Breath of Heaven, page 38
But then his gaze shifted up to the top of the ramp.
The gates were open. Not completely raised, but far enough to be a breach in their defenses.
“How? How in hells did they gain access to the gates? And where the hells is Daesor?”
He snapped his attention back to his own lines.
“Torrael, Gaeghan! Break away. We need to regroup.”
He pulled back farther from the front lines, cursing beneath his breath the entire way. Torrael and Gaeghan joined him moments later, both of them splashed with blood, their cattans dripping with it, their faces hard. Torrael had a cut along his jaw and Gaeghan was bleeding from a head wound that was lost in his blood-matted hair. Both of their mounts were raked with claw marks, their sides shuddering and twitching as they were brought to a halt.
“We need a new plan,” Saetor said. “The gates are open and our forces are split. Houdyll’s barely holding his position to the west. We’re not doing much better here. And Orraen’s men...” He looked to the ramp. “Khalaek has forced his way halfway up the ramp already. Suggestions?”
“Can we retake the gates?” Gaeghaen asked. “Orraen is withdrawing back to the gate tower.”
Torrael met Saetor’s gaze. “If they gain the gates...”
“The entire city is lost,” Saetor finished. He squinted into the distance. The gusts of wind that reached them even here in the lee of the wall forced him to blink repeatedly, but he thought, beneath the shadow of the tower—
“Are those Daesor’s men?”
Both Torrael and Gaeghan turned to look, Gaeghan raising a hand to shield his face, but it was Torrael that answered.
“Maroon and gold, yes.”
“He would never have opened the gates himself.” He gathered the reins of his mount in one hand, his steed picking up on his sudden anxiety.
He needed to make a decision.
“We’ll trap Khalaek and his Duvoraen between us and Daesor and Orraen at the gates. On my signal, we’ll fall back from these damned snakes and force our way to the ramp. Have Yaeran command the flank. She’ll have to hold against the snake people on her own, but her force has seen the least amount of action so far.”
Gaeghan jerked his mount around as he began calling out orders, plowing through the sea of men pushing to get to the front lines around them.
Torrael raised one eyebrow. “Will it work?”
“It has to, or Caercaern will fall. Pray that Daesor can hold the gates. And that Houdyll realizes what we intend.” He held out little hope the lord of House Redlien would react in time to be helpful; Houdyll wasn’t a tactician. Saetor raked the field with one last peremptory glare, then motioned to Torrael. “Give me your horn.”
His Protector handed it over without comment. Saetor held it in one hand, shivered at a sudden blast of frigid air from above. He looked up, watched the storm roil, barely visible in the darkness, even though night could not yet have fallen. He blinked as lightning flared, thunder cracking harshly.
A moment later, the first few flakes of snow began to fall.
He traded a glance with Torrael. His bones told him the storm had only just begun.
A hand signal caught his attention and he straightened in the saddle. “Gaeghan’s ready.”
Without preamble, he brought the mouth of the horn to his lips, the metal there burning with cold as he drew in a deep breath and blew, the horncry clear and defiant.
He let the note hold, then cut it off, a roar going up from Uslaen House as the entire army began to shift, caitans barking orders on all sides. As if in response, the snowfall escalated, hundreds of fat flakes skirling in the winds, biting into Saetor’s skin as he shielded his face to see better. To his right, his forces fell back, Yaeran’s group rushing forward to protect the flank while others retreated back toward Gaeghan’s position. The caitan spun where he stood, sword pointing, shouting orders that Saetor couldn’t hear.
Then, Gaeghan thrust his sword toward the base of the ramp and the entire left flank and center heaved toward their goal.
“Should we join them?” Torrael asked.
“Not yet. I want to see how Khalaek and his forces react.”
On the ramp, those in Khalaek’s forces at the rear, and those few snake people who’d followed in their wake, hesitated, then spun as Gaeghan’s men plowed through the resistance and hit the end of the ramp, surging far enough up its length that those above them were trapped between Gaeghan and the gates. Saetor saw flags flashing, signals passing up to the front, where Khalaek battled against Orraen and Daesor. He couldn’t pick out the traitorous lord, but he knew he was there.
