The Complete Duology

by M H Woodscourt

  “You’ve stolen my brother. Return him to me.”

  Traycen smiled. The gesture was empty. “As I said, the Crow King sends his condolences.”

  Gwyn choked against a scream. Tightening his grip, he charged, swinging his blade. Traycen drew his sword in time to deflect the strike. Gwyn stumbled back, threw his leg forward and lunged again. Hitting, striking, hacking. He threw himself into every assault, letting instinct guide his sword, too blinded by tears and burning fury to see well. Traycen fell back, and Gwyn kept at him, hitting, swinging, thrusting.

  His muscles ached. His vision cleared. The mage struggled to fend him off, brows furrowed. The mage’s grip weakened against Gwyn’s relentless onslaught.

  He would kill this man. Traycen should be dead already. Lawen had killed him, not the other way around.

  Anger gnawed at Gwyn’s insides, and he screamed again, a long, pain-filled cry. His next blow knocked Traycen’s sword from his hand, and the mage stumbled backward, losing his footing.

  Gwyn lifted his sword and swung it hard, sheering through the man’s neck, severing his head.

  Hot blood spattered against Gwyn’s face.

  The head toppled and rolled.

  Gwyn slumped against his broadsword, panting, sweating, weeping.

  He stood within the courtyard of Keep Talbethé, surrounded by the dead. Utterly alone. He could hear the snow landing like soft kisses against the faces of the dead. The wind had ceased. All held still beneath the storming sky, save for his grieving heart. Save for his wrath.

  “Gwynter.”

  He gasped and staggered around to find Nathaera standing close by, Kive at her side. The woman’s eyes were wide, lips trembling.

  “Nathaera,” he whispered, and sank to his knees, head bowed. “He killed Lawen. He…”

  Footsteps echoed across the vast courtyard, and Nathaera knelt before Gwyn, caught his face in her hands, and lifted his head until he met her gaze.

  “I saw everything, Gwynter. I saw. I understand.” Tears slipped from her eyes. “I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry, Gwyn.”

  “I saved him,” Gwyn whispered, barely hearing his own voice. “I saved him, Nathaera. He wasn’t supposed to die.”

  “He lived, Gwyn. You saved him from dying in a horrible, horrible way. He lived and fought with you a while longer. It’s what he wanted most. He loved you, Gwyn. He still does. Now weep, my love.” She drew a handkerchief from a hidden pocket of her ragged dress and dabbed his cheek where Traycen’s blood had landed. “Weep for your brother. Weep for the anger and the pain and the loss. Let it out and hold nothing back. I’m here, I’ll stay with you, it’s just us. Shut out the rest of the world, and cry, Gwyn. I’ll hold you tonight.”

  He slumped forward, let his sword crash to the flagstones, and fell into Nathaera’s arms. She held him, kissed his head, and said no more. All that night, Gwyn wept beneath the winter sky among the fallen, longing for years far gone, when all had been soft and sweet and safe.

  Summer would never come again.

  Kovien staggered sideways and caught himself against the wall. His heart throbbed as magic flooded his body, potent, cold, full of fear and malice. He gasped and pressed against the wall to keep from tumbling down the tower steps.

  “Breathe, my son,” whispered the voice of King Roth.

  Kovien hissed through clenched teeth, unable to reply, unable to command the ghost to depart. The pain would pass. He would not be overcome.

  Finally, the flood of magic faded into a dull ache, familiar, even welcome.

  He smiled softly. “Traycen must have been successful. Lord ren Cloven is dead, as are the other mages. And Lawen, too. Excellent.” He started up the stairs again, headed for his private tower. He’d known the Weave would attack him soon, but it came more quickly than he’d expected. Ah, well. His plan had borne fruit.

  “Gwynter will come here next,” murmured Kovien as he eased himself up the last steps. “He will try to kill me in his rage. I long to see the hatred burning in his eyes. Humans succumb so easily to such emotions. Come soon, Gwynter. Hurry, so that we may end this mad war. So we may end it once and forever.”

  “You cannot slay the Winter King,” whispered Roth.

  Kovien pushed open the door to his tower and slipped inside. He shut the door, locked it, and leaned against the barrier as tears slid from his eyes.

