quotl glanced toward the summit of the cliffs, to where he could see the archers of Claw Lake waiting. But none of them had fired on the Wraith army yet, except volleys shot into the air to keep the dreun at bay.
“Wait,” he murmured, reaching out again to feel for the vibrations in the earth, searching for the Cochen. “Wait.”
Painted Sands continued to draw back, the Wraith army surging forward into the opening.
The Cochen had almost arrived.
Drawing a steadying breath, Quotl said quietly, “Now.”
The drummer didn’t hesitate, began pounding out a different pattern that was carried along the back of the army up to the cliffs. Above, the archers—all two thousand of them—adjusted their aim from the dreun in the skies to the Wraith army that crammed the base of the cliffs below.
Quotl felt the release on the air, two thousand bowstrings humming at once, setting a vibration in his chest that was intensified by the power coursing through him. He gasped, even as the Wraith army recoiled under the onslaught. A second volley fell, Claw Lake firing as quickly as possible. The Wraith army began to pull back from the cliffs—
And then the Cochen arrived.
He led the combined forces of Red Sea and Broken Waters, the two clans charging across the plains from the south, a plume of red dust rising behind them. Quotl watched in silence as he and the Archon blazed past, circling the ditches, the members of Thousand Springs who guarded the southern entrance to the slide joining them.
They struck the Wraith army’s flank, hemming the massive force between the cliffs, the deadly hail of arrows from above, and their own forces, Painted Sands suddenly breaking off their fake retreat and falling on them from the other side.
The Wraith army was hemmed in on three sides.The enemy forces seethed in desperation, the center falling under the arrows, unable to escape or fight back, the edges of the army hitting Painted Sands and the Cochen’s clans hard. In the frenzy, Quotl saw many of the lizard-skinned orannian flare open hoods, swordplay giving way to lightning quick strikes with their fangs. Dwarren reared back at the unexpected attacks, some of the defense breaking in horror.
“Did you know they could do that?” the drummer asked softly, voice shaking.
“No, I did not.”
Movement caught his attention and Quotl turned to find the two Wraiths—Alvritshai and dwarren—edging forward. The Alvritshai raised one hand to the sky and made a fist with it.
Quotl’s eyes narrowed, and then he looked up.
Without warning, the dreun who’d been hovering out of the archers’ reach plummeted from the skies, straight for Claw Lake.
Quotl cried out, took an involuntary and useless step forward.
A few of the archers saw the dreun coming, shots firing into the sky, but none of them struck. The dreun came at them from the upper plains, sweeping down and hitting the archers from behind, knocking them from the cliffs. Quotl cringed at the screams as bodies fell onto the battle below, the dreun flapping their massive wings once they passed the cliff face and pulling back up into the skies for another pass, some with dwarren clutched in their talons. Claw Lake scrambled to reassemble. The dreun swept by again, more dwarren plunging to their deaths, but this time a group managed to hit one of the leather-skinned fliers as it passed. It shrieked as it hit the edge of the cliff, stone breaking off in chunks as it scrambled for purchase, arrows sticking out from it like spikes. But it couldn’t hold, one wing torn and crumpled to its side. Its scream as it fell cut into Quotl like a knife.
On the rocky field below, the Wraith army had regained its footing, no longer decimated from above. It dug in and began to push outward.
“It’s not going to hold,” the drummer muttered.
Quotl’s jaw clenched. He wanted to backhand the Rider, but didn’t. He’d seen the signs himself, had known it wouldn’t hold.
But there was one last defense.
He turned to the drummer. “Have those in the ditches pull back to the base of the landslide.”
He didn’t wait for the order to be passed on. Turning, he swung himself up onto his gaezel and kicked it into motion, heading toward the slide at their backs. The power of the Lands thundered through him as he raced across the open area between the ditches and the ramp, then through the tents of the dwarren camp, the northern edge of the cliffs towering above him. He passed into their shadow for a moment, emerging into the lowering sun again as he began edging up the slide. Its slope was gradual enough that his gaezel only slowed to half pace, snorting with effort. Dreun shadows passed over him but he didn’t glance up. More screams came from the cliffs to his right, steadier, fainter screams echoing it from the carnage below. It felt like an eternity before he reached the top and pulled his mount around so he could survey the battle.
The dwarren had been driven to the base of the slide, the ditches abandoned, the Cochen’s forces now combined with Painted Sands and Thousand Springs into one massive throng of dwarren, the clans no longer separate. Those at the back were climbing toward the upper plains. Dwarren on foot and gaezels began swarming around him, both Claw Lake and Shadow Moon hitting the Wraith forces hard with arrows as they dodged the continued attacks from the dreun.Two more of the
leather-winged creatures had fallen, leaving eight wheeling in the skies above. The dwarren clans were being driven up the slide, the cliffs to either side acting as a funnel.
The only clan not present was Silver Grass.
As the last of the dwarren fled the flatland at the slide’s base, Quotl muttered to himself, “Now.”
Nothing happened. He sucked in a breath, held it, his own blood pounding in his head, heightened by the power that filled him. The Wraith army began edging up the slope, orannian and Alvritshai at the forefront, the stone-skinned terren bellowing behind them.Quotl exhaled harshly.“Ilacqua curse you, do it now, Attanna! What are you waiting for?”
Half of the Wraith army was now on the slide, the rest on the flat beyond.
And then Quotl felt the earth shudder on the plains below. He closed his eyes and muttered a small prayer, body tense.
When he opened them, the earth shuddered once again—
And then a section of the plains below collapsed, the earth cracking in massive fissures as the clan of Silver Grass broke the supports of the warren that lay underneath and the system of tunnels there caved in.The fissures crazed the rocky plains, snaking outward from the central chamber that lay a hundred lengths beyond the end of the slide like the frozen surface of a pond in winter giving way beneath someone’s weight. The Wraith army that stood above that hidden chamber and the tunnels beneath were thrown to the ground, and then, with a suddenness that startled even Quotl, the earth gave way beneath them, collapsing inward with a grinding, hideous groan.
At least a thousand of the orannian, Alvritshai, and terren perished as a plume of dust rose. The dwarren who had volunteered to break the supports died beneath them.
But it wasn’t enough. Too many of the enemy had made the landslide. Too many had survived the collapse of the sinkhole.
Quotl sank back into his saddle, a numbing despair washing over him. It had been their final defense of the Break.
Leaves of Flame Page 47
