They entered the encampment unopposed, trotting easily along a broad lane between two companies of Esurhites, heading deeper and deeper into the southlander army, straight for the golden platform on which its leader stood.
The gap between gates had widened enough to admit three men riding abreast when Belthre’gar gave the command to attack. As multiple lesser commands rang out, the army roared and soldiers rushed for the opening— only to be shot down from the line of bowmen now appearing on the wallwalk. It was a ruse! Abramm thought, delighted. Perfect!
Swiftly, he untied his cloak and cast it off, then loosed the tie on Warbanner’s headstall, so that the silk covering fluttered away. Then he drew his sword and shouted the word as Rolland and Trap, who’d also drawn their weapons, kicked their horses into a gallop. Together they plunged up the lane, noticed at last, but far too late. Trap and Rolland hit the wall of Broho defenders first, running the first few of them down and sending others flying out of their paths as they carved a path for Abramm, who galloped behind them on Warbanner, sword blazing with Eidon’s Light.
As his lead men grappled with the defenders, they moved apart to create a gap, which Abramm raced through, Light flaring like a spear before him. He was nearly to the platform when the tallest Sorite turned. Abramm recognized him at once, not at all surprised it was Moroq. In the blink of an eye, the Sorite flipped his bow over his head and released his first dark arrow. The Light swallowed it half a nose ahead of Warbanner. More came, and the Light consumed then all.
He saw blades slashing toward him as Warbanner was forced to stop, and he met them with his own—steel crashing into steel as he pulled the horse around. Light gleamed off bald heads and shredding mist as purple fire blazed in darkness. The din was horrendous. The terrible stench of blood and spilling guts filled the air. Belthre’gar turned finally, his eyes widening as he saw Abramm. Then Moroq hauled him off the far side of the platform and out of sight.
Abramm wheeled Warbanner full circle amidst a closing line of Broho, all facing him with blades drawn, eyes blazing with purple fire. He was one sword against them all. Purple flame leaped from their mouths, but the Light blasted every bolt of it to droplets. They followed flame with the fearspell, but Abramm used his sword to turn it back upon them, and they fled.
It occurred to him then that while he might be invulnerable, the men who served under him were not. That recalled to him the scepter. He jerked it lefthanded from its scabbard and swung it over his head. Lightning flashed down from the sky . . . or did it go up from the scepter? Wind whirled around him, tearing at his hair as he saw Belthre’gar again, riding in a chariot pulled by two black horses, charging north across the battlefield. Toward the corridor.
Abramm jammed the scepter back into its scabbard and took off after the Supreme Commander, determined he should not get away. He had no idea what had become of Trap and Rolland, nor if anyone was following him. Around him increasing daylight illumined chaos—men fighting and fallen, swords flashing—and he realized with a shock Belthre’gar’s forces were fighting one another. Different tabards, different armies . . . confused by the darkness? Arrows rained upon them as rocks and pitch pots thrown by catapults from both sides crashed continually on every side.
Warbanner ran like a horse years younger. They dodged wagons, leaped ditches, and scrambled down inclines, blowing over those unlucky enough to be in their way as they closed the gap. The corridor loomed ahead, its green light a brilliant counterpoint to the gray morning. Wind tore around him, moving northward, tearing up the Shadow as it did, though not nearly as fast as he’d have liked.
The chariot bounced ahead of him now, tipping wildly this way and that. Moroq drove it, his great muscled arms tensed with the effort of holding the reins, his legs braced widely to keep the cart from overturning as Belthre’gar clung to the other side. They barreled down the slope and through the arch, where Moroq pulled up and shoved the Supreme Commander from the chariot. Belthre’gar rolled, stood up, saw Abramm coming, and scrambled for his sword. It was only half drawn when Abramm’s blade sliced his throat. As Abramm rode on past, hauling Warbanner to a stop, the image of the man’s widening eyes above scarlet jets of spurting blood came with him. He wheeled his horse around just in time to see the Esurhite leader collapse, the rhu’ema that lived within him flowing out his eyes, nose, and mouth. It coiled above the fallen man a moment, then drove into the corridor and was gone.
