“Send whatever civilians are still here back to the city,” Great Lord Kobel ordered as soon as he and the rest of the lords and commanders stepped from the tent. Gregson came behind, ducking under the opening as the sounds of the battle slammed into him, Terson following. “We’ll hold the line as long as we can to give them a chance to reach Temeritt safely.”
“What about our own forces? I don’t think the Horde is going to let us retreat peacefully.”
Kobel didn’t turn to face Lord Akers. “We’ll send as many of the Legion back as we can while the rest hold the Horde.”
Akers looked skeptical.
“It’s the best we can do,” Kobel said, then reached for a helm held by a waiting recruit.
A short distance away, a covey of horses waited for the GreatLord and his entourage. The rest of the commanders and lords began preparing for battle, tugging on armor, mailed gloves, helmets. Gregson and Terson were forgotten, until Lord Akers noticed them waiting.
He sidled his horse close and leaned down. “Find your men and head for Temeritt!”
Gregson saluted, clenched fist across his chest, then began searching the confusion at the back of the army. “We need to find our group,” he said to Terson, his second motioning toward the western edge. As they cut through the Legion’s rear forces, horns blared all along the line, signaling the retreat. Everyone hesitated, and then chaos erupted, Gregson and Terson forced to dodge men as they began breaking away from the front line.
Gregson caught sight of Curtis and the rest of the Legion who had made it off the Northward Ridge with them, all surrounding the thirty civilians, including the miller Jayson, Corim, and Ara. They were huddled together, staring at the army as it heaved around them.
Additional horns sounded, more desperate than before. Gregson jogged up to Curtis and the others. “They’re calling a retreat. We need to get everyone moving toward Temeritt. We don’t have much time.”
Another horn, this one faltering mid-blast, then cutting short.
“That wasn’t a call for retreat,” Terson said grimly.
“Part of the line’s collapsing.” Gregson spun on his own Legion, on the civilians that were rising far too slowly at the soldiers’ urging. Suddenly, his patience snapped; he wasn’t going to lose control as he had on the ridge. “Terson, get those damn civilians moving now! The rest of you, everyone with weapons, form up! Protect the retreat!”
Gregson shoved them into position, the men moving too slowly. He could feel the tension of the battle at his back, could feel it escalating as the Horde picked up on the Legion’s intent. Terson bellowed orders and with Ara’s help the few civilians remaining began staggering toward the south, additional groups of Legion breaking away from the lines and streaming toward the direction of Temeritt on every side. Supply wagons were being turned, horses fidgeting and protesting the sudden frantic activity. Curtis shouted, “Gregson,” and the lieutenant turned to see his twenty-odd Legionnaires trotting after the civilian group. He broke away from the rear of the front lines, shouting, “Keep moving!” as he motioned with one hand.
They had made the crest of the first hill, had passed beneath the limbs of the first copse of trees, half a day’s ride from Temeritt, when panicked horn cries shattered the evening light.
Gregson spun, gaze sweeping across the battlefield behind, the thin line of Legion left to hold the Horde back faltering.
“It’s collapsing,” Gregson whispered.
He watched in horror as the minimal defense buckled in three places, the line between wavering, men roaring, horns crying, horses screaming, the air humming with rage, with defiance, with desperation-
And then the line gave.
Like a dam breaking, the Horde rolled up and over the Legion, spilling from the broken line in a black flood. Across the breadth of the battlefield, the beginnings of the orderly retreat collapsed. The Horde fell on the stragglers and the slower wagons and carts of supplies. Gregson’s stomach clenched as the screams rose. The eastern flank of the Legion held, but gave ground. The western flank was shoved up against the Northward Ridge and quickly surrounded. Gregson’s hand fell to his sword even as he took a step in their direction, but he ground to a halt, forcing himself to turn away from the sickening sight as the trapped Legionnaires were cut down. Swallowing against the bile in the back of his throat, the skin at the corners of his eyes tight, he found his own small group watching him intently.
“We can’t help them,” he said, voice rough, like gravel. “We’d only die trying. We have to get as many people as we can to Temeritt while the Horde’s distracted.”
