He felt a presence beside him and turned to see May standing there, the club owner’s sharp, intelligent eyes meeting his own with a fear that meant she too had understood. “Should we send for Aaron and the others?”
Brandon considered, then finally shook his head. “Not yet.” He gazed once more at the dark forest in the distance where, if he was right, thousands of soldiers marched toward them, ready to crush Perennia’s army between Kevlane’s creatures and the wall. They would be surrounded, with nowhere to flee, no position to which they could withdraw. “Not yet,” he said again.
Aaron, whatever your friends have planned, they had better do it and soon. We are running out of time.
CHAPTER
TWENTY-NINE
Simon stared in shock at the abrupt violence, clapping a hand over his mouth to keep the sound—whimper or scream, he wasn’t sure which— from escaping and giving away his position. It had all happened in an instant, and now four bodies lay on the battlements, their blood pooling around them like oil in the moonlight.
If the five bandits that remained were at all affected by the deaths, including one of their own, they didn’t show it. Instead, they turned and started down the wall once more, moving closer to Simon, and he balled up as tightly as he could, hoping against hope that they would somehow miss him as tears of terror streamed down his face. He squeezed his eyes shut, wishing more than anything that he were at home in bed. I should have listened to my parents, he thought, I should have listened. Repeating the words in his head again and again, as if the admission were some oath of protection that might keep him safe.
A slight rustle alerted him to something or someone close, and he cringed, looking up to see someone standing over him. The figure’s face was twisted and scarred terribly, and the eyes looked like they belonged on some feral beast instead of a person. The figure cocked its head at him, studying him. Then Simon saw the blade in its hand. Looking at that dark visage, possessed of no human kindness or compassion, Simon was no longer able to stay the sound he’d been holding and, as it turned out, it was a scream after all.
He was still screaming when the creature’s blade plunged toward him, and he squeezed his eyes shut once more, sure that he was about to die. But instead of feeling the bite of steel on his neck, Simon heard a metallic ringing, and his eyes snapped open. The creature’s blade was inches away from him, but another blade had interposed itself between him and certain death, stopping the bogeyman’s strike.
The creature started to turn to the newcomer, but spasmed as several lengths of steel appeared out of nowhere, impaling it. A second later, the blades ripped free and warm blood splattered over Simon’s face as the creature fell, toppling down the stairs. Several of the black-garbed figures stood over him. Their faces were covered except for one, the man whose blade had saved him. The stranger gave him a small, comforting smile, offering him his hand.
Simon stared at the bloody hand with wide eyes, unsure what was expected of him.
“Quiet, lad. Lest more of them come.”
Simon realized that he was still screaming, and he clamped his mouth shut, his teeth chattering with fright.
“Good,” the man said, “that’s good. You’re alive, boy. Everything’s alright.”
Simon blinked in shock at the dark, bloody streaks the creature had left as it tumbled down the stairs, and thought that the man was wrong. Nothing was right. Nothing would ever be right again. “A-are you going to kill me?”
The man knelt, shaking his head. “No, lad. We’re not going to kill you.”
“T-then…what do you want of me?”
“I want you to run. Run just as fast as you can. For there are others, like that one,” he said, motioning to the dead thing lying broken at the bottom of the steps. “And they will be coming.”
“M-m-monsters aren’t real,” Simon managed.
“You’re wrong, boy,” the stranger said, his voice not unkind. “Perhaps, sometimes, that would be true but not here, not now. Tonight, for this night of all nights, the monsters are real. Now go—run and do not look back.”
Simon nodded, allowing the man to pull him to his feet. Then, without another word, Simon did one of the things he had rarely done in all of his life—he listened to an adult. He took the steps two at a time, running as fast as his legs could carry him. Maybe not Simon the Brave, after all. But Simon the Safe. Simon the Alive. And that, he decided, was good enough.