Abramm sat atop his warhorse, sword dripping blood, adversary’s body before him, and realized he’d raced in unthinking. Now he was cut off, surrounded by his enemies. Sheer numbers could easily kill his horse, then rip the robe from his shoulders. And he saw little indication anyone had come with him. Out beyond the brow of the basin in which the corridor stood, the arrows still flew and the catapults still heaved. In the distance scaling ladders now propped against Fannath Rill’s walls, black-tunicked invaders scrambling over their tops. Rocks and arrows and flaming pitch rained down everywhere. Worse, the winds had stopped, and the Shadow was regathering.
Movement drew his eye to the Sorite giant, bow flexed, black arrow aimed at him. The string twanged, the arrow flew, and Abramm’s sword came up—too late. The shaft hit him square in the breast . . . but fell to the stone, where it vanished.
Moroq roared in a way that wasn’t remotely human. His eyes flashed into gold fire as he flung aside his bow and leaped forward. The air fluttered around him with a shifting of light and shadow, of red and black and gold . . . and the man shape vanished into a huge narrow face, leathery wings, and golden talons.
Warbanner erupted beneath him, squealing in terror as he reared and turned and tried to run all at the same time. The ruins tilted crazily; Abramm glimpsed talons and wings and the ground coming up fast. A great wind buffeted him as he hit the pavement, the blow knocking the sword from his grasp. He rolled away, barely evading Warbanner’s flailing hooves as the horse scrambled wildly upright, a great bloody gash in his neck. A moment later he bolted into the mass of men surrounding them, but no one tried to stop him. They were too busy staring at the dragon as it circled the ruin, its scales flashing like fresh blood in the early morning light.
Abramm leaped to his feet, eyeing the dragon as well. He’d lost his sword. Warbanner must have kicked it somewhere in his thrashing to get up. The army that surrounded him had fallen silent. He heard the faint hum of the corridor behind him as the dragon circled, enjoying the attention. Then it dropped low over the host of Esurhites and exhaled an orange-scarlet mist. As it settled upon the men, their faces twisted with fury and they screamed as one, charging with an eerie unity of mind and purpose that could have no other source than the creature circling above them. Abramm could almost hear its words: Kill him! Kill him now!
No time to find his sword, so he reached for the only thing he had—the scepter, still riding in its scabbard on his back. The moment he pulled it free, the Light exploded through him. He gripped it with both hands and brained the first of his attackers with the blazing jewel at its end.
Then there was no time to know or plan or even think. He swung and whirled and ducked and hit, again and again and again. Yet still they came. Men grabbed him, tried to pull the robe off him, but he drove them away and kept swinging. He heard the dragon roaring, and the men roaring likewise as the scepter blazed, streaming sparks, smashing heads and shoulders and backs, breaking bones and crushing flesh. They came on and on, opposing him like madmen, and he fought them off with a strength he knew was not his own, until the bodies piled up around him, and he had to climb up onto them to keep the high ground.
Then, finally, it stopped.
Despite the slaughter, enemy soldiers still filled the basin outside the ancient arcade, whipped by a gale wind he hadn’t noticed until now. It had torn loose the warrior’s knots on their necks, their hair streaming from their heads like black banners. Dust and leaves, branches and boards, bits of fabric and all manner of other things sailed and tumbled by. Gradually the red light in the
men’s eyes faded, and they slowed and stopped, staring now at the great pile of bodies atop which Abramm stood. Then three Broho stepped forth from the crowd and sent a black cloud of fear at him.
He swung the scepter into it with hardly a thought, the movement easy and confident. He’d been swinging and swinging for who knew how long at whatever threat came to him—what was one more?
As the scepter’s head hit it, the cloud burst into a plume of dark motes, caught by the wind and blown back over the men—not just the three Broho, but the score of soldiers behind them. Fear gripped them as swiftly as the bloodlust had earlier. They screamed, dropped their weapons, and fled, only to be cut off by the dragon, who roared its frustration and this time exhaled fire, incinerating them as they ran.
