As Eraeth eyed the dwarren lines, his brow furrowing, Aeren said, “They’re waiting. To see how the battle plays out.”
“Or to see if this is some type of trick,” Eraeth said. “Like the last time they were on this field. They’re wary it may happen again.”
Aeren nodded. But before he could respond, Dharel said, “Movement in the Legion ranks.”
Both Aeren and his Protector turned toward the north, but Eraeth had the advantage of height, still astride his horse.
“Two groups, a hundred men each,” he reported. “Reserve units. They’re heading toward the Tamaell Presumptive’s position.”
“Dharel, left flank, Auvant, take the right, we’ll support the Tamaell Presumptive.”
“Until he sounds a retreat or we’re all dead,” Eraeth threw in with a feral grin.
Both Dharel and Auvant chuckled, then spun and began shouting orders, the House Rhyssal Phalanx falling into line behind them. Eraeth stood down from the horse and handed the reins to Aeren. After a moment’s hesitation, Aeren swung up into the saddle. Eraeth took position to his left, the horn-bearer to his right. Someone had salvaged the Rhyssal banner-a deep blue field with the red wings of the eagle flaring to both sides-and carried it a few paces behind.
Eraeth tugged at his arm, and he glanced downward. “The Wraith?”
Aeren frowned, thought back to what he’d seen of the Wraith when Colin had pulled Thaedoren and himself back so they could witness Khalaek’s betrayal.
The Wraith had been wounded as badly as Colin, if not worse. He’d been clutching the side of his chest at first, blood pouring out of him, more blood than Aeren thought a human could possess.
And then Khalaek-with the Wraith’s sword leveled at his throat, touching it with enough pressure to draw blood-had punched the wound hard.
Aeren had seen a flare of metal in Khalaek’s hand a moment before it struck, some type of dagger or knife jutting out between the fingers of the clenched fist.
“I don’t think the Wraith will be an issue,” Aeren said. “Not right now.”
When Dharel and Auvant signaled ready, Aeren turned toward the Tamaell Presumptive’s line, less than a hundred paces distant. He could see Thaedoren in the center of the mass of men and Alvritshai, could see the House Resue colors as the line shifted back and forth, undulating like a river. And beyond them, the Legion reserves, thundering forward on horses, coming from both sides.
He raised his cattan, readied it. He felt the exhaustion from the battle already fought, felt the weariness in his arms, in his legs.
Then he signaled the horn- bearer.
As the first clear note sounded, he kicked his horse into motion, eyes forward, locked on Thaedoren, the Tamaell Presumptive who would become the Tamaell once the battle ended… if he survived.
And Aeren intended him to survive.
With that thought he cried out, his men breaking into battle cries to either side.
And then they struck.
Aeren felt the impact through his entire body, juddering up from his horse as it plowed into the Legion’s ranks, the Alvritshai that had held them back opening up before them as they heard the roar of their approach. Aeren brought his cattan down, slashing through the throat of the Legionnaire in front, letting the blade’s momentum carry it to the side before adjusting its motion and punching it down through the chest of another man. He planted his foot on the man’s shoulder as blood fountained from his mouth, the man’s scream drowned out in his own blood, then shoved, his cattan slipping free. He nudged his horse forward, caught Eraeth’s blade flickering with the dying sunlight to the left, saw the horn-bearer, horn now at his side, cattan free, scream as a Legionnaire’s blade took him in the side. Another Alvritshai in Rhyssal colors took the horn-bearer’s place.
And then time slipped, became a blur of parry and feint, his blade flicking across throats, cutting into arms and legs. He brought the hilt down on top of exposed heads, kicked with his feet to dislodge helms and shove his horse forward, heading toward Thaedoren.
He felt the Legion’s reinforcement join the fray more than saw it. A ripple spread through the mass of men, packed so tightly together they could barely move, a surge that shuddered through his legs. He glanced up in time to see resurgent hope spread through the Legion before the entire Alvritshai line was physically shoved backward. His horse screamed as it stumbled, fought for footing on ground already churned to mud, soaked with blood and riddled with the bodies of those that had fallen. He struggled to bring it around, stabbed down into a man’s face, his cattan slicing along the man’s nose before he jerked back with a shriek, his cheek sliced open and hanging, the bone of his jaw exposed And then his horse regained its footing. The Alvritshai line steadied as well, and it continued to hold, on all sides, against the dwarren and the Legion, to the north and the south. Lines shifted, wavering back and forth across the blood-drenched plains, no one force gaining any appreciable ground, no one race making any headway. It continued for hours, the sun sinking into the horizon to the west, over the edge of the Escarpment.
Before it had half vanished, a shudder ran through the entire ranks of the Legion. Glancing up, the position of the sun only now registering, Aeren saw a group of Legionnaires standing two hundred paces back from the line, men with flags racing back and forth on either side of the main group. King Stephan stood at the front of the group, surrounded by two of the Governors of the Provinces, glowering at the Alvritshai position, at where Thaedoren had withdrawn slightly.
The two stared at each other as the Legion began to retreat, breaking away and withdrawing back toward their camp to the north.
The Alvritshai forces pursued them, until Thaedoren motioned to his own horn-bearer, and the call to retreat echoed across to the plains, joined by the long, drawn-out beats of the dwarren drums.
As all sides pulled back, dragging wounded with them, Aeren surveyed the dead they left behind, counted the Legion on the field and those they’d kept back, then turned to Eraeth, his Protector covered in sweat and dirt and blood, some of it his own.
“We cannot win this battle,” he said grimly.
And then he signaled House Rhyssal to retreat.
22
Aeren stood inside the tent, at the head of the gathering of the Evant-only Lord Khalaek was missing-with the Tamaell Presumptive sitting to his right, Lotaern to his left, Eraeth and a few Phalanx from House Rhyssal and Resue behind them. Servants had brought trays of food, platters of cheese and fruit, and jugs of wine, passing them among the lords as they marched in from the field. Others eased their lords out of armor, while healers dabbed at wounds. Lord Waerren had taken a vicious cut to his upper arm and winced as it was stitched closed. Barak ran fingers through hair matted with blood, taking a proffered towel so he could wipe the grit and dust from his face. Each was surrounded by his House Phalanx, nearly everyone being tended, all of them grumbling or grimacing as they were poked and prodded. Moiran moved among them, helping where she could.
The day’s fighting settled over Aeren like a mantle, heavy and encompassing. Exhaustion dragged down on his arms, threatening to pull him to the floor. Weariness lay thick on his shoulders. He ached in places he hadn’t felt in thirty years, since the last time they’d fought on these plains. He wanted merely to retreat to his tents, tend to his wounds, as minor as they were, and sleep.
But the Tamaell Presumptive had called a meeting of the Evant.
As soon as the healers had finished and the servants had retreated, Thaedoren ordered everyone but the Evant out, including his mother, then turned and nodded at Aeren.
Aeren didn’t wait for silence, didn’t even wait until he had the lords’ attention. He simply said again, quietly, “We cannot win this battle.”
The reaction was instantaneous and explosive. The lords spluttered or growled, would have stood had they not been as exhausted as Aeren himself. Their protests escalated, until Lord Peloroun leaned forward and shouted, “Preposturous! How can you say this at this stage? We have only been on the field for a few days!”
