by Sarah Hawke
“N-no, sir.”
“Then we have nothing to worry about. Now take those arrows and get them to the other riders. I want you to pin them in any way you can—force them to swarm a single wall so we can neutralize their numbers. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir!”
“Then get out of my sight.” Galavir grumbled something unintelligible before he started speaking to Zin. “All right, boy. I know you aren’t a Templar, but I assume you know how to fight.”
“Yes, sir,” Zin said.
“Good. Then suck whatever magic you need out of this elf to empower yourself and hold the line with our men on the barbican.”
“I can project a barrier over the wall,” Sehris told him. “It should—”
“You won’t do anything until and unless their Anointed attack,” Galavir told her. “You’re the only source of food for this Keeper, and I don’t want you Flensing yourself to death over a couple loose arrows. You are there to counter their magic and keep our archers alive. Do you understand?”
“Perfectly, sir.”
“Wonderful. Then get into position. Now!”
Rohen turned away and braced himself against the crenellations while he waited for the others to return. Galavir seemed as surprised as anyone else that the Chol were here so early. He clearly wasn’t expecting this to be his glorious victory amidst the chaos of another potential civil war. At this point, no one outside of Torisval even knew that Thedric was dead.
How would he react if I showed him this damn dagger? The look of horror on his face might be worth whatever came next.
Rohen shook his head. All of this was happening so quickly he still couldn’t believe it was real. Just yesterday afternoon, his biggest worry had been what he was going to say to Delaryn after three years apart, but now he was standing on the battlements of Rimewreath facing down the largest group of Chol anyone had seen since the last Culling almost twenty years ago…
“We’re headed to the barbican,” Zin said as he rushed down the stairs from the turret. “We can—”
“I heard,” Rohen told him. His eyes narrowed as he stared out at the encroaching horde. “You can see farther than us, Sehris. Do you notice anything strange?”
She leaned against the crenellations next to him, her luminescent violet eyes squinting into the distance. Despite having spent virtually her entire life on the surface, she could still see almost perfectly in the dark.
“Only that they have stopped advancing,” she said. “I can make out a few of the Anointed.”
Rohen’s cheek twitched. “How many?”
“Ten, but there could easily be more.”
“Ten?” Zin gasped. “They won’t need siege weapons with that many channelers…”
Rohen nodded gravely. The Anointed were the only Chol capable of channeling the Aether, but unlike other sorcerers, the Flensing didn’t seem to throttle their power. Perhaps their corrupted elven bodies were immune to the backlash…or perhaps they felt the pain of overchanneling but simply ignored it. Either way, their magic could bolster the horde and rain down untold destruction.
“There’s something else,” Sehris said, still squinting. “It looks like someone riding a beast.”
“A what?” Rohen stammered, wishing he could see what she was talking about. “The Chol don’t use mounts.”
“I know, but there is a definitely someone with them.” She shook her head. “I can’t tell anything more from here.”
“This just keeps getting better and better,” Zin muttered. “What the fuck is going on?”
“I don’t know, but let’s hope the griffon riders are up to the challenge,” Rohen said. “Come on!”
The trio raced along the wall until they reached the barbican over the fortress’s main gate. Every time a Pact soldier noticed them, their faces flickered from fear when they saw Sehris to hope when they saw a Keeper and a Templar. Rohen eventually drew Varlothin and allowed the glowing runes to draw everyone’s attention instead. No matter what banner they served under or what house they represented, every man and woman in Rimewreath was familiar with the legendary moonsilver swords of the Templar. If the sight of a wraithblade didn’t inspire them, nothing would.
“For all we know, the monsters might not even attack,” Zin said, pulling up his hood to try and block out a fresh blast of winter wind. “They could have moved closer just to fuck with us.”
“The Chol aren’t like the Crell,” Rohen said. “They don’t play games or attempt to outwit their opponents. If the Anointed brought the horde here, they intend to destroy us.”