That was the drop that burst the dam. Panic seized the field and pandemonium ensued. The dragon flew over them, burning men as it went, then circled up into the sky, breathtaking in its size and gracefulness and the way the new-risen sun sparkled off its scarlet scales. It had to be at least a quarter mile away, but Abramm saw its eyes, and heard its thoughts, which were just for him:
“You may have won here, but you’ll still lose all that you really care about.” The creature winged over his head, then circled to the north. “Try to save them if you can. . . .”
An image of the corridor behind him flashed into his mind.
The dragon’s wings flapped languidly, and then the mists, driven northward by the scepter’s winds, swallowed the beast from view.
CHAPTER
37
Abramm strode toward the corridor, scepter in hand. The prickling intensified as he stepped into its aura—and stopped as he saw Maddie and the others riding up the switchbacks to the top of the cliff on which Deveren Dol perched. Close, but not close enough. Urgency prodded him as he realized he was seeing her through the dragon’s eyes. Which meant the creature would be there well before she reached the fortress.
The image was overlaid by a view of the Ankrill bending around the base of a castle, the scene framed by stone pillars. At first he had no idea what he was seeing, then realized it was also near Deveren Dol, but atop the falls now, looking out of some temple across the river at the castle. Somehow he sensed it was an opening this corridor linked to. He could be there any moment, step through the gateway, and get there in time to save his family. Yes!
No! What was he thinking? He had no business trying to use a corridor to solve his problems.
Maybe Eidon wanted him to use it, though. His passage might destroy it, and he could be where he was needed, as well. It made perfect sense.
No!
Why not? He had the scepter and the crown. What did he need to fear? And if he did not act soon, it would be too late. Maddie would die, and it would be his fault. Impatience roiled in his middle. Just do it. Do it now before it’s too late! What are you waiting for?
His weight shifted. He almost took another step, then put his foot down again. Moroq had driven Belthre’gar to the corridor, and more or less cast him before Abramm’s blade to kill. He’d attacked Abramm with the dark arrows, when he had to have known they’d be ineffective. Had he known Abramm would be able to fight off the hordes of soldiers empowered by dragonenflamed bloodlust? He might have. Then he’d flamed his own forces and flown away. . . . Because he’d lost, yes. But was it ever that simple?
Dragon vision showed him his wife and—was that his daughter?!—on the second horse from the lead, buffeted by the wind as she came up over the top of the cliff and turned to look south toward him. And the approaching dragon. Did she see it yet?
Fear tore at him as the wind tore at her. He needed to go. Now.
No.
Father, I know I have no business using this thing. Help me to destroy it!
The moment his motivation turned, so did the temptation. Suddenly it was not Maddie he saw, nor even the destination near Deveren Dol, but dozens of others—he was startled to recognize Tuk-Rhaal in Kiriath among them. And there was the domed room in Chena’ag Tor, and a vast hall with the red dragon on the wall above a golden throne . . . Moroq’s Throne of Power.
Abramm could go there, to the very center of Moroq’s unseen empire, and destroy it. He had the scepter and the crown and the robe, and with them he wielded a power that could wipe out his greatest enemy!
Visions of what a victory that would be swelled in his head. No more Shadow. No more evil. His realm free from pain and suffering at last. Why shouldn’t he do it? He had the power. He had the opportunity. How many men would ever face such an opportunity? He would never face it again, he was sure. And if he did not take it, he would have only himself to blame when troubles returned to his land . . . as they inevitably would. It might take a long time for the enemy to rebuild its forces, but eventually they would come again. With this corridor, he could make his victory final.
He leaned toward the nexus of connections, heady with the possibilities before him, and as before, something held him back. A weak and tenuous thread, one that could easily be broken . . . A still, small voice of warning at the back of his head.
The downfall of the victor is that he lets the victory go to his head.
