The Last Rune 5: The Gates of Winter

by Mark Anthony

  Travis halted. A woman stood in the open doorway. She was petite, though too stern for prettiness. Her brown hair was short as