“Now what, Wraith,” Saetor murmured under his breath. “You may have more men than us, but do they follow you out of respect or fear?”
If Torrael heard him, he said nothing.
Below, on the churned earth of the battlefield, the snake people’s line broke at the unexpected move. A few of their sharp hisses filtered through the wind. Some looked to the sky, at the falling snow, cringing as if in fear.
But their hesitation didn’t last. Those Saetor had picked out earlier as the snake people’s commanders flared the folds of skin at their necks and within moments the ranks were reforming.
“They’re more disciplined than I would have imagined,” Torrael muttered.
“Agreed.” Shifting his gaze beyond them, he swore. “Houdyll’s forces have pulled back.” Even as he said it, he realized why. The Redlien Phalanx had been decimated. He could see Houdyll desperately trying to regroup. But he didn’t have enough men left to protect himself, let alone help Saetor.
Before Saetor could determine what Houdyll intended, a thick swirl of snow blocked his view.
But the snakes were still in sight. With a fluidness that Saetor wished his own men could mimic, they altered formation.
“What are they doing?” Torrael asked.
“I think...” Saetor began—
And then he knew.
“Call Yaeran back now! Have her retreat to the base of the ramp!”
Torrael heeled around and charged toward Yaeran’s position, shouting and flailing his arms to catch her attention. Saetor watched in horrified fascination as the snakes’ formation surged forward, the front half slamming into Yaeran’s forces while those in back turned and sprinted to the left, slipping down and around the end of those attacking and coming at Saetor’s group from the flank. They moved faster than Saetor expected, faster than they’d moved when attacking on the field earlier. Within moments, they’d surrounded Saetor’s entire force, their own lines thinned, but holding.
Saetor flicked the reins and headed toward Torrael, his Protector seizing control of the eastern forces since Yaeran was dealing with those attacking her own men. “Hold the line!” he shouted, plowing toward where the snakes were cutting down his own men. “Hold it or we all die!”
He reached the edge of the fray and brought his cattan down in a smooth, controlled arc that cut into one of the snake people’s heads, lodging in the creature’s skull. He twisted the blade, bringing his mount sideways to the juddering body, then pulled his foot from the stirrup, planted it against the creature’s snout, and shoved hard. His cattan came free with a sickening scrape of metal against bone, but he was already swinging at his next target. Sheets of snow blinded him at odd moments as he fought, yet sweat began trickling down into his eyes. His body felt hot, prickling with anger, with desperation, with the certain knowledge that he would die here, that Khalaek and his army had won, that Caercaern would fall. Every decision he had made since he’d taken control of Khalaek’s fallen House rolled through his head, especially those in the Evant. He should have supported Lord Aeren fully, not hesitated, not waited to see how the other lords would react. He should have challenged the Chosen earlier himself; he’d known Lotaern was only seeking to gain power. He should have trusted Tamaell Thaedoren.
Every regret, every recrimination drove him harder. He slashed and cut, meeting the enraged, hissing faces of the snake people with blunt defiance and the deadly edge of his cattan. One of them reared back, hood flaring, poised to strike, but he thrust his sword into its mouth as it opened, its own lunge punching the blade through the back of its head. Its fangs nearly made it to his hand. He jerked the blade free, some of its venom splattering along his arm, burning with an intense pain, but he ignored it, parrying one of their strange blades before severing its arm from its body with one blow. His body sank into the flow of the fight, something he’d trained for since he’d first made his vows to become part of the Duvoraen Phalanx. Exhaustion leached into his muscles, but he bulled through it. He lost track of his forces, lost track of Torrael, of the battle on the ramp and at the gates. Only the fight before him mattered; only the men dying at his side. They were all dying. They were all going to die. But Saetor intended to take as many of the Wraith’s Aielan-forsaken army with him as he could.