He hated himself for saying it, saw a few of the men staring starkly toward the ridge, hands tensed on sword hilts. He didn’t wait for them to protest, stepping forward, hardening his voice, his expression. “Go! Move, move, move!” He grabbed Leont’s shoulder and pushed him toward the south, heard Terson growl, “You heard the lieutenant!” Jayson did the same with the remaining refugees, he and Ara urging the rest onward, deeper into the trees.
Convinced they were moving again, Gregson glanced back to see the Horde scattering on the battlefield behind, the center line of resistance completely gone. A significant portion had turned to focus on the two remaining flanks, but the rest were charging up the hillside after those fleeing toward Temeritt, no order or organization to their attack. The retreat had become a rout.
He couldn’t see GreatLord Kobel’s banner anywhere.
Fighting back a wave of despair, he turned and ran after his own men.
They fled, ducking through trees and sprinting across fields. The evening light began to fade and from the falling darkness they could hear ragged screams and the sounds of men and creatures crashing through the forest to either side. At one point, three riderless horses charged past, their saddles streaked with blood, the animals’ eyes wide with terror. When Terson and a few of the men tried to cut them off, to capture them, they veered away and vanished into the harsh silver moonlight. Moments later, they burst into a clearing where a small group of six Legionnaires were being harried by a pack of the catlike creatures. Drawing his sword, Gregson fell on the creatures with a vengeance, all of the fear and desperation he had experienced over the last few weeks coming to the fore. Sweat stung in his eyes as he lunged, growling without words, his sword sinking into flesh. His own Legion joined him, rallying to his side and killing the last of the hissing monstrosities in moments. Gregson staggered back from the slaughter, ran a hand across his forehead, felt stinging dark blood against his face, but Terson was already herding the group onward. Curtis threw one of the rescued Legionnaire’s arms over his shoulder, the man covered with slashes across his face, arms, and legs. The other Legionnaires were in better condition. One of them was one of the Legion’s horn bearers.
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.
Quotl bit back a curse as he scanned the battlefield.
The plan had been simple. Confront the Wraith army on the flat beyond, engage them and hold them as long as reasonably possible. But there had been no intention of holding them there for long. It was indefensible and beyond the reach of the archers. But it would enrage the Wraith army, especially when they withdrew to the ditches, and give the Cochen and the two clans who rode with him time to get into position unnoticed.
The trenches wouldn’t hold either, but the intent had been to try to channel the Wraith army toward the north, to where the ditches ended and there was nothing but flat, open land between them and the northern face of the Break. The ground to the south was open as well, but only wide enough to give the Thousand Springs Clan a narrow path for retreat. It wasn’t wide enough to allow the attackers easy access to the landslide and the plain above. And Shadow Moon stood on the cliffs, ready with arrows to further discourage them.
Quotl’s heart had hammered in his chest as the Wraith army hit the ditches and split, part of the force heading toward the south, part to the north. A small group hit the dwarren in the ditches, but the Riders there defended their turf fiercely, driving the Alvritshai on horseback and the lizardlike orannian back. Only the lithe feline gruen were effective in the trenches, swarming over the dwarren at its far side.
But it was the orannian and a few Alvritshai attacking the southern forces that sent a spike of fear into Quotl. If the southern defenses fell, the entire plan would fall apart.
His breath quickened, and with it came the surge of power that had engulfed him before. It seethed through his arms, his chest; through it, he felt the earth beneath him shuddering with the tread of both armies, heard the cries and screams of the dying with a brittle clarity. He focused on the south, saw the line of Thousand Springs there falter, begin to break-
And then Shadow Moon hit the orannian with a hail of arrows so thick the air appeared black. Hundreds of the lizard-skinned men fell beneath the onslaught. More arrows launched from behind the lines arced over into the enemy, and Quotl breathed a sigh of relief as the Wraith force scrambled to recover. A piercing shriek from overhead forced him to duck as one of the dreun dove, extended talons raking through the dwarren and gaezels, the fleet animals panicking as the creature’s shadow blanketed them. Shadow Moon shifted their arrow attack toward the fliers, the dreun crying out and banking left. Quotl squinted into the late afternoon sunlight to see most of the dreun circling out of range of the archers, then dropped his gaze back to the battlefield to find the dwarren of Thousand Springs rallying and pushing the orannian and Alvritshai back.