“Guardian save us,” Sehris breathed, her fingers trembling nervously at her sides.
Rohen clenched his teeth as he swept his gaze across the sea of moonlit monsters. He should have been completely focused on the horde, but all he could think about was Delaryn. Whatever else happened tonight, he had to find a way to get her out of here. She was the High Queen of Darenthi, whether anyone wanted her to be or not. She was also the last Whitefeather, the last hope for continued peace with the Roskarim and highborn of Nelu’Thalas…and, selfishly, she was the woman he loved more than anything in the world.
Rohen would stand here and cut down every fucking Chol in the horde himself if that’s what it took to keep her safe. He wasn’t going to fail her again, not this time.
“They’re coming,” Sehris whispered as she squinted through the dark.
“Already?” Zin asked. “Are you sure?”
“She can see them,” Rohen said, swallowing heavily. “And so can I.”
The tiny green pinpricks grew larger and larger as the Chol advanced. There were no horns, no drums, and no battle cries to signify an advance, just the never-ending, cacophonous shrieking of elves driven mad by the gods they had betrayed. The Chol weren’t like armies of men or even barbarian savages. They wouldn’t tire, they wouldn’t relent, and they certainly wouldn’t retreat. They would fight until the bitter, bloody end.
You will never be more clear-eyed than when you are standing before a horde of Godcursed monsters, Lord Kraythe had said back at Whitefeather Hold. The lines between good and evil will be as stark as the difference between night and day.
Rohen only wished that were true. Even standing here watching the tide of darkness approach, his thoughts were anything but clear. The lines between good and evil were nonexistent. The only line he could see was the one between survival and annihilation.
“It wasn’t supposed to happen this way,” Zin muttered. “We were supposed to march out to crush them.”
“We’ll be fine as long as we stick together,” Rohen said, turning to Sehris. “Can you channel?”
The dark elf nodded, though the Wailing was clearly taking its toll on her already. “I will manage,” she promised.
Rohen placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder as he looked back into the outer courtyard behind them. The defenders still weren’t organized—the officers were desperately trying to form the men into ranks behind the gate, and the trebuchet crews weren’t even close to being ready.
The archers were mostly in position, though, and Rohen heard a shrill cry from the aviary as the griffon riders took to the sky. There were only six of them, but they could unleash a tremendous amount of destruction under the right circumstances. If General Galavir’s plan worked and the griffons successfully bottled the horde up against a single wall, this Culling might be over before dawn.
Then all we’ll have to worry about is preventing another civil war.
“There they go,” Zin said, pointing to the griffons. The six riders split into groups of three as they approached the horde, but Rohen lost them in the darkness a few seconds later. He held his breath as he waited for them to strike, praying that their sortie would be as effective as they all hoped…
And miraculously, it was. The horizon flashed with small, repeated explosions as the riders unleashed salvo after salvo of enchanted arrows at the flanks of the sprawling horde, driving the Chol into a tighter f
ormation like ants scurrying away from an open flame. Every few seconds an arrow would explode in the middle of the enemy throng instead, killing dozens of the monsters in a single strike. A human army probably would have panicked and reconsidered their strategy.
The Chol, unsurprisingly, did not. The horde was close enough now that Rohen’s half-elven eyes could make out some of the individual monsters, and there were a surprising number of them carrying bows and crossbows. They fired back at the griffons, forcing the riders to keep their distance…and then the Anointed joined in the retaliation. Strokes of magical lightning and spheres of magical flame lit up the night sky as the Chol channelers unleashed the fury of the Aether. One of the griffons was almost instantly disintegrated in a withering crossfire of sorcerous energy, and a second one was pelted out of the sky by a hail of arrows. The other four veered away and swooped back for the safety of Rimewreath’s walls.
