Leaves of Flame (51 page)

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. And 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?”

He glanced toward Azuka. “What?”

“You grunted and smiled.”

Quotl waved his hand. “It was nothing. Have the shamans completed the ritual?”

“Yes.”

“Have them gather in the ritual tent as soon as it is erected. I want to meet with them before the clan chief calls me into his Gathering.”

“Clear the table,” Tarramic ordered.

As the aides—­all young Riders or those who were training to become Riders—­moved forward to remove the platters
of food, used plates, and trays, the clan chief motioned toward Quotl.

Setting aside his pipe and glaring at one of the aides who’d moved forward to remove it until the youth backed off, Quotl pulled the scepter of his office from his lap and stood, starting a chant in the ancient tongue as he began pacing the confines of the room. It was the largest chamber in the clan chief’s tent, the table surrounded by eleven dwarren Riders, all of them of significant families within the clan and the structure of the Riders. Three more aides remained behind as the last of the dinner was removed. Quotl shook the scepter along the four sacred lines to signify the gods of the Four Winds and closed off the chamber by arranging a pattern of feathers, grass, and a scattering of grain at the main entrance, then lit the brazier that hung from the center of the tent, tossing a few herbs and scented leaves onto the flames as he did so to summon Ilacqua.

Then he turned to Tarramic. “The Four Winds protect us, and Ilacqua guides our words.”

Tarramic nodded and motioned immediately to two of the aides as Quotl returned to his seat. “The map of Painted Sands. And the stones.”

One aide pulled the roll of leather from a trunk set off to one side, while the other set a small, flat, wooden box at Tarramic’s right side, removing the lid to reveal an array of compartments, each containing polished colored stone. The map was rolled out and secured using four heavy chunks of onyx at each of the rounded corners.