***
The Speaker watched the child go, saying a quick prayer to the Shadow God to look after him, then turned back to the others. Eleven in all now, one of their number having already fallen to the magi’s abominations. Only eleven, when once there had been thousands. And with so much left to do. Witness, he thought, the end of the Akalians. And alas, it is I who have brought us to it. But when he spoke, his voice was sure, confident. “Come,” he said. “There is little time.”
They made their way across the wall, seeming to glide like phantoms, their steps silent as they moved with one purpose, one will, to their objective. They stalked down the stairs, eleven shadows in the darkness. The streets were quiet, empty, and had the Speaker not been able to hear the sounds of fighting—and dying—going on outside the city, he might have thought he had died already, and had awoken to find himself in his god’s realm.
He led his brothers toward the gatehouse, unable to keep from marveling at the accuracies of the maps Caleb had sketched from memory. Each building, each side street or alleyway, was in exactly the place he’d said it would be.
As they walked the streets toward the gatehouse, the Speaker was reminded of a time long ago, in another city, one smelling of rotting meat and blood, the odors of a charnel pit. He remembered the rage he’d felt, the righteous anger that had demanded the city be razed to the ground, its buildings, shelters to cannibals or cages for its victims, burned to so much ash. And he had. They all had. And should the magi have his way, he would make the evil of that long-dead city no more than a prelude of things to come.
They were nearly upon the corner of the street, about to take the turn that would lead them to the gatehouse, when an alarm went off in his mind as if some great bell had been struck. He froze, and his brothers reacted immediately, stopping and raising their swords, their eyes scanning the darkness. For a moment, the Speaker couldn’t figure out what had warned him of danger, but then he knew. The streets were too quiet, too silent. The magi was no fool. He knew the army was outside the city and, after his ambush in the forests outside Perennia had failed, he would know also that the Akalians had arisen once more to stand against him.
They wait. Just around the corner.
The voice of the dead king held no emotion save for a cold, lonely sadness.
“Yes,” the Speaker of the Akalians said, realizing that some part of him had known they would be there all along. There was no escape for him and the others now but, then, there never had been, and he found that some part of him was glad at the thought. His only regret would be that he would not get the chance to know his daughter.
You might still leave, the ancient king said into his mind, his tone without emotion, showing nothing of his own feelings on the matter. There is still time. You could live.
“Yes.” But, then, living was not enough. That, at least, was a lesson he had learned long ago. He’d learned it among the swirling sands of the desert, as his feet guided him out of that wasteland, away from the only family he’d ever had, the winds of that place shifting the dunes beneath his feet so that, in moments, even the marks of his passage disappeared behind him.
He turned to the other Akalians, saw them watching him. There was no fear in those eyes, no worry or anger, only purpose. “They wait for us, brothers,” he said. “Around this corner, our death waits for us. It has been searching for us our whole lives, just as we have, whether we knew it or not, been traveling to meet it. I would journey on, would see it, face to face. Will you come with me?”
They did not speak, but the meta
llic hiss of their drawn swords was answer enough, and he gave a sharp nod. “Very well. You all know what must be done—the lives that depend upon it. We will do what is required of us, just as we always have. We will not fail. Now,” he said, smiling, “our god awaits us, brothers. Let us go and meet him together.”
They were waiting around the corner. Two dozen of the abominations gifted with speed. But the Speaker of the Akalians barely saw them at all. Instead, he saw a woman, smiling and cooing softly in a tent while the wind of the desert night rustled the fabric around them. Nor did he hear the sounds of fighting from outside the city, for his ears heard only the soft snores of the baby in the woman’s arms, so young and innocent and full of promise. And, with a smile still on his face, the Speaker of the Akalians led his brothers into battle for the last time.
CHAPTER
THIRTY
Aaron watched Baresh’s army march down the hill, closing the door on the trap Kevlane had set for them. At once, he felt despair, anger, and more than a little relief. For good or ill, the thing was begun in truth now. The mage’s creatures continued to appear out of the forest, attacking Perennia’s troops from either side, and now that Baresh’s army had appeared at their backs, Perennia’s soldiers had nowhere to run, even had they wanted to. The time for second-guessing, the time for deliberating, was over.
