Leaves of Flame (64 page)

Isolated battles raged on all sides, some half-­seen in the darkness, others only heard. Firelight flared in the distance. A cottage burned, its flames harsh, strange silhouettes circling the conflagration. They swerved wide around the building, saw other fires raging farther away, dotting the hillsides like orange stars. A half hour later, they encountered a group of civilians guarded by a dozen young Legionnaires barely keeping their own terror under control. They handed over their charges to Gregson in relief, following his snapped orders as if they were on the practice field, not in the midst of a rout.

The pace slowed, the civilians weary, the wounded dragging them down. Gregson mentally cursed, searching for signs of Temeritt ahead. They couldn’t last much longer, but they couldn’t rest either. There were too many unknown forces in the hills. He and the Legion drove the refugees on relentlessly, pausing only once at the edge of a creek, men and the few women coughing and groaning as they collapsed or sank to their knees to drink. Even though he was exhausted, Gregson kept himself moving, walking among the group, men giving him weary smiles as he passed. He knew if he stopped he might never start moving again.

Thirty minutes later they were dragging everyone back to their feet and pushing onward.

They reached the rise north of Temeritt at dawn, the burgeoning light shocking Gregson to his bones. He could not believe they had survived the night, could not believe that their group had nearly doubled in size—­Legion outnumbering the civilians now—­could not believe that the Horde
had not caught up to them. The only explanation that made sense was that the Horde was razing the lands as they came, slowing them down.

As the sun peeked above the horizon to the east, the wide grassland below came into relief.

Surrounded by four sets of thick stone walls, Temeritt stood on the heights of a giant upsurge of ground in the middle of the grassland, the palace at the top of its steepest slope, the inner walls surrounding it, the barracks, a massive stone church, and the original defensive towers. They soared over the rest of the city, the largest that Gregson had ever seen. Three more walls encircled the city in massive tiers, buildings crammed into the different levels so tight they appeared stacked one atop the other. In the golden sunlight, it appeared radiant, the city consuming the entire hill and spilling down onto the plains below like a giant inkstain, the majority of it to the southwest of the palace and its walls. Steeples and minor towers filled the tiers as well, smoke from fires lying in a thick layer above the city, tinted orange by the sun.

Relief flooded Gregson, so visceral he could taste it, like honey coating his throat, but what caught and held his attention was the Autumn Tree. It rose from the plains north and west of the city, its massive trunk outside of the outermost city walls, its branches casting a dark shadow on the grassland beneath. Its flame-­red leaves were burnished gold in the dawn, and even from this distance he could see them rustling in a breeze, the Tree appearing to be aflame.

He shuddered at the image, his gaze falling from the Tree to the plains and roadways leading to the city beneath. People were fleeing to the gates, groups of them on the road, others heading straight for the walls across open ground. Some appeared to be sections of the Legion like them, fleeing the broken defensive line. Others were clearly refugees and civilians, carts laden with possessions dragging behind them.

He watched them as his own group struggled past. Then the flap of banners caught his attention and he straightened in his saddle, squinting into the distance.

GreatLord Kobel’s banners. They’d emerged from the tree line to the east and were charging across the fields ­toward Temeritt’s gates, not that far from Gregson’s position. The GreatLord led a sizable force, perhaps three hundred Legionnaires.

Hope surged in Gregson’s chest.

It turned immediately to horror.

From the forest behind the GreatLord, a contingent of the Horde emerged, Alvritshai in front, riding hard, bearing down on the smaller force of Legion protecting the GreatLord’s flank. Part of the troops paused and spun, arrows arching up and into the Horde on their heels, but it didn’t do much good. They were outnumbered at least two to one. The Horde would be on them in moments.

Panic threatening to claw through his chest, Gregson spun and shouted, “Legion, form up! The GreatLord is under attack! Jayson, keep the rest moving toward Temeritt. Don’t stop until you reach the gates. Terson, get these soldiers moving!”

Even as his second began issuing orders, the exhausted Legion—­barely fifty men—­falling into lines, Gregson turned back to the field. Behind him, Curtis said quietly, “There are only fifty of us. That’s not enough men to make a difference.”

A flash of anger seered through Gregson and he spat, “I will not stand by and watch GreatLord Kobel cut down within sight of Temeritt. Not when I could have helped.” But he knew Curtis was right. Fifty men would not be enough.

He suddenly recalled the horn bearer they’d picked up during the night.

His eyes darted across the expanse of the land before
Temeritt, taking in all of the scattered groups that were headed toward the city’s safety. Most hadn’t seen their GreatLord emerge from the trees, hadn’t seen the Horde hounding them, too intent on reaching the safety they could now see, knew they could reach.

A significant portion of those were Legionnaires.

“But you’re right.” He turned back to his own small group, heartened to see that they were all in line, that Jayson and the refugees were already two hundred paces distant. He picked out the bearded horn bearer in an instant. “Horn bearer! Step forward! I want you to sound the horn and keep sounding it until every member of the Legion on these fields hears it. Understood?”

The man nodded grimly, hand falling to the curved instrument at his side and unstrapping it from its case. Gregson didn’t wait, drawing his sword and pointing it toward the field, the men before him straightening, snapping out of their weary despondency or shock. He felt the exhaustion of the night fading, saw the sudden anger in their eyes, the hardening of clenched jaws.

Reaching deep within him, summoning strength from his chest, he roared, “For the GreatLord! For Temeritt!”

Then he spun and charged.

He heard the cry taken up behind him, nearly lost in the wind in his ears, in the sudden piercing cry of the horn as the horn bearer sent the call, but he didn’t turn to look. Ahead, the GreatLord’s force had halted and turned to face the Horde bearing down on them. Flight after flight of arrows arched into the Alvritshai and the few giants trundling up from behind. Gregson watched, sick to his stomach, as the two armies hit.

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 flank, 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 field 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 flank 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 reformed 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.