He would have kept on fighting until one of the snake people scored a lucky blow, or one of their fangs sank into his flesh and poisoned his blood, but in the middle of drawing his blade from one of their scaly hides someone’s hand clamped down onto his shoulder and hauled him back, nearly unseating him from his horse.
He spun in his saddle, cattan raised to strike, but met Torrael’s gaze, his Protector’s expression penetrating the fog of battle that enveloped him.
“What is it?” he shouted.
“Look.”
Torrael pointed with his sword, not toward the walls of Caercaern, or the gates, as Saetor expected, but toward the forest to the south.
Saetor twisted, glaring through the sheets of snow, noting how much of it had already collected on the ground, although here at the wall it had merely churned the earth into mud. But beyond the fighting, through the darkness caused by the storm, he could see movement.
His shoulders sagged. “Reinforcements. Khalaek had reinforcements.”
“No. It’s Tamaell Thaedoren. They’re carrying House Resue’s banner.”
“How is that possible?”
Torrael laughed, the sound brittle and cracked. “I don’t know, but it’s the Tamaell.”
The Tamaell’s forces emerged from the obscuring snow in a wave, hitting the snake people from behind. He saw Resue’s colors, along with Rhyssal’s, Nuant’s, and Baene’s.
“Aielan’s Light.” His voice choked, and tears pricked the corners of his eyes. His shoulders shook, tremors coursing down his arms—exhaustion and emotion both.
But he couldn’t succumb yet, no matter how weary he felt. He didn’t know how many men the Tamaell had brought with him, didn’t know if it would be enough.
Straightening, he shot a look toward the gates, realized Khalaek-khai had penetrated the city while he fought, then turned to Torrael. “Gather a few Phalanx as escort. I need to speak to the Tamaell immediately.”
Torrael nodded, gesturing to a few of those near them. Within moments, his Protector had formed an escort of seven men and Saetor had picked out Tamaell Thaedoren through the snow. The Tamaell appeared to be angling toward him, cutting a swath of death through the intervening snakes. Saetor had intended to use his escort to fight his way to Thaedoren’s side, but he decided to wait for Thaedoren to come to him. Thaedoren’s men had yet to burn themselves out.
He took the time to look over his own forces. He’d lost over half of his Phalanx. But they still held the base of the ramp. He couldn’t tell what was happening at the gates or Caercaern; the city and tower were hidden by the snow. There was no sign of Houdyll’s men.
Twenty minutes later, Thaedoren broke through the snakes’ line and headed toward his position.
The Tamaell halted a few paces away, his entourage flanking him to either side. Their horses’ haunches were covered with mud, the mounts shuddering with exhaustion. Saetor took in the strained lines around the Tamaell’s eyes, the sagging shoulders, and all of the other signs of weariness that lay over him like a shroud.
They may have come fresh to the battle, but they had ridden hard to get to Caercaern.
Saetor bowed his head in abject deference. “Tamaell Thaedoren. It is good to see you.”
“Tamaell? You call me such after siding with Lotaern and Peloroun these past months?”
Saetor didn’t raise his eyes. “I did what was necessary to survive. I could do nothing trapped within Caercaern. But I did not side with them in the Evant after they seized the palace. I did not vote for Peloroun and his House to ascend after the coup.”
“So Daesor’s son claims.”
“Caeden is here?”
“The Lord Presumptive is here, yes. Along with Lord Fedaureon and Lord Renaerd.”
Saetor took in their titles. “So Lord Aeren is indeed dead.”
“Yes. I sent him to Aielan’s Light myself.” Thaedoren said it baldly, but Saetor sensed the sea of emotion beneath the words. Yet the Tamaell turned to the battle still roiling around them, half hidden by the snow. “Now explain what has happened here.”
