man.
Jayson’s hand dropped to the sheath and he swallowed back sudden nausea. He hadn’t had the sword out since Cobble Kill. He wasn’t certain he wanted to ever draw it again, yet knew that he would.
“You need to learn to use it,” Ara said abruptly and gave him a flat stare. “If you really want to protect us. Protect him.” Her head tilted toward Corim. “I can’t be patching you up every time you nick yourself in battle.”
Jayson felt his face flush.
They reached the crossroads and turned west.
An hour later, through a break in the trees, they caught sight of Patron’s Merge.
Built on an island formed at the junction of Patron’s Kill with the Silt River, its walls soared from the water to a height of thirty feet, two stone bridges connecting the island to the main shores on either side, the middle of each bridge wooden so they could be drawn up for protection. A third bridge joined the island to the land between the two rivers to the west. Two main towers rose from the massive city huddled within those walls, the highest on the southeastern point, the second near the center of the island, part of the stone church to Holy Diermani judging by the tilted cross at the top. The city was at least twenty times the size of Cobble Kill, but from their vantage on a ridge overlooking the lands that sloped down to the river valley, Jayson couldn’t see the houses and shops crammed in between the streets and walls within. The city was too distant. He couldn’t imagine living in such close quarters, with neighbors within spitting distance, or perhaps sharing the same buildings.
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
