Leaves of Flame ch-2

by Benjamin Tate

  Corim nodded, his face serious but lined and anxious. Jayson noted he carried a knife, but said nothing.

  Everything was changing, moving too fast. A strange energy filled the confines of the barn, the too-sweet scent of straw now overlaid with a stench of fear and the warmth of too many bodies. Jayson wiped sweat from his forehead.

  “Ready?” Gregson bellowed.

  Jayson spun back to the barn door. The Legion had dispersed, remounted, and were now spread across the front of the group. Four of the townsmen had taken hold of the doors, ready to swing them open. Someone had given up his horse to Gregson. Everyone who had swords had drawn them. Jayson reached around and pulled his free with a grating snick and held it awkwardly as his horse shifted beneath him, snorting and stamping its hoof. He swallowed against the lump that had risen in his throat, tasted the straw dust in the air, the scent of fodder and horseshit.

  Then Gregson nodded toward the men at the doors and they shoved them open wide.

  Blinding sunlight streamed into the front of the barn, but Jayson kicked his horse forward as the Legion burst through into the yard beyond, fanning out with practiced movements, allowing room for the townsfolk to pass between them. Gregson roared, “Move it! Come on, run, Diermani curse you!” and the people surged forward, one of the children shrieking, another sobbing with his head buried in his mother’s shoulder where she carried him on her hip. All of the men on horseback shouted and urged them forward into the sunlight. Jayson found himself shunted to one side just outside the barn doors, waving his sword high, pointing toward the main street, shouting nonsense to keep everyone moving. He saw Corim pass, the boy’s eyes wide-

  And then the arrows started. Shafts spat into the group, four of the townsfolk and three of the riders felled in the space of a heartbeat. Jayson’s heart faltered, his throat locking, as one of the women screamed.

  The entire group lurched forward in a wave of panic. He saw someone fall, get trampled underfoot, heard the Legion roaring orders and cursing at the same time as more arrows snicked down from the heights.

  Suddenly, Gregson was beside him yelling, “Go, go! There’s no one left in the barn!”

  Jayson kneed his horse after the townsfolk, saw them break through the yard onto the street, spreading out on the road, nearly all of them turning sharply to the south, toward the garrison, arrows flying down like black rain. Three men broke away and headed north toward the bridge, one of the men on horseback screaming for them to come back. Two arrows took the rider in the back; he slumped over, his mount panicking and charging forward. One of the three men fell, a shaft jutting up from his leg. His scream sliced through Jayson’s gut like a knife.

  “Leave them!” Gregson roared as two of the Legion turned to help them. “Let them go! They made their choice!”

  Jayson spun his horse, clenching his jaw as he heeded Gregson’s orders and abandoned the men, urging his mount after the rest of the fleeing townsfolk. An arrow shot through the space between his face and his horse’s neck, sent a shivering jolt of fear through his legs, but he pushed on, herding everyone toward the main road south, shouting, his sword held out uselessly before him. Gregson was charging back and forth along the rear of the group, still bellowing orders. Two more of the townsfolk fell to the deadly shafts and then a cry rose up on the promontory.

  Jayson turned in time to see one of the archers fall from the rock face, the hail of arrows ending as Curtis and the rest of the Legion appeared on the outcropping, the archers turning to fight them. Most of the townsfolk slowed, those on horseback cantering in place as two more archers fell, a cheer rising from the group. Hope flared in Jayson’s chest, burning so hot he tasted it in the back of his throat. He roared, thinking of Lianne, of all of the men and women of Gray’s Kill who had never had a chance. As Curtis and the other four men took out the last of the archers, throwing their bodies over the edge to the forest below, all of the grief and despair that had throttled him since that first night was subsumed by a chaotic, fierce joy strangely mixed with vicious anger. It swelled inside his heart, tasting of bitter revenge and relief.

  The relief was short-lived.

  Even as the cheer died down and the townsfolk’s fear began to dissipate with shaky laughs, Gregson shouted, “Keep moving! This isn’t over. That was only a scouting party-”

  Whatever he would have said next was cut off by a thunderous growl that shuddered across the commons and reverberated off the promontory of rock. Everyone turned in the direction of the northern road, where the two men had fled earlier, along with the horse with its dead rider. The man who had been shot in the leg had crawled to one side of the road and sat hunched near Ara’s tavern door.

