Well of Sorrows (34 page)

Without waiting for a response, he moved down the central aisle, past the Hand of Diermani, back out into the sunlight. He hesitated on the steps of the church, his hand falling away from the vow, and turned toward where the Proprietor’s manse had been.

The building still stood, surrounded by a stone wall, a few trees visible inside. But when he approached the gate, a metal placard next to it stated that it was a mercantile house. Peering through the iron gates, he could see that changes had been made to the facade and windows, and a new stable had been built off to one side. Where the old stable had been now stood a large warehouse.

He stepped back from the gate and oriented himself again. “The church, Sartori’s manse—” he spun in place and pointedwith his staff “—the gallows.”

There were no gallows there now, only a solid row of buildings. He wandered across the square and stopped before a tavern, on the ground where Sartori had threatened to hang him. Someone brushed past him, opened the door, and sounds spilled out—the clank of glassware, the raucous noise of voices. The scent of roasting meat hit him like a slingstone to the gut. Before he entered the tavern, he glanced up at the sign posted over the door: The Hangman’s Noose.

He shivered as he stepped into the tavern’s interior.

The first burst of noise almost made him retreat, but he straightened his shoulders and made his way to a far corner table, half-hidden in shadows. The reek of spilled ale and old sweat and the scent of cooked meat dominated the room full of tables and chairs. A bar stood against the back wall, most of the patrons around it, although a few were gathered near the hearth, where a man sat on a stool telling tales.

Colin hadn’t been seated for more than a few heartbeats when a young boy, no more than twelve, appeared at its edge dressed in a serving apron.

“What can I git fur ya, oldster?”

He stared at Colin with lively brown eyes, his light hair tousled and wild, his shirt stained with grease.

Colin frowned and leaned his staff against the wall. He fished a coin from his pack, aware that the boy watched him closely, then set it on the table, making certain he kept his hand on it. “Whatever food this will pay for.”

The boy nodded and slipped away. Colin folded the coin back into his hand and turned his attention to the storyteller.

“. . . They met at the Escarpment, all three armies come together at last—King Maarten’s Legion, the Alvritshai White Phalanx, and the dwarren Riders.” A low grumble rolled through those listening, a rumble of hatred and anticipated anger. The stor yteller nodded, his face grim. “Yes. You know the stor y, you know the betrayal.” He paused, let their anger simmer, then continued with a frown.

“The three forces met, the Alvritshai coming from the north, the dwarren from the east, and the Legion from the south. It was to be a decisive battle, a final battle! For unknown to the dwarren, Maarten had met with the Tamaell of the Alvritshai in secret and forged an alliance, one that would bind the Alvritshai to the colonies, and would allow us to finally seize control of the edge of the plains and drive the dwarren back. Back into their burrows and tent cities in the deep plains.” Those around the storyteller grumbled some more.

“It was with this alliance in place that the Legion took the field. King Maarten led them to the edge of the hill overlooking the flat, his heir, Stephan, his trusted advisers, and his councilmen beside him, banners snapping in the winds blowing from the plains. He came with three thousand men, with two hundred horses, and the hope of the Provinces in his heart.

“Across the flat, the Alvritshai’s White Phalanx already waited, pennons flying, all of the Houses represented, nearly two thousand strong. When Maarten crested the hill, Tamaell Fedorem flashed the signal indicating that all was ready, that all was well, a sign that the alliance still stood. Ever yone on the ridge saw it, and as the sun finally pulled away from the horizon, they heard the thundering approach of the Riders. A thousand gaezel—more!— dwarren astride their backs, emerged from the eastern plains, a storm of dust rising behind them to cloud the sky, golden in the sun’s light. They charged the flat, as if they intended to fling themselves off of the cliffs of the Escarpment to the west, but at the last moment they swerved, the gaezels turning in a sharp, smooth curve back on themselves, the dwarren erupting in a cacophonous battle roar. Swinging around, their cr y echoing across the breadth of the plains, they came to a halt, their line curved to face both the Legion and the Alvritshai’s Phalanx, their ranks falling silent.