  “It is just as well, for he cannot slay me either. How then shall it end? What madness will win the day?” He laughed. “There is but one way to settle our dispute, for neither can kill the other. But Gwynter may be convinced to kill himself.”

  “I won’t let you.”

  Kovien opened his eyes and smiled at the new shade standing before him, pale and translucent.

  “Greetings, Lawen ren Terare. I thought you might come.”

  Chapter 22

  At dawn Kive carried Gwyn into an officer’s sleeping quarters, where the young king tossed in a fevered sleep. Nathaera ordered the fallen fae to remain with him while she sought a means of treating the illness. She entered the courtyard and flinched under the bright sun of a cloudless day. As her eyes adjusted, she blinked at the sight of Aluem trotting toward her across the yard, a blanket of snow covering the many dead.

  ‘How fares Gwynter?’ asked the unicorn.

  “Not well. How did you escape Windsur’s magic?”

  Aluem tossed his head. ‘Unicorns cannot be so easily destroyed, though it rendered me unconscious for a time. I regret not being able to rescue brave Lawen. Too many mages stood between me and him. Gwynter’s heart is shattered. I feel his grief as though it were my own.’

  “Lawen was a man of highest honor.” Nathaera blinked back tears. “I counted him as a dear friend.”

  ‘What do you require for Gwynter’s care?’

  “Herbs.” Nathaera wiped her eyes. “I fear his grief has brought him very low. His will to fight his illness might be crushed, but I cannot let him die like this, if I might aid him at all.”

  Aluem nodded, turned, and trotted toward the inner complexes. Nathaera followed but faltered as a figure appeared in the doorway of the nearby barracks.

  “Sir Bened?”

  The knight inclined his head. “My lady, I’m glad that you were spared. Where is His Majesty?”

  Nathaera hesitated. “Help me find herbs, and then I’ll bring you to him.”

  “What herbs do you seek?” asked Bened as he followed her into the building Aluem had already entered.

  “How did you survive, Sir Knight? Anyone upon ground level was instantly killed in the magic’s thrall.”

  “I was not on the ground, but fighting upon the battlements,” Bened said. “Has the king’s fever overtaken him, my lady?”

  She turned to the knight. “Yes, Sir Bened. Gwyn is terribly ill, made worse by the death of his brother.”

  Bened blinked. “Lord ren Terare has fallen?”

  Nathaera nodded and turned away to hide her tears. “After that, Gwyn slew Lord ren Lotelon. If you were on the battlements, how did you not see what I’ve described?”

  Bened pushed aside his mop of unruly hair to reveal a large goose egg of an ugly purple hue across his forehead. “I was knocked unconscious, my lady. I’ve only surmised what occurred afterward by the unwholesome tinge of the Weave still upon the air, and the corpses sprawled across the courtyard and within every building. What became of the army leaders and mage commanders within the tower where you and Kive were?”

  Nathaera grimaced and glanced at the knight. “Kive was hungry.”

  Disgust etched lines in Bened’s face, and he said no more.

  Aluem waited for them toward the back of the barracks, having found an apothecary storeroom filled with all Nathaera might need to tend to Gwyn. She filled Bened’s arms and then her own with poultices and phials, and together they returned to the chamber where Gwyn lay. Aluem remained outside.

  Kive sat beside Gwyn, dabbing at the sheen of sweat against the young man’s face, just as Nath
aera had instructed. The Ilidreth looked up. His eyes lingered on Bened for a long moment. “Hello, Fly.”

  Bened strode forward and set his supplies on the edge of the cot. “He looks very poorly.”

  Nathaera dropped her armful beside his. “Of course he does. He’s pressed himself harder than anyone else in this war, and now he’s lost his elder brother—whom he loved more than anything of this world. ‘Tis a wonder he’s fighting his illness at all.”

  “It does seem a shame,” Bened said, almost to himself. “After all Gwynter did for his brother, willing to sacrifice his very life, only to lose him now…” He reached down and caught up an herb to twirl it between his fingers.

  “He did what he must, then and now,” said Nathaera with some heat.

  “That is quite true.” Bened turned to her. “Sir Windsur is dead, yes?”

  She bit her lip and nodded, dropping her eyes. “Yes. Foolish dunderhead. He used the Crow’s magic, no doubt thinking he would be protected, but he was only a pawn.”