“Archers!” General Galavir’s bellowing command thundered down from the turret and across the courtyard. The officers on the wall echoed his orders, and the lines of archers flanking Rohen on either side nocked arrows to their bowstrings. Given another week, Sehris might have been able to enchant some of their arrows, too, but now…
“Get ready,” Zin said, squeezing the dark elf’s hand. The sorceress channeled a spark of power through her fingers, allowing her Keeper to feed on the Aetheric energy within. A blue latticework of tattoos began to glow up his neck and all the way to his chin, and Rohen knew his friend’s arms and chest would be covered in the markings as well. It was a disturbing sight, but the power would grant Zin exceptional strength and speed as if he really were a vampire—at least, for a little while.
Sehris returned her focus to the battle and prepared to conjure a defensive barrier at a moment’s notice. Her sharp elven features were far more strained than normal; the Wailing was probably getting louder as the horde approached, and her training was about to be put to the test…
“Fire!”
The archers unleashed their first volley at the charging horde. Dozens upon dozens of green eyes went dark as a hail of arrows rained down upon the battlefield, but for every green pinprick the arrows extinguished, a hundred more glowed in their place. The officers called for another volley, and then another—
“Now!” Sehris said as she thrust out her hands and summoned a massive, shimmering bubble of energy over the barbican and part of the wall on either side. A barrage of Chol arrows and bolts arced out of the darkness and deflected harmlessly off the shield. The Anointed struck next—more fireballs and lightning bolts streaked toward the fortress and crashed into the magical barrier.
And somehow, it held.
“By the Guardian’s grace,” Zin breathed, crouching down beneath the battlements and shaking his head in wonder. “I almost forgot how amazing you are.”
“That was foolish,” Sehris told him, her cheek twitching as another volley of arrows struck the shield. “I’m the best there is, remember?”
Rohen smiled tightly. “How long can you keep this up?”
“As long as it takes.”
He placed a steadying hand on her shoulder. She was lying, naturally. Her arms were already trembling, and her violet eyes had turned almost bloodshot. In any normal battle against a human army, she would have been supported by several dozen other sorcerers. A single channeler couldn’t defend an entire fortress by herself, no matter how skilled or resolved she might have been.
“Where are their ladders?” Zin asked. “Where are their siege towers?”
Rohen looked down as the first wave of Dretches, packed tightly in formation behind a bulwark of iron shields, approached the fortress. He belatedly realized that Zin was right: the Chol didn’t appear to have any means of scaling the walls.
“I don’t know,” Rohen murmured, his hand squeezing the grip of his sword. A knot twisted in the pit of his stomach even as another volley of arrows cut down a hundred more Godcursed elves. Something was definitely wrong here. Everything he had ever read about the Chol said they were near-mindless beasts—except when they were being led by Anointed. The horde was far more organized than the rampaging groups they had fought through at Whitefeather Hold. They wouldn’t just stand outside the walls and die because they didn’t have ladders…
“Fire at will!” General Galavir’s voice bellowed from the turret. The archers on the walls began loosing their arrows as quickly as they could draw, killing more and more and more Chol—
And then frightened screams rang out from the courtyard. Rohen turned and looked behind them where the bulk of the Pact Army was forming up to brace the gate. Far off to his left, near the southwestern tower, a small squad of about a dozen soldiers were trapped in a frantic melee with a group of about twenty Chol.
“What…?” Rohen breathed. “How did they—”
Before he could even finish the sentence, a brilliant green light flashed deeper in the fortress. At first, he thought it was some kind of alchemical explosion, but when the initial afterimage of the flash faded, he realized that the lingering glow hadn’t come from fire or a detonation—it looked more like some kind of doorway.
And out of that doorway poured a hundred shrieking Chol.
“Guardian protect us,” he gasped.
The doorway closed a fraction of a second later, but more and more began opening throughout the fortress. Chol materialized out of literally nothing, and they instantly rushed forward and scythed down anyone in their paths. Rimewreath’s soldiers barely had time to turn around and figure out what was happening before the monsters were upon them.
“Gods, what is happening?” Zin breathed. “How…?”