Saetor straightened at the command in the Tamaell’s voice. “Lotaern and Peloroun intended to lure the Wraiths and their army here by pretending to work with them, offering them the fall of Caercaern in return for the taint of the sarenavriell. They planned to destroy them before the gates. But something went wrong. The Order of the Flame failed. They were supposed to prevent the Wraiths, sukrael, and any of the other tainted creatures of the Wraiths’ army from reaching the ramp with Aielan’s Light, and for a while it worked. But then the white flames died. The gates of Caercaern were opened from the inside. Khalaek-khai and the Duvoraen House stormed the ramp—”
“Wait.” Thaedoren held up a gauntleted hand, protective mail glinting in the sparse light. “Khalaek-khai? The Duvoraen House?”
Saetor swallowed. “Khalaek is a Wraith.”
“How? We left him for dead on the fields at the Escarpment. He’d been disemboweled!”
“I don’t know how. I didn’t know he was still alive until today. But Peloroun and Lotaern must have known. That’s why they insisted they be the only ones to approach the Wraith army to the south.”
“Why send a group south at all?”
“Ostensibly, to meet with the Wraiths—with Khalaek-khai—and hand Caercaern to them. But Lotaern had other plans. He intended to capture the Wraith sent to meet them. He claimed he could kill them. He had a knife forged by Shaeveran. He did capture one of them. Not Khalaek-khai, although I’m certain that’s who he’d hoped to snare. And he appeared to kill the Wraith he captured on the walls above.”
“He didn’t. The knife forged by Shaeveran doesn’t work. Members of his Order of the Flame stole it from Shaeveran in the northlands. If he had consulted with Lord Aeren, he would have known that.”
Saetor wondered what else had transpired in the northlands. He hadn’t known anyone had been traveling in the Alvrirshai’s wintery homeland recently, least of all Shaeveran and Lord Aeren.
He would have asked for more details, but lightning flared, thunder followed, and Thaedoren’s eyes rose toward the walls of Caercaern above them, a gray shadow through the falling snow. The orange glow of fire lit the roiling storm from below, pulsing with a slow, steady beat.
“We can talk more later,” Thaedoren said. “For now, ready your men for retreat.”
“Retreat!”
Thaedoren had already begun to turn his horse aside, but he halted, eyebrows raised. “Khalaek-khai has already breached the gate. Even with the forces I brought with me, we cannot retake Caercaern. It already burns.”
Saetor’s gaze shot toward the pulsating orange of the clouds.
“We’d be slaughtered in the streets if we tried to take the city, along with everyone else in Caercaern. And for what?”
“What about Daesor? Orraen? They manned the tower and the wall.”
Thaedoren didn’t answer, motioning to his escort, who broke away, a horn sounding. He didn’t need to answer; Saetor already knew.
The atmosphere beneath the walls shifted. Saetor felt it, the energy of the fight pulling back as men began shouting, withdrawing slowly, the remaining snakes hissing in triumph as they attacked the army’s back.
Torrael edged his mount forward. “Your orders?”
Saetor stiffened in a momentary burst of defiance, then sighed. “Follow the Tamaell. Pull back from the ramp. Let Khalaek-khai have Caercaern.”
As soon as they lost the gates—as soon as they lost the Flame and the protection of Aielan’s Light—they’d lost the city.
Torrael spun and shouted orders, his voice fading as Saetor stared up at the wall, at the bloody orange light that had grown in size. He blinked as a snowflake caught in his eyelashes.
Then Torrael gripped his upper arm. He focused on his Protector’s grim face. The armies were departing, he realized. The snake were shifting their attentions to the city beyond. They charged up the ramp as Saetor’s men pulled back.
“It’s not the first battlefield we’ve walked away from in defeat,” Torrael said.
“It won’t be the last, either.”
They joined the rest of the Uslaen Phalanx as they crossed the battlefield, flowing around the pits dug weeks earlier, past the cleared land, to the edge of the forest beyond.
There, before merging into the trees, Saetor paused and looked back. Snowfall obscured most of Caercaern from sight, but the storm was a glaring, fiery red-orange. From what he could tell, the majority of the city was ablaze, at least the lowest tier and a good portion of the second. The Tamaell’s tower was wreathed in smoke and snow, a vague outline against the mountains behind. The Winter Tree was a blackened spire silhouetted against the flames.