  “What in Diermani’s name was that?” Ara said from the middle of the townsfolk. Her hand rested on Corim’s shoulder protectively.

  Before anyone could answer, the animalistic roar split the silence again, followed by the sharp crack and shush of a tree falling. A few of the people cried out and stepped back. The horses snorted and shied away as more branches snapped, something large moving through the forest along the northern road. Gregson trotted his horse across Jayson’s field of vision, pacing before everyone gathered in the roadway, his brow creased in a tight frown.

  Beyond him, the tops of the trees began to sway with movement, even though there was no breeze. Insanely, Jayson heard Gregson’s voice from earlier in the barn saying, Our only real advantage is that no one can easily approach through the forest.

  Another splintering crack followed and one of the swaying trees fell, everyone moving back another pace, even those on horseback.

  Then, through the crackle of trodden branches and breaking limbs, Jayson heard a soft chittering noise and a chill tingled through his arms and legs, prickling in his fingers.

  “It’s them,” he whispered, his mouth suddenly dry. “It’s the creatures.”

  Gregson shot him a sharp look.

  Behind him, the massive trees over the stream suddenly shuddered and parted, a monstrous gray shape trailing broken branches and bracken appearing. Its body was huge, twice the size of a man, two gigantic arms hanging at its sides. It paused at the edge of the creek, yellowed eyes scanning the town, its stony head swiveling on a thick neck. The creature snuffled the air, the nostrils in its craggy face crinkling, and then its eyes latched onto Gregson and the group of petrified townsfolk.

  It sucked in a huge breath and bellowed, the sound splintering the shocked silence. More than one person screamed, the sounds melding into a strange war cry, and as the thunderous sounds broke, the catlike creatures with the pallid, empty eyes Jayson had fought while fleeing Gray’s Kill spilled from the undergrowth around the monster’s feet and scampered across the bridge. Even as Jayson choked on his own breath, men on horseback appeared on the roadway, the riders dressed in black-and-silver armor, dozens of them emerging from the shadows of the trees around the twist in the road.

  Not men, Jayson thought, ice-cold fear settling in the pit of his stomach as the mounted riders drew closer. Alvritshai.

  Even as one of the Alvritshai at the forefront of the attackers raised a black horn to his lips and blew, a single, clear note piercing the town, the smaller creatures surged forward, the still spring air filled with their hissing. They fell on the man cringing against the tavern in an instant, his screams jarring Jayson from his paralysis. He spun, eyes seeking out Corim automatically. Pointing to the southern road with his sword, he yelled, “Run! Go, now!” the words so loud and forceful something in his throat tore.

  Corim moved before anyone else, turning to sprint toward the southern road, clutching at Ara and dragging the tavern woman along with him. The tableau broke, people screaming, pointing, lurching forward as the smaller creatures streamed toward them from the far side of the commons, moving faster than Jayson remembered from that night, bodies sleek, like liquid in motion, brown-black in the sunlight, ears flattened against their knobby skulls. Gregson managed to bellow, “Legion, to me! Protect t
he flanks!” before the first leaped to latch onto his leg. He cried out, his horse rearing and screaming, his sword swinging as three more joined the first, the things crawling up the horse’s side. The Legion members charged forward with fierce cries, and Jayson saw blades flash in the sunlight, blood flying as they cut into the creatures. The massive stone giant, at least twice as tall as Jayson, roared again and thrust itself from the tangle of the trees, its entire body a solid mass of hairless gray-brown flesh. It staggered across the stream, water sparkling in the light, a branch the size of Jayson’s thigh in one hand. It swung it like a club as it reached the first Legion riders, knocking one clear of his mount and flinging him across the commons.