A moment later, the entire southern force spun and raced away, back onto the plains.
Thousand Springs roared in triumph and turned their attention to defending the ditches.
Quotl didn’t allow himself to feel any triumph. The battle was far from over.
Reaching through his connection to the earth, testing its potential, its power, he listened. The ground trembled beneath the hooves and feet of the attacking armies, but faintly he could feel a new tremor, coming from the south.
He listened a moment longer, to make certain, then said to the drummer, “Have the northern forces fall back now. Lure the Wraith army in.”
“But the Cochen isn’t here yet.”
Quotl spun on the drummer. Whatever the drummer saw made him flinch back, the orders already being relayed.
To the north, Painted Sands began to give ground, Clan Chief Corranu making it appear as if they did so grudgingly, drawing the combined orannian, Alvritshai, terren, and gruen forces with them. Those that had struck Thousand Springs to the south had joined them. As Quotl watched, he noticed a second group of figures near the back of the army, watching and directing. One of the figures was on horseback, dressed in the black and gold of the Alvritshai warriors.
The other was on a gaezel.
“Elloktu,” he spat under his breath, anger boiling up within to replace his shock. The betrayal of the Lands was more bitter and vitriolic than with the other Wraiths, for the shorter figure on the gaezel was obviously one of the dwarren.
He had not thought one of the dwarren could so betray his people. Or his gods. He searched the Wraith’s forces, but did not see any dwarren within their ranks. But even the betrayal of one enraged him.
Painted Sands had withdrawn behind the solitary plinth of stone that reached for the sky a hundred lengths from the Break. Quotl glanced toward the summit of the cliffs, to where he could see the archers of Claw Lake waiting. But none of them had fired on the Wraith army yet, except volleys shot into the air to keep the dreun at bay.
“Wait,” he murmured, reaching out again to feel for the vibrations in the earth, searching for the Cochen. “Wait.”
Painted Sands continued to draw back, the Wraith army surging forward into the opening.
The Cochen had almost arrived.
Drawing a steadying breath, Quotl said quietly, “Now.”
The drummer didn’t hesitate, began pounding out a different pattern that was carried along the back of the army up to the cliffs. Above, the archers-all two thousand of them-adjusted their aim from the dreun in the skies to the Wraith army that crammed the base of the cliffs below.
Quotl felt the release on the air, two thousand bowstrings humming at once, setting a vibration in his chest that was intensified by the power coursing through him. He gasped, even as the Wraith army recoiled under the onslaught. A second volley fell, Claw Lake firing as quickly as possible. The Wraith army began to pull back from the cliffs-
And then the Cochen arrived.
He led the combined forces of Red Sea and Broken Waters, the two clans charging across the plains from the south, a plume of red dust rising behind them. Quotl watched in silence as he and the Archon blazed past, circling the ditches, the members of Thousand Springs who guarded the southern entrance to the slide joining them.
They struck the Wraith army’s flank, hemming the massive force between the cliffs, the deadly hail of arrows from above, and their own forces, Painted Sands suddenly breaking off their fake retreat and falling on them from the other side.
The Wraith army was hemmed in on three sides. The enemy forces seethed in desperation, the center falling under the arrows, unable to escape or fight back, the edges of the army hitting Painted Sands and the Cochen’s clans hard. In the frenzy, Quotl saw many of the lizard-skinned orannian flare open hoods, swordplay giving way to lightning quick strikes with their fangs. Dwarren reared back at the unexpected attacks, some of the defense breaking in horror.
“Did you know they could do that?” the drummer asked softly, voice shaking.
“No, I did not.”
Movement caught his attention and Quotl turned to find the two Wraiths-Alvritshai and dwarren-edging forward. The Alvritshai raised one hand to the sky and made a fist with it.
Quotl’s eyes narrowed, and then he looked up.
Without warning, the dreun who’d been hovering out of the archers’ reach plummeted from the skies, straight for Claw Lake.
Quotl cried out, took an involuntary and useless step forward.
