Well of Sorrows (64 page)

As he struggled to hold it a moment longer, he heard movement, something swift, followed by a meaty thud. Khalaek gasped—

And then Walter yelled. A sound of pain and fury, a sound that consumed the tent, that reverberated in Colin’s ears. He winced, heard Thaedoren swear, the words bitten off, and then felt the Tamaell Presumptive leap forward, jerking out of Colin’s grasp. He brushed the handle of the knife still protruding from Colin’s chest—

And the white-hot pain wrenched at Colin’s hold on time. He couldn’t hold the scream in this time. But even through that pain he felt the world slide back into place, heard Thaedoren barking orders, heard the clash of blades return yet again as Aeren shouted a command to Eraeth, the Protector blinking, looking confused, but reacting to the urgency in Aeren’s voice. He bellowed orders, the escort of Phalanx breaking away from the Legion forces, drawing back. At a look from Aeren, Eraeth grunted, reached down, slid one arm beneath Colin’s armpit, the other beneath his knees, and without warning heaved him up and ran for the back of the tent.

The pain filled him. Eraeth hadn’t had time to be gentle. What had been isolated to Colin’s chest now pummeled his entire body. He gagged as fresh blood filled his mouth again, spat to one side, the yellowed blackness of his vision closing in entirely. He hung on to consciousness long enough to feel the breeze as they exited the tent, long enough to hear the horns being sounded, the drums pounding, calling the dwarren to battle. He hung on long enough to feel Eraeth’s dash away from the tent toward the safety of the Alvritshai army juddering through his body, his free arm flailing, the other trapped between his body and Eraeth’s chest. He hung on long enough to listen to Eraeth’s blistering curses.

And then all sensation faded—all sight and sound, the smell of Eraeth’s sweat, the silky texture of his bloodstained shirt where it pressed against his face.

All of that died, and the darkness closed in.

Eraeth didn’t stop running after leaving the tent. He didn’t pause to throw Colin’s sagging body over the back of a horse, didn’t even halt when Thaedoren shouted, “The Tamaell is dead! Sound the horns! Sound them for battle!” the Tamaell Presumptive— the Tamaell now—swinging up into his saddle. Appalled gasps ran through the Phalanx who had waited outside the tents as the Tamaell’s body was dragged into view, but Eraeth ignored it all, ignored the mournful blare of the horns as the entire group mounted, horses whickering and dancing as they picked up on the escalating tension. He locked his gaze on the line of the Alvritshai army in the distance and ran.

Drums began to pound to his right, ragged at first, then slipping into a steady, inexorable rhythm. He heard the thunder of gaezels charging across the grassland and ground his teeth together. To his left, a battle cry erupted from the waiting Legion, and he risked a glance to the side, saw the King’s entourage galloping toward the human lines, flags already flashing, the men there mobilizing.

And then Thaedoren’s escort charged past him, dirt thrown by their passage pattering against his legs. The Tamaell’s body bounced on the back of an unmanned horse being led by the Phalanx, and Lord Khalaek had been lashed to his own horse, the Tamaell’s men surrounding him. Khalaek rode with an arrogant pride, back rigid, shoulders set, but with a wild look in his eyes.

“Moiran!” Aeren shouted as he passed, motioning toward Colin. “Take him to Moiran!”

Eraeth nodded and slowed, Colin’s weight beginning to wear him down, the adrenaline rush fading, the pounding of his heart lessening. Thaedoren reached the Alvritshai army, and an instant later the White Phalanx roared in outrage, the sound spreading outward in a wave as word of what had happened in the tent spread to the other House Phalanx, a gasp of shock at the Tamaell’s death, followed by a roar of escalating rage. The Tamaell Presumptive was surrounded by the Lords of the Evant. At a sharp, dismissive gesture from Thaedoren the escort surrounding Khalaek jerked the lord’s horse toward the camp, Khalaek rocking in the saddle. The horse carrying Fedorem’s body followed, both heading back toward the camp beyond the ridge.

And then Thaedoren turned to face the field. He took a moment to survey the two other armies, his gaze flickering left and right . . . and then he began issuing orders.