They could not turn or flee—now, the only way out was forward. All complications, all complexities had come down, as they always did, to one single truth, one single question, and the question was one of flesh and bone, of blade and blood. And its answer? Death. It was the only answer, the only one there ever had been, and never mind that men and women spent their lives searching desperately for another, any other.
Still, there was something to be said for that. Death, after all, was simple enough—anybody could do it. But what little relief he felt was tainted by the smell of blood and offal in the air, by the screams of the men and women around him as they died fighting Kevlane’s creatures. He glanced around him at the other Virtue bearers. Gryle rubbed his hands together anxiously, though whether that anxiety was because he was ready to get started or afraid to, Aaron doubted the man himself knew. Leomin and Seline stood on the other side of the chamberlain, holding hands, as if each other’s touch gave them strength to endure the bloody spectacle playing out all around them. Caleb was on Aaron’s other side, looking small and scared and alone despite Tianya standing beside him.
They stood as a part of the army, yet apart from it, for those Ghosts which remained after Belgarin’s attack on Perennia stood in a protective circle around them, together with the Virtue bearers forming the blade which would drive deep into the city, questing for its corrupted heart, in the hopes of being fast enough to avoid its opponent’s parry. A parry which, in this case, would come in the form of the gate being forced closed once more. Half a dozen times since the battle had started, Aaron had fought down the urge to separate the bearers, spreading them out among the army to aid those soldiers who fought—and died—so bravely.
But resist he did. They wouldn’t have long, he knew, once the gate was open, and it was too much to hope that the mage had neglected defenders at the weakest point of Baresh’s defenses. It would be bloody then—a bloody struggle in a day filled with them, and if they did not manage to break through into the city, the soldiers’ sacrifices would mean nothing. Even with all of the Virtue-bearers gathered together, accompanied by the Ghosts, the most elite of the army’s soldiers, still it was a nearly impossible task. Without them, it would have been impossible in truth. Of course, the gate had to be opened first—without that, all of it meant nothing.
So Aaron and the others waited as men and women—men and women who had chosen to follow him—died around them, buying the Akalians time with their blood and their lives.
And yet here we stand, doing nothing.
There is no choice, Aaron, Co said into his mind, though even her voice sounded strained, tense, and it was clear that the gravity of the situation had not been lost on her. You know that.
Maybe, Aaron thought. But the idea was no comfort, did not change the cost of each unanswered atrocity occurring around them as he only stood, watching it unfold, the soldiers waiting for a response, an answer to all that was taken from them, for all that they gave.
Kevlane will answer, Co said, her voice full of anger and sadness. He will be held accountable for what he has done—we will make sure of it.
Maybe, Aaron thought again. But if the only answer to blood is more of it, Firefly, then what kind of world do we fight for?
For a world that can be better, Aaron. We fight for hope.
A better world. Aaron had walked the streets of the Downs, had seen the priests of one god or another always assuring those poor wretches to whom they ministered that theirs’ was the right way, the only way, and always within those speeches was talk of a better world. The priests took their donations, took the new acolytes who volunteered, yet the world remained what it was, what it always had been, refusing to bow to, or even acknowledge the efforts—real or imagined—of those wandering its surface.
“Mr. Envelar? Is everything okay?”
Leomin was watching him with a wary gaze. A ridiculous question on the whole, of course, but he followed the dusky-skinned man’s gaze down to his hand and realized he had drawn his sword, and now held it in a white-knuckled grip. He glanced around and saw the others watching him, their expressions carefully controlled.