A few of the archers saw the dreun coming, shots firing into the sky, but none of them struck. The dreun came at them from the upper plains, sweeping down and hitting the archers from behind, knocking them from the cliffs. Quotl cringed at the screams as bodies fell onto the battle below, the dreun flapping their massive wings once they passed the cliff face and pulling back up into the skies for another pass, some with dwarren clutched in their talons. Claw Lake scrambled to reassemble. The dreun swept by again, more dwarren plunging to their deaths, but this time a group managed to hit one of the leather-skinned fliers as it passed. It shrieked as it hit the edge of the cliff, stone breaking off in chunks as it scrambled for purchase, arrows sticking out from it like spikes. But it couldn’t hold, one wing torn and crumpled to its side. Its scream as it fell cut into Quotl like a knife.
On the rocky field below, the Wraith army had regained its footing, no longer decimated from above. It dug in and began to push outward.
“It’s not going to hold,” the drummer muttered.
Quotl’s jaw clenched. He wanted to backhand the Rider, but didn’t. He’d seen the signs himself, had known it wouldn’t hold.
But there was one last defense.
He turned to the drummer. “Have those in the ditches pull back to the base of the landslide.”
He didn’t wait for the order to be passed on. Turning, he swung himself up onto his gaezel and kicked it into motion, heading toward the slide at their backs. The power of the Lands thundered through him as he raced across the open area between the ditches and the ramp, then through the tents of the dwarren camp, the northern edge of the cliffs towering above him. He passed into their shadow for a moment, emerging into the lowering sun again as he began edging up the slide. Its slope was gradual enough that his gaezel only slowed to half pace, snorting with effort. Dreun shadows passed over him but he didn’t glance up. More screams came from the cliffs to his right, steadier, fainter screams echoing it from the carnage below. It felt like an eternity before he reached the top and pulled his mount around so he could survey the battle.
The dwarren had been driven to the base of the slide, the ditches abandoned, the Cochen’s forces now combined with Painted Sands and Thousand Springs into one massive throng of dwarren, the clans no longer separate. Those at the back were climbing toward the upper plains. Dwarren on foot and gaezels began swarming around him, both Claw Lake and Shadow Moon hitting the Wraith forces hard with arrows as they dodged the continued attacks from the dreun. Two more of the leather-winged creatures had fallen, leaving eight wheeling in the skies above. The dwarren clans were being driven up the slide, the cliffs to either side acting as a funnel.
The only clan not present was Silver Grass.
As the last of the dwarren fled the flatland at the slide’s base, Quotl muttered to himself, “Now.”
Nothing happened. He sucked in a breath, held it, his own blood pounding in his head, heightened by the power that filled him. The Wraith army began edging up the slope, orannian and Alvritshai at the forefront, the stone-skinned terren bellowing behind them. Quotl exhaled harshly. “Ilacqua curse you, do it now, Attanna! What are you waiting for?”
Half of the Wraith army was now on the slide, the rest on the flat beyond.
And then Quotl felt the earth shudder on the plains below. He closed his eyes and muttered a small prayer, body tense.
When he opened them, the earth shuddered once again-
And then a section of the plains below collapsed, the earth cracking in massive fissures as the clan of Silver Grass broke the supports of the warren that lay underneath and the system of tunnels there caved in. The fissures crazed the rocky plains, snaking outward from the central chamber that lay a hundred lengths beyond the end of the slide like the frozen surface of a pond in winter giving way beneath someone’s weight. The Wraith army that stood above that hidden chamber and the tunnels beneath were thrown to the ground, and then, with a suddenness that startled even Quotl, the earth gave way beneath them, collapsing inward with a grinding, hideous groan.
At least a thousand of the orannian, Alvritshai, and terren perished as a plume of dust rose. The dwarren who had volunteered to break the supports died beneath them.
But it wasn’t enough. Too many of the enemy had made the landslide. Too many had survived the collapse of the sinkhole.
Quotl sank back into his saddle, a numbing despair washing over him. It had been their final defense of the Break.