  “Disposable,” whispered Bened with an upward quirk of his lips.

  “You find that funny somehow, Sir Knight?”

  “Perhaps appropriate. The lady Arianwen is spared his crass habits. Is that not well?”

  “Aye, but so many died.”

  “Your enemies,” said Bened.

  “Yes. But ‘tis still a tragedy.”

  He raised his brows. “Tragedies occur daily in war, my lady. The cost of freedom is high. Perhaps you and your king should have considered that before you raised a banner against the Crow King.”

  Nathaera bristled. “Just a moment, sir. You raised the same banner. You’ve been fighting the same war.”

  His smile widened as his hand fell to his sword. “Not quite.” He drew it, blade flashing with light from a nearby brazier. “The farce is no longer necessary. I’ve done my service to the king. Windsur ren Cloven is dead. His Majesty cannot deny me any longer. You’ll have to quarter here in Talbethé for the winter, and come spring you’ll have nowhere to go, for we will be waiting without the walls. Bring in your miserable, starving troops, fair lady, and let them fatten up. A last feast, you might say.”

  Nathaera tossed hair over her shoulder. “You think this revelation is a blow to me, don’t you? Well, Sir Knight, I have a surprise in reply: Kive saw through your deception. He called you a fly caught in the spider’s web. I assume that means your love of Arianwen has trapped you, though whether she’s the spider or someone else is, I don’t know or care. You think to leave this keep and claim fair maiden’s heart? Think again, sir.”

  Bened’s lip curled into a sneer. “You think me a soft simpleton. My goal was never Arianwen alone, so don’t think for a moment I did all this just to woo a maid. The Crow King has promised that I will stand as his right hand in Traycen’s place—and now both he and my rival in love are dead. As for your ploy, I thought you suspected me, but what good has it done you? Gwynter listened to me when I suggested we take Talbethé, and again when I proposed we lead Haratin to the Crow King to lure him here. Your feelings and suppositions have changed nothing. Now you stand in my way: a little girl without an army at her back.”

  Nathaera folded her arms and glowered at the black knight. “I don’t need an army, sir. I have a Kive.”

  The fallen fae slipped from the shadows of the small room, and stepped up behind Bened, canting his head. “May I eat the fly, Fairy Wren? Is it time now?”

  Bened’s eyes widened. “But he’s full. He ate the mage leaders. And he only eats rats.”

  Nathaera allowed herself to smile, though it was a frigid gesture, cold and distant like her insides. “Wrong, sir. Kive only eats rats because I tell him to only eat rats. He also likes crunchy birds and juicy flies. Besides, he ate those men last night. It’s morning now and time for breakfast.”

  “You won’t let him,” said Bened, perspiration forming on his brow. “You don’t approve.”

  “There are many things about war of which I don’t approve, Bened Arnnor, yet they must be done. Give me a better reason. Tell me why I shouldn’t have Kive eat you here and now.”

  Bened trembled as Kive leaned close to his neck and gave a long sniff.

  “Juicy fly,” whispered the Ilidreth.

  Bened fell to his knees. “Please, my lady. No one should die like this. I’ve only done my duty to Simaerin. I’ve served my king as a dutiful knight. I deserve mercy. For Afallon’s sake, don’t let him eat me!”

  Nathaera shook her head. “What then can I do, Sir Knight? Let you depart and return to your king as a cowering mongrel? Would he show you mercy under these conditions, I wonder? I can’t well let you stay here to harm Gwynter or myself. Give me an alternative and I’ll consider it.”

  “Tie me up,” said Bened. “Treat me as a prisoner of war.”

  “Kive will still eat you when I’m not looking.”

  Bened’s eyes darted across the room with a desperate glint, as though he might perceive some answer to his dilemma. With a sudden cry, he threw himself backward, knocking his head into Kive’s stomach. The fae tumbled backward and Bened leapt to his feet, spun, and rammed his sword through Kive’s chest.

  Nathaera screamed as Bened turned to her, panting. “So much for your pet. I’m leaving now. Don’t give me cause to kill you.”

  Tears spilled down Nathaera’s face, and her hands curled into fists, shaking. “I’ll destroy you, Bened. I’ll find you and kill you myself.”