  Jayson hesitated behind the first line of Legion, along with a few of the other non-Legionnaires on horseback, none of them trained to fight, but all of them carrying swords. Jayson’s heart thundered in his chest, his gaze shifting left and right, the sights and sounds of the battle overwhelming. He didn’t know where to look, didn’t know how to react, blades cutting down into the sleek hairless cats, three men dodging the larger creature’s blows, while the Alvritshai riders came inexorably closer, the column now at the beginning of the bridge. More kept appearing behind them, hundreds in sight already, without any sign that the column was going to end.

  That realization twisted something deep inside of Jayson, the frigid, queasy fear that seized him roiling and hardening into something solid, into anger and hate.

  “This isn’t a group of bandits,” he heard himself whisper, the man who wavered beside him shooting him a confused look. “These aren’t raiders.” His voice hardened along with the realization, along with his heart. His eyes narrowed. His shoulders squared and his back straightened. He spun his mount to catch the attention of those who’d hung back from the main fighting. “This isn’t a raiding party!” he shouted. “Look at them! Look at how many of them there are! They aren’t here to sack your homes and then go, they’re here to seize everything and slaughter us all!”

  Not waiting to see their reaction, he dug in his heels and felt the skittish horse beneath him answer, charging toward the back of the fray. He plowed into the creatures swarming over Gregson, at least ten in all, swinging his sword wildly, his horse kicking and trampling the hissing monstrosities underfoot. His blade connected with one, the contact jarring up into his arm, but he swung the blade to one side and flung the body free, black blood splattering in an arc. Heat seared up from his gut, the heat of rage, and as his blade flashed and spun, as his body jolted with each impact against flesh and each stamping of his horse’s hooves, he saw images of Gray’s Kill across his vision. The gnawed-off nubs of Corim’s mother’s fingers, the blood-splattered table, the bodies littering the streets before Diermani’s church, and Lianne’s hand lying pale and lifeless in rancid stew. All of the grief and anger that had remained beneath the surface suffused him, shuddering through every strike, every flailing blow. One of the creatures bit into his leg, claws and teeth sinking deep, and he hissed and swung, hitting it with the flat of the blade with enough force to rip it free, but cutting himself with his own sword in the process. He cried out at the white-hot pain in his calf, felt the warmth of blood soaking his breeches, but ignored it to cut savagely into another creature scrambling up his saddle. The creature shrieked, its own blood spattering Jayson’s face and chest as it fell back.

  Something grabbed his sword arm, spun him around. He lashed out with the sword, but steel met steel, blocking the blow, and he found himself face-to-face with Gregson, the Legionnaire’s face tortured into a grimace, bloody with cuts.

  “Fall back,” he shouted, shoving Jayson toward the empty southern road. All of the townsfolk had fled. “Fall back now! There’s no way we can hold off the Alvritshai. Retreat and protect the townsfolk!”

  The lieutenant gave Jayson one last push toward the road and then slid past him, shouting the same orders to all of the others. The Alvrithsai riders had crossed the bridge and were filling the far side of the wide commons, watching the battle coldly, their pale faces hard and implacable. Jayson had never seen an Alvritshai before, but there was no mistaking their sharp features, the angular cheekbones, and dark hair of the hearthfire tales. He shuddered at their arrogance, at their calmness. They did not seem concerned about the twenty-odd horsemen who fought their catlike creatures and the rugged giant who’d killed five men and three horses. Instead, the leader-the Alvritshai at the forefront-merely raised a hand to halt their progress and then gestured.

  “Retreat!” Gregson roared again, the edge of command in his voice. “Now!”

  Jayson spun his horse and kicked it hard toward the southern road, nearly every one of the Legion and the others like him breaking away from the fight and doing the same. He glanced over his shoulder and saw at least twenty archers raise bows from among the Alvritshai ranks. He swore, his back feeling like a giant target, and hunched himself forward over his mount’s neck.

  He heard the snap of the bowstrings and the outcry of at least two men as the arrows struck. One of the men who’d pulled ahead of him slumped and fell from his saddle, his body hitting the road with a sickening thud, but Jayson didn’t slow. The man’s horse continued on, unencumbered now, mane and tail thrashing with the wind of its passage. The two-story buildings and the cottages fell behind, Jayson’s breath ragged, burning in his lungs.