Drums sounded, and dwarren began to withdraw from the Break’s edge, racing back across the plains toward the entrance to the warren they’d emerged from a week before. Claw Lake and Shadow Moon were pulling back from the cliffs. The Wraith army now filled nearly the entirety of the landslide, the Cochen holding the mouth at the heights.
Azuka suddenly appeared from the chaos of fleeing dwarren, riding hard to Quotl’s side. His eyes were panicked, but his voice was stern. “Quolt, don’t you hear the drums? We need to reach the warren. Quotl!” He reached out, grabbed Quotl’s arm, and tugged him toward the open plains behind.
Quotl jerked his arm out of his grasp.
Another voice cut through the chaos, cut through the numbness that enveloped Quotl. He turned to find Tarramic drawing his gaezel up short. “We’ve called the retreat, but too many of the Alvritshai have already reached the heights. You need to do something, Quotl. If we don’t slow them down, we’ll never reach the warren entrance in time to collapse it.”
Quotl barked laughter, the sound raw. “What do you expect me to do, Clan Chief?”
Tarramic frowned at his tone, then said brusquely, “Do whatever it was you did before. Call upon the gods.”
Quotl recoiled, as if Tarramic had slapped him. At the same time, the power within him surged.
Before Quotl could respond, Tarramic spun his mount and charged onto the plains.
Quotl glared out toward the slide, toward the fighting, now so close he could see individual dwarren dying beneath orannian and Alvritshai blades.
“Call upon the gods,” he muttered to himself, shaking his head. “That’s the Archon’s job.”
“You did it once before.”
He straightened in his saddle. He’d forgotten that Azuka was there.
He didn’t know what he’d done before, but sighing, he reached out through the power flowing through him, sank into the ground at the height of the Break, felt the stone beneath him, the layer upon layer of sediment and rock. He traveled through it, searching. Desperation had driven him before. He’d acted on instinct, reaching out and twisting without thought, and stone had shattered. Could he do that again?
Through stone, through the Lands, he felt… a flaw.
He sucked in a breath, centered on the flaw, on the weakness. It lurked in the rock of the northern cliff face, deep in the earth. As he explored it, he realized that it was the remnants of the flaw that had caused the Break to give way hundreds of years before, creating the landslide where the dwarren and Wraith armies now fought. The earth had shifted and settled since, but part of the flaw still remained.
All it needed was a push.
Drawing a deep breath, exhaling slowly, Quotl closed his eyes.
Then he reached out and shoved.
Stone cracked, the sound louder than anything Quotl had ever heard before, shuddering in his chest and making him gasp, eyes snapping open. Gaezels and horses alike stumbled in a panic, veering away from the sound. Those fighting on the slope paused, stunned.
Then the northern cliff face above the slide gave way, slipping and falling as a single, solid wall of stone. It avalanched into the Wraith army, burying it as the base of the stone face struck and it began tilting outwards. Everything in its path-orannian, Alvritshai, terren, gruen, and a host of luckless dwarren-turned and ran. The wall of stone slammed into the landslide, vibrations setting off another avalanche down the slope, taking a significant chunk of the Wraith army with it and blocking the mouth of the slide with rubble. Beyond, the earth’s trembling unsettled the plinth of stone enough that it began to topple, dust and debris rising in a choking cloud to obscure its last moments from sight. Dwarren swarmed from the mouth of the slide, gaezels out of control.
When the stone settled, Quotl turned to Azuka. The shaman looked shocked, his eyes awed, but tainted with fear. Any chance Quotl had of allowing the Archon to take responsibility faded. He could see it in Azuka’s eyes. “The warren,” Quotl said.
He pulled his gaezel about and streaked toward the distant warren entrance. The dwarren on all sides abandoned the Break, all of the clans heading west. As the sun sank into the horizon, Quotl caught sight of the Cochen and the Archon, the two surrounded by the mixed clans, and relief coursed through him. The Archon could order the warren’s mouth collapsed as soon as they arrived, Silver Grass already headed toward the two smaller entrances north and south with orders to seal them before rejoining the gathered clans underground. The Wraith army could not be allowed to reach the Sacred Waters and the Summer Tree. The dwarren had done what they could at the Break.
Now it was up to the Shadowed One.