  The knight smiled dryly. “You’re quite welcome to try, my lady.” He bowed his head, then trotted toward the door. “Your king won’t last long, you know. He’s fading even now. Perhaps a blade can’t end his life, but illness can take him just the same. It’s just you now, Nathaera; all alone in the ancient fortress of Talbethé, with the ghosts of ages past. I do hope they don’t drive you mad.”

  Nathaera held her head high. “Never fear, Crow Knight. Afallon is on my side.”

  The knight scoffed. “In the place where he fell, how much good shall that do, I wonder?” He turned and slipped through the doorway, footsteps swift and heavy down the corridor.

  Nathaera rushed to Kive’s side, a sob escaping her lips. “No, my dear friend. Please don’t leave me.”

  Kive lay still, so still and pale, not breathing.

  She ran a hand along his cold cheek.

  Kive coughed and opened his eyes. “The fly killed me, Fairy Wren. That was very rude.”

  Nathaera shrieked. “You—Kive, you’re alive!”

  “Yes, Fairy Wren,” said Kive, patting the ear she’d screamed into. “Kive can’t stay dead like aneemals. Kive is Kive.”

  Chapter 23

  Towwen Stone studied the wagons that rolled and bounced along the weather-beaten road below the dense treeline. He and his band of marauders—for what else could the bedraggled men call themselves?—crouched upon the snowy hillock and shivered in their cloaks, waiting, waiting.

  Was this it at last? Had they found the stores of food they’d long sought?

  The original plan to infiltrate a granary and take its stores had ended in humiliation. The Crow King must have guessed their move, for the granaries along the route to Talbethé had all been emptied before Towwen and his force ever arrived. Frustrated but committed, Towwen had determined to pilfer the supply trains going from garrison to garrison—but here, too, the Crow King had foreseen foul play. Every line of wagons the marauders attempted to commandeer were full of soldiers rather than food. Empty-handed, the band pulled back barely alive. Towwen’s force of fifteen men had been cut down to twelve. He could scarcely afford any more casualties, but he must steal supplies before the Winter Army starved.

  King Gwynter’s army might somehow take Keep Talbethé, but that was unlikely without the proper accoutrements, warmth, food, and medicine. Towwen must hurry. He felt that urgency; it boiled in his blood, but how could he succeed? Each day looked more hopeless than the last.

  Until now. This wagon train was like all the others, exce
pt for one key factor: it wasn’t en route to a garrison. Where then was the shipment being taken?

  At first glance, this backwoods road led nowhere of consequence, but when Towwen had consulted his maps, he found that the path meandered along the hills a day or two before it split, and one of those roads led to Talbethé. That begged a question: Why would the fortress need supplies unless it faced the chance of a siege? The Crow King must have ordered the wagons to take an inconspicuous route, and Towwen’s band had only happened upon it by chance.

  The only question left was whether this was a trap, or the wagons carried legitimate supplies? Either way, Towwen wasn’t certain he and his fellows would survive this encounter. The wagons were guarded more heavily than most, while his band huddled in exhaustion, low on provisions. If the band failed here, there would be no more opportunities. This was Towwen’s last chance.

  He glanced at Remien. The other man nodded, mouth a grim line. He understood. They all did.

  Inhaling, Towwen rose, fingers trembling as he drew his bow and aimed at the crow emblem emblazoned upon the ranking officer at the front of the train. He tried to calm his racing heart, tried to focus on his target.

  The pounding of hooves shattered his concentration. He lowered his weapon and watched a horseman advancing hard on the wagon train from the rear. A courier, or—

  Towwen’s heart faltered, and his jaw fell. The approaching figure was no messenger of the Crow King, nor a soldier, nor even a human. Clad in motley shades of gold and red, with long hair of glossy black, Towwen couldn’t mistake the Ilidreth for anything else.

  Towwen expected the soldiers in the train to draw blades or point lances to slay the intruder—but the wagons rolled on, only a few of the Simaeri contingent glancing his way.

  The Ilidreth rider came level with the Crow officer, and they exchanged words. Nothing more.

  “What devilry is this?” whispered Remien. “Does the Crow now enlist the aid of his foe and do they now heed his call?”