Gritting his teeth, Rohen glanced up to the turret where General Galavir was frantically trying to shout orders to his officers. No one could possibly hear him over the explosions of magic and the shrieks of the Chol, however, and the army’s lines were rapidly collapsing. A group of Dretches were already rushing at the stairs on either side of the barbican. If left unopposed, they would flood up onto the walls and slaughter the archers from behind.
“Hold the stairs,” Rohen said. “We have to hold the stairs!”
“Shit,” Zin hissed. “But what about—”
“Keep firing!” Rohen called out to the archers on the barbican. “We’ll cover you!”
Clutching Varlothin in his right hand, he touched his bracer with the other. The Guardian’s Ward sprung into existence over his left forearm.
“I’ll take the left side,” Rohen said. “Can you handle the right?”
“I’m a Keeper, not a damn conscript,” Zin snarled as he drew his own sword and shield. “I’m faster and stronger than you’ll ever be.”
Rohen smiled tightly. “Then prove it. For Darenthi!”
Without waiting for a response, he raced toward the top of the stairs at the edge of the barbican. The archers in the southwestern tower fired down into the bailey to thin the herd, but they couldn’t possibly keep up. In a few seconds, Rohen was going to be the only floodgate in the way of the river.
He was more than ready. The first Chol to lunge at him met a quick and grizzly end: Rohen turned aside the thrusting spear with his shield, then drove his wraithblade straight through a rusty gap in its battered breastplate. Two more monsters rushed in past the corpse, so eager to slaughter a Templar that they carelessly slipped and stumbled in the gushing blood. Rohen slashed one in the head, carving open its skull like a melon, then turned and kicked the other one off the side of the stairs back into the courtyard.
There were more, of course—many, many more. Rohen planted his feet and braced himself for their onslaught, praying that the narrow staircase would allow him to bottleneck the monsters in front of him. In theory, he could hold this position indefinitely…or at least until fatigue inevitably caught up with him. There would be no reinforcements, no cavalry charging in with the break of dawn like in the old stories. The defenders of Rimewreath were on their own.
And the Culling was u
pon them.
***
Delaryn was sitting behind the storage crates, her hands clutching at the sides of her head, when she first heard the screams outside the tower. At first, she assumed that the Wailing had simply changed pitch—the telepathic voices that had started as chittering whispers had already transformed into maddening howls, and the longer she sat here, the more tenuous her grip on reality seemed. But when she forced herself to really focus on the door and the sounds beyond, she knew that the battle had suddenly taken a turn for the worse.
The Culling is here, her mother’s voice said above the din. The fortress is lost.
Delaryn gasped and stood up. The sounds of battle were getting clearer—she could hear the clash of swords and the cries of the wounded. Were the Chol inside the gate already? How was that even possible?
Your friends are doomed without your help. Only your power can save them.
The tower floor rumbled as if an earthquake had just struck the fortress, and Delaryn raced out of the storage room and into the workshop. Her mother’s voice had muted the Wailing into a distant whisper somehow, but the cacophony beyond the door in front of her wasn’t much of an improvement. She thought about Rohen and Sehris and Zin being trapped out there…
“I can’t go outside,” she whispered. “If anyone recognizes me…”
The Chol will slaughter everyone if you do not stop them. You must get to your friends, my daughter. Only the power of the Pale can shepherd them to safety.
Delaryn clenched her teeth and opened the door. A rush of bitter cold wind swept over her, but she clutched her cloak around her body and raced out onto the curtain wall. The battle was going even worse than she imagined—all across the walls and throughout the bailey, the Chol were swarming over the Pact soldiers in droves. Even to her untrained eyes, the defending lines had completely crumbled. The battle was little more than a sprawling, chaotic melee with every man fighting for himself.
She didn’t understand how any of this was possible—Rimewreath’s walls were completely intact, and the gate was closed. But then a sudden flash of familiar green light drew her attention, and she turned her head just in time to see another group of Chol seemingly appear out of thin air before diving into the melee.