Not that he could blame them. After all, had they not all seen him lose his mind with the rage brought on by the Virtue, and that more than once? He forced a weak smile, refusing to let his hurt show on his face, for though there was worry in those gazes, so, too, was there a certain desperation, a need to be reassured the way a child might look to his parents in the darkness, wanting, needing them to explain away the monsters and bogeymen.
“The gate will open,” he said. That much, at least, he could give them, never mind that it felt like a lie as it slid out of his throat.
“Shouldn’t it have opened already?” Gryle asked.
“Yeah, it should have,” Seline said, frowning at the gate as if it were an enemy she could conquer, a foe she could slay. “Something’s wrong. Something’s happened.”
Aaron hesitated, not knowing what to say, for his own thoughts had been colored with the same worry, one that he hadn’t dared voice. Now that she had, though, he saw her thought reflected in the eyes of all the Virtue-bearers around them, save for Caleb who shook his head slowly.
“Not necessarily. Given the length of the wall, and the rate at which they scaled it before I lost sight of them in the darkness, the Akalians would have crested the top only a little more than an hour ago.”
“An hour,” Seline said. “An hour to travel from the wall to the gatehouse. Tell me, Caleb, how long would such a trip take at walking speed?”
The youth winced, shifting uncomfortably. “Ten minutes, no more.”
She nodded, as if some thought had been confirmed. “Which means that fifty minutes are left unexplained—fifty minutes at the least, and still we have seen or heard nothing.”
“But, anything could have happened once they reached the wall,” the youth said, his tone sounding desperate, as if he would make the others understand. “There would be guards, certainly, and who knows what things might wait on the other side of the gate. It would be no small task to reach it.”
“As you say,” the woman said, turning to stare at the massive gate in the distance. “Who knows what might wait on the other side? Forgive me, boy, but I don’t find that very comforting. They’re dying out there,” she growled, sweeping an arm around to indicate the army. “And we’re just standing here doing nothing!”
She finished the last in a scream, drawing the attention of several nearby soldiers who, Aaron saw, looked at them with eyes full of fear. For his part, Caleb recoiled as if slapped. He opened his mouth to speak but hesitated, and it was Tianya who answered. “I unde
rstand your worry,” she said, loud enough for the soldiers around her to hear, for apparently she, too, had noticed their reaction. She spoke as if each word pained her, and Aaron realized for the first time that being here, among the terrible sights, sounds, and smells of battle, must be an incredible trial for her, since her Virtue enhanced all her senses far beyond any normal human’s. “I had much the same worry,” she went on, “when I was weak in the woods, barely able to walk and then not even that, hunted by these…these things.”
“And?” Seline asked.
Tianya gave a smile. “And I’m alive. Thanks to this one here,” she said, putting a reassuring hand on Caleb’s shoulder. “Beyond all chance of salvation, I am alive.”
Seline frowned at that. “I’m not trying to discount what he—what you—did,” she said, nodding to Caleb, “but as amazing, as brave as it was, courage won’t open this door for us.”
This time, it was Caleb who answered. “No, you’re right. It won’t. But, then, it wasn’t courage that saw me through to the camp. It was hope. The gate will open.” He looked around at all of them, his gaze finally settling on Aaron. “The gate will open.”
“Of course it will,” Aaron said with a confidence he didn’t feel. But it had better do it soon.
CHAPTER
THIRTY-ONE
“Forgive me, Majesty, but I must say again that this is…unwise.”
Adina ignored the guard, pulling the bandage tight, barely containing her hiss of frustration as it was soaked through, almost instantly, with fresh blood. The man she tended had taken a deep cut to his thigh, and had been pulled back from the line of battle only moments ago, yet in those moments he had lost a shocking amount of blood, and his face looked pale, his skin shrunken. “Is…it…bad?”
Adina met the soldier’s eyes, saw the pain and the fear lurking there and swallowed the lump in her throat. “You’ll be okay,” she said. “Everything will be okay.” It wasn’t the first lie she’d told, nor was it the first dying man she’d told it to, but it hurt as much as the first.
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