“The men in the Legion shifted at this display, disturbed, but the King did not quail. With a nod of his head, a message was passed down the line, colored flags flashing in the brightening morning. The men stirred again, readying their weapons, tightening the clasps of armor, of shield, testing the strings of bows. Horns blew across the field from the Alvritshai, but Maarten kept his eyes on the dwarren, on their shifting ranks of gaezels. He caught the eye of his nearest adviser, and at his nod of readiness, he drew his sword. Steel flashed in the light, and the Legion fell silent behind him, hushed, waiting for the signal.”

As if mimicking the storyteller’s words, his small audience fell silent. Most were leaning forward in their seats, alcohol-hazed eyes wide, shoulders tensed. The storyteller looked over them all, his arms outstretched, as if holding the entire battlefield, armies and all, before him, a satisfied smile on his face.

“And then,” he whispered, a chair creaking as he paused and someone leaned farther forward, “as the Alvritshai horns blew, as they’d agreed upon at their secret meeting, Maarten dropped his sword.”

The men surrounding the storyteller sighed, settling back. But Colin noted that not all of those in the tavern were enthralled. Some sat far back and snorted at the reaction of the others, lifting tankards to their lips. Others merely shook their heads.

“The King’s army charged down the hill onto the flat, heading directly for the dwarren, letting out a battle cry of their own to rival the Riders. And simultaneously, the Alvritshai Phalanx, their long white pennons flaring out behind them, charged from the north. The dwarren didn’t wait for either army. The gaezels, heads bent forward, wicked horns down, met them on the flat. It’s said the clash of their weapons when they struck could be heard a day’s walk distant. It’s said the ground itself trembled. It’s said the sun vanished from the sky, lost behind the black cloud of dust that rose from the tread of thousands of feet. And I believe it, for it was a meeting of the three races, with the best of their men, their bravest warriors.

“And it was a trap.” At this, everyone in the tavern growled, and the storyteller smiled grimly. “Not the trap you think. No. Not yet. A different trap, set up by King Maarten and Tamaell Fedorem to lure the dwarren Riders to the edge of the Escarpment.” The storyteller’s smile faded, his eyes darkening with anger. “But it was indeed a trap for King Maarten as well, although none knew it except the traitorous Alvritshai.”

The storyteller spat this last remark, and everyone in the room burst out with their own curses, some literally spitting to the side. “Maarten rode down onto the flat and fought like a madman, his blade bloodied in instants, his surcoat stained,” the storyteller continued, rising from his seat as his voice rose, his arms miming sword thrusts and parries, not letting the riled patrons settle back down. “He roared as he drove into the dwarren ranks, slicing at the dwarren warriors, at their horned mounts, cutting flesh and sinew, severing arms and heads with mighty strokes, threshing a path through them as if they were grain and he a scythe. His men called out challenges behind him, some falling to blade and spear, those that followed pressing forward to take their place. Archers filled the skies with arrows until they blotted out the sun as effectively as the dust, and the dwarren . . . the dwarren fell, crushed between the two forces—Maarten and the Legion on one side, the Alvritshai White Phalanx on the other. Bodies littered the field, were trampled as the armies pressed together. For a moment it appeared that the dwarren might hold, but then their wardrums shuddered through the air, signaling a retreat.

“Maarten heard the order, but he’d be damned if the dwarren escaped him. He intended this battle to be the last. He intended the ages-long war among the three races to end, here, now, at the Escarpment, and so he spun his horse. But he was trapped at the forefront of the fray, his men so eager to fight that they’d blocked his retreat. So he bellowed to his son, Stephan, the heir to the throne of the eastern ports, his command heard over the clash of the battle, ‘They cannot be allowed to retreat! Stop them! This ends here!’

“And young Stephan heard him. Not yet eighteen, still he brandished his sword, already slick with blood, and called, ‘Fellow Legion, follow me!’ He charged his steed to the eastern flank, even as the dwarren began to break away, as their gaezels began their unnaturally swift turns to head back to the vastness and safety of the plains. Hundreds followed the heir, but he fell on the first of the retreating dwarren himself, and he held them. He held them back so that the rest of his force could arrive to support him. He held them, and then he held the line. No! He advanced the line! He pushed the dwarren back into the Legion’s main force, back into the Alvritshai Phalanx. Desperation caused the dwarren to hold for long moments, their retreat severed, but then their lines began to waver. Taking advantage, Stephan shoved them farther back. Harried on the east by Stephan, on the north by the Alvritshai, and the south by the King, the only available escape for the dwarren was the west . . . where the cliffs of the Escarpment waited.

“And that was where the combined armies forced the dwarren. They herded them like cattle, and as they were driven to the edge, the lower plains shadowed far below, the dwarren became frenzied. Step by slow step, they gave ground, their gaezels going mad, lethal horns skewering man and dwarren and Alvritshai indiscriminately, and still they were pressed back, Stephan and Maarten and Fedorem closing ranks. Step by slow step, the cursed dwarren—who’d hounded our every step onto the plains, who’d slaughtered entire trading parties, who’d returned the severed heads of the delegations sent to negotiate trade pacts between the races—
those
cursed dwarren were driven back, and back, and back . . .

“Until they were driven off the edge of the Escarpment, to fall to their deaths below.”

The entire room sighed with intense satisfaction, only faintly tinged with horror. Colin shuddered, the hatred of the dwarren in the room almost tangible. An unwavering hatred that crawled across his skin, as black as the spot on his arm, as sickening.

And yet he understood that hatred, felt it himself, in his bones. Because of what the dwarren had done to the wagon trains, his own and the one they’d found near the underground river. They’d slaughtered everyone in that wagon train, herded them together and killed them—men, women, and children—with no mercy. They’d burned the wagons to the ground. They would have done the same to Colin’s group, would have succeeded if the Shadows hadn’t gotten to them first.

He found his hand gripping the coin so hard the edges bit into his palm and he forced himself to relax. At the hearth, the storyteller let the vindictive murmurs rise, but he interrupted them before they could reach their height.

“But that wasn’t the end. Not the end that Maarten envisioned anyway. Oh, no. Because even as the two forces—Alvritshai and men—stood at the cliffs, staring down into the shadow of the bluff, where the dwarren Riders lay in bloody, broken heaps, even as Maarten drew back from the edge and turned toward Tamaell Fedorem with a triumphant smile, the Alvritshai betrayed him.

“Fedorem’s escort, his most trusted advisers, his closest lords, leaped forward, daggers raised. Stephan cried out, his shout heard across the battlefield, as the Alvritshai fell on the King. The heir tried to kick his steed forward, but he was restrained by his own men, even as a cry of outrage rose from the Legion. Before they could react, the Alvritshai Phalanx let loose a rain of arrows, cutting down hundreds in a single volley, catching the Legion unprepared. The group nearest to Maarten charged the attackers, and then both armies were engulfed in a melee—not a battle but a brawl—as the Legion tried to retrieve their fallen King’s body. Stephan tried to join them yet again, but he was hauled to safety by his own advisers, pulled off his horse out of sight of the Alvritshai archers and dragged to the back of the Legion as they retreated, Maarten’s body in tow.

“It was a black day, a bitter day for the Provinces. We lost our King to betrayal, to the
Alvritshai
.” He whispered the name like a curse. “But it was a triumphant day as well, for the entire coast. For at his death, Maarten claimed the defeat of the dwarren Riders in his name, for his lineage.”

“But not the defeat of the dwarren,” the man nearest to Colin murmured, his voice no more than a whisper, so low that Colin doubted anyone else had heard.

Silence reigned in the tavern but for the faint sounds of tankards being raised in salute and a few quiet and respectful murmurs or prayers.

Then the young boy reappeared and laid a plank of meat and cheese and roasted onion down in front of Colin, along with a tankard of ale as well. “Too bad ‘tisn’t all true,” he huffed, softly enough that Colin almost didn’t hear him.

“What do you mean?”

The boy eyed him warily. “’Tisn’t all true, least not how my grandda tells it.”

Colin frowned. “And how would your grandda know?”

The boy snorted. “He wuz there! Right there, in tha King’s own men at tha end o’ tha attack. He says ‘twasn’t all of the Alvritshai that attacked, only sum o’ them, that Fedorem seemed as shocked as any o’ them. He says a few a tha lords e’en tried to stop it—Lord Vaersoom and Lord Aeren. But ‘twas too late by then. Tha armies wuz already brawlin’.”

Colin stilled. “Did you say Aeren?”

“Lord Aeren,” the boy said, nodding. “And Lord Vaersoom. There’s a group of tha white-skinned bastards in tha city right now, jus come in on a ship.”