  A moment later, the garrison appeared. They passed it without pause.

  “Keep going,” Gregson yelled from somewhere off to one side and behind, his words almost lost. “Don’t stop until we catch up to the townsfolk.”

  Jayson didn’t intend to stop even after that. Cobble Kill was lost.

  There was nothing to do now but make for Patron’s Merge.

  17

  Colin glanced up as a sudden gust of wind blew sand into his face and tugged at his shirt. His horse whickered, tension rippling through the muscles of its neck and shoulders. He stared out across the grassland, minor plinths of striated rock piercing up through the soil on all sides. The sky was a vivid blue, no clouds in sight.

  But the air shuddered around him. For a moment, he could see it, like heat waves shimmering above the earth, distorting the panoramic view on all sides. It was hot, sweat a faint sheen against his skin, but not hot enough for heat waves.

  He twisted in his saddle and whistled to catch Eraeth’s and Siobhaen’s attention. “We need to find shelter!”

  “Why?” Eraeth shouted, already heading toward him. Siobhaen followed, scanning the horizon with a look of confusion.

  “We’ve reached the edge of the Summer Tree’s influence,” Colin said. “There’s going to be a storm.”

  Siobhaen shot a glance upward. “But the sky’s clear-”

  The air around them suddenly crackled, all of the hair on Colin’s arms standing on end, his skin prickling. A sharp metallic scent struck them. Siobhaen gasped, nose wrinkling from the stench even as she shuddered, but Eraeth shrugged the sensations aside and pointed.

  “Over there,” he shouted over another gust of wind, all three hunching down in their saddles. The wind was bitterly cold and stank of rain. “That rock formation!”

  Colin merely nodded and spun his horse about, kicking it hard toward the column of rock Eraeth had indicated. As he neared, he saw why. Chunks of stone had fallen ages past, forming a rough arch against its side. It looked like it would be large enough to shelter all of them and the horses.

  When he was still a hundred yards away, the land beginning to slope down before rising toward the rock column again, a shadow descended over the plains.

  Colin’s gaze shot upward as Siobhaen cried out from behind. Massive black clouds had begun to build, shooting skyward in roiling plumes along a clear-cut front that undulated high overhead, running north to south. The cloud cover spilled westward from the sharp demarcation, like a flood of black water rushing across an unseen surface. Colin slowed, his horse gnawing at the bit, but waved Eraeth and Siobhaen toward the shelter. He co
uld feel the energies building now, pressing against his skin. Wind blew more sand and grit into his face, but he squinted and raised a hand to shield his eyes. He wanted to see how the storm built, how it was created.

  But then jagged purplish lightning sizzled across the clouds, so close the hair stirred on his scalp and his horse jolted forward with a panicked scream. As he cursed and seized the reins, bringing it back under control, he felt the first drops of rain patter against his skin. He nudged the horse toward the shelter, where Eraeth stood staring out after him, his face hard with disapproval, Siobhaen behind him holding both of their skittish mounts.

  A moment later, Eraeth and Siobhaen vanished behind a deluge of rain, sheets of it blocking Colin’s view. He spluttered, digging in his heels, felt the horse begin the climb up the slope toward the stone plinth. A moment later, soaked to the bone, he and his mount passed beneath the overhanging ledge of rock. Eraeth grabbed hold of his mount’s bridle and drew him deeper under the enclosure.

  “Why did you slow down?” Eraeth demanded as Colin slid from the saddle, reaching to pull his packs down as well. Colin shivered, water runneling off him in streams.

  “I wanted to see how it formed,” he said through chattering teeth. He caught Eraeth’s gaze and muttered, “It’s cold.”

  Eraeth shook his head.

  “Where did the storm come from?” Siobhaen asked, taking Colin’s lead and removing packs from the other two horses. “The skies were clear. It came out of nowhere. Literally.”

  “It’s the boundary between the Summer Tree and the Source the Wraiths are using to attack it. The friction between the two powers creates energy, and that energy has to be expended somehow. That’s how the storms are formed, and something similar creates the occumaen, although I’ve never seen the occumaen’s formation in person.”