Suddenly he grew aware of his own hubris. What was he thinking? Even with robe and crown and scepter—he could never claim the final victory. He still had Shadow in him, and it was not his place to tangle with Shadow. Not that way.
Tersius would be the one to destroy the Throne of Power. The only one.
And if Abramm tried to take upon himself that which was not his task . . . he would die. As would his wife and his children. It all came down to this one moment. This one decision.
And it appalled him that even after he had seen the truth and come to the clear conclusion, a part of him still wanted to try the corridor.
He stepped back, out of its green aura. “I will not do it, my Lord.”
As the words left his mouth something hit him from behind, forcing him to stagger forward, deeper into the field. The pavement wavered beneath him as a small, ratlike man scurried past him, white hair streaming in his wake.
The man vanished, the corridor vanished, and again he saw Maddie, on the ferry now, halfway across the river above the falls. She still held Abrielle. Captain Channon stood beside her holding Ian, Simon clutching his free hand. They were before and below him, far too close for comfort, zooming by beneath him: dragon sight again. It had reached them and was banking against the clouds for another pass. The initial temptation to go to them resurged.
Then he was pulled after the small man, hurtling through the column of green light, and crying out to Eidon as he went.
Queen Madeleine and her party reached the top of the Deveren cliffs three days after they’d fled Fannath Rill through the western bolthole. Passed from guide to guide through a series of wagons, barns, carriages, and ditches, they had escaped the city cleanly and met up with their grooms and horses in the foothills separating the plain from the escarpment. From then on they had made much better time.
Now, as they started up the last of the switchbacks scaling the face of the great cliff, Maddie eyed their destination eagerly. Deveren Dol loomed from the opposite bank, overlooking the Ankrill as it roared over the cliff’s edge in the magnificent Royal Falls. The castle followed the old-style architecture, all thick stone walls and windowless towers. Its few openings were high and narrow, made primarily for defense. Its highest towers stood atop a great upthrust of rock overlooking the plain below, the rest of it stairstepping down the incline toward the river that curled round its base before tumbling over the cliff. At one time those towers held a commanding view of the Fairiron Plain; now their tops plunged into the ceiling of mist that had blotted out the sky for months.
Seeing the fortress energized her. Once they reached the top of the cliff, they had only to ride down to the ferry, cross the river, and they’d be safe. Or as safe as they could be until Abramm returned.
They traveled on horseback, Ian riding with Captain Channon, a
nd Simon with Lieutenant Pipping. Maddie carried Abrielle in a sling against her chest, and Elayne held Conal, since Carissa had enough to manage with her massive belly. They had hardly stopped since they’d left Fannath Rill, halting only briefly in a glen at the base of the cliff to sleep last night—until Maddie had been awakened by a bad dream and the overwhelming sense that they must leave.
As they approached the top of the cliff, the Light surged within her, and she looked instinctively across the plain to where the day was beginning to break, the clouds stained red on the horizon. Fannath Rill lay like a dark stain on the landscape, cut through by the gleaming silver of the Ankrill. The city walls showed up as thin white lines encircling darkness, even as darkness raged outside them. Motes of bright orange swirled above it—flaming pitch pots flung from the catapults of both sides. The battle had begun.
As she watched, the blood-red light on the distant horizon spread toward her, and her heart leaped as she realized the continuous cover was breaking up—for the first time in months. And there, north of the city, a white star appeared amidst the corridor’s green glow. A star that flickered, then strengthened, growing brighter and brighter.
Wonder swept through her, just before the first stirring of wind hit her. As she rounded the last switchback, she turned quickly in the saddle, reversing position so as not to miss anything. Shafts of sunlight poured through the widening rents, illumining a battlefield that looked like a mound of angry ants. The wind intensified, yanking at her cloak and pressing her and the horse toward the side of the trail as bushes bent flat before it.
“It’s Abramm!” she shouted at Carissa, who rode right behind her. She gestured toward the plain as her sister-in-law turned to look. “I told you he was out there! And sure as anything, Trap’s with him!” Why else would I have sent him out there with that robe?
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