Eraeth entered the edge of the army as the first horns began to blow, each a different tenor, each with a different pattern as the orders were spread. He fought through the ranks as the men of the Phalanx began to move, Colin’s legs catching on one guardsman until Eraeth turned sideways. He stumbled down the back of the ridge as the army broke away into the flat beyond and nearly collapsed, but he caught himself, hitching Colin’s body into a higher position in his arms. His muscles ached, but he staggered forward, passing through the tents, past servants and Phalanx warriors scrambling to prepare, the reserve already assembling near the front of the camp.

And then he was there, at the Tamaea’s tents.

He shoved through the interior tent flap and stood, breath coming in gasps, to find the Tamaea leaning over the Tamaell’s body. Tears streaked her face, although she was not sobbing. Her hands were adjusting the Tamaell’s shirt, tugging it back into place, unmindful of the blood that stained her fingers, but the motions were abstract, fumbling, her hands shaking slightly. The Phalanx who had brought the body stood to either side, backs to the tent walls, shifting uncomfortably.

Moiran finally seemed to realize that her ministrations were useless. Her hands paused, hovering over Fedorem’s body . . . and then they dropped into her lap. Blood from her fingers smudged her dress in brushlike patterns, but Moiran didn’t notice.

“Oh, Fedorem,” she murmured, her voice hoarse, thick with phlegm.

She sensed Eraeth’s presence and glanced to the side.

Eraeth flinched at the stricken look in her eyes. But even as he did so, the blankness faded as Moiran focused on what Eraeth carried. Her eyes narrowed, and her lips pressed into a thin line.

“Lord Aeren told me to bring him to you, Tamaea,” Eraeth said.

Moiran hesitated, her body trembling. Then her stooped shoulders straightened. She glanced down at Fedorem and smiled bitterly, painfully. “There’s nothing I can do for you.” She leaned forward and kissed Fedorem’s forehead. As she straightened, she wiped fresh tears from her face, leaving a smear of Fedorem’s blood behind.

Then she stood, her eyes hardening. “Not here. The next room. We’ll leave my husband to Aielan’s Light in peace.”

Eraeth didn’t argue, even though his arms were straining to hold Colin’s body aloft. He followed Moiran into the next room, where she began moving chairs and blankets and a platter of fruit aside to clear room around a low table. “Set him here.”

As Eraeth laid Colin down on the table, the Tamaea snapped to the two guardsmen who’d followed them, “Get me fresh linen and a bowl of warm water, and fetch one of the healers.”

One of the guards dashed out of the tent, but Moiran didn’t wait for him to return. She knelt down beside Colin, checked his eyes, felt for his pulse. “What happened?”

“He saved Lord Aeren,” Eraeth said, but he hesitated. “Or that’s how it appeared. It was hard to tell. It happened too fast to follow.”

Moiran nodded, her hands moving over Colin’s body, searching for more wounds, for bruising, for broken bones. She frowned as she came across a cut along his upper arm, at another, deeper slash along his side, but in the end, her gaze returned to the handle of the knife protruding from the right side of Colin’s chest.

They both looked up as horns sounded in the distance, followed by the clash of weapons.

Moiran winced but turned back to face Eraeth. “And Fedorem?” Eraeth shifted uncomfortably. “One of the Wraiths.”

“And Khalaek? Why was Khalaek brought back under guard?” Eraeth thought back to the tent, to when Colin had reached out and grabbed both Aeren and Thaedoren, had told them not to move, not to speak . . . and then all three had vanished.

He didn’t know where they’d gone, had barely had time to react before they’d returned, Thaedoren already leaping over Colin’s prone figure, face contorted in rage, heading toward Khalaek, the Lord of the Evant inexplicably stumbling backward, as if he’d been thrust away by someone, although no one was there.

He’d been facing away from the fight with the Legion, when a second before he’d been fighting alongside his own Phalanx.

“I’m not certain,” Eraeth said. “But I think Lord Khalaek helped the Wraith kill the Tamaell.” He looked down at Colin, the human barely breathing. “I think Colin stopped the Wraith from killing the Tamaell Presumptive and showed Thaedoren that Khalaek and the Wraith were allied in some way.”

Moiran’s face lightened at the mention of Thaedoren. “Then Thaedoren is safe?”

When Eraeth nodded, she sighed in relief. But within moments, her eyes darkened again, with hatred. “Khalaek will be dealt with,” she said flatly, and Eraeth found himself stiffening at her tone.

The healer arrived, carrying bandages. “Tamaea, the White Phalanx said—”

He halted, sucking in a deep breath as he caught sight of Colin, of the blood, the knife jutting from his chest. “Aielan’s merciful Light,” he whispered.

Then he shook himself, face turning serious. He shoved Eraeth aside, moving into position on the opposite side of the table from the Tamaea, motioning the guardsman who’d returned with him to bring the bowl of water he carried closer. After a quick survey of Colin’s body, similar to what Moiran had done, he sat back.

“I don’t think he’ll survive. The knife wound . . .” he shook his head. “If he were Alvritshai, it would be a mortal wound. The damage on impact was extensive, but he appears to have been jostled around. The blade has moved, causing more extensive damage to the surrounding areas. He should be dead already.”

Moiran sat back. “He’s still breathing.”

“And he shouldn’t be. I don’t understand it.”

Eraeth edged forward, caught their attention. “He’s not Alvritshai.”

“Even for a human—” the healer began, but Eraeth cut him off.

“He’s not human either.” At the perplexed look on the healer’s face, Eraeth turned toward Moiran. “In the tent, after being struck, he kept repeating, ‘I can’t die, I can’t die.’ He didn’t pass out until after we’d left the tent. He’s been touched by the sarenavriell.”

They sat in silence a long moment, Colin between them, his chest rising and falling, slower than normal, but still moving.

“Take it out,” Moiran said. When the healer began to protest, she insisted, “Take it out! And if you have any of the water of the ruanavriell, use it on him. I don’t care how rare it is, or that he’s human.”

The healer shot her a black look, but he set about arranging his bandages, removing needle and gut and a small vial of the precious pink-tinged water of the ruanavriell. He wet a cloth in the bowl and passed it to Moiran, then ripped Colin’s shirt down the middle, exposing his chest. Moiran began wiping the blood clear, the cloth instantly stained a dark red. The skin beneath was a pasty white, bruised in a few places, and more blood seeped from the wound around the knife, sluggish and thick. She frowned but continued her work as the healer prepared.

The healer, gut threaded and in hand, hesitated, looking at the handle of the knife.

“What’s wrong?” Moiran asked. “Taking the knife out may kill him.”

“I thought you said he should already be dead,” Eraeth muttered.

The healer replied. “Twice over if you dragged him all the way here from the tent.”

Moiran snorted in disgust. But before she could say anything, Eraeth crouched down, grabbed the handle of the knife, and jerked it out of Colin’s body.

Colin spasmed, chest heaving upward, his eyes flying wide as he coughed up more blood while rocking over onto his side. His eyes caught Eraeth’s, held them for a moment. Eraeth couldn’t tell if the human was conscious, if he knew what Eraeth had done.

But the healer did. Cursing, he pushed Eraeth out of the way, rolled Colin onto his back once he stopped coughing, tilting his head to the side so the blood could drain, then turned back to the chest wound.

When he leaned forward, vial ready and needle poised, Moiran glaring as she fought the dark flow of heart’s blood, Eraeth nodded to the two Phalanx and stepped out into the tent’s corridor.

He stood for a long moment, hand clutching the bloody knife in one hand, trying to control the tremors caused by the thought of Colin’s death, the nausea that burned like acid in the back of his throat. He swallowed, steadied himself, then let his hand fall back to his side.

Moving to the front of the tent, he stepped out into the afternoon sunlight and stared up at the cloudless sky. Distantly, he heard the low rumble of fighting and he turned, his ear automatically picking out the direction of the disturbance.

The urge to ride into battle made his hands twitch. He crossed his arms over his chest to control them, forced himself to wait, even though he knew Aeren had ridden into battle with the Rhyssal House Phalanx.

Aeren had ordered him to take care of Colin. Not in so many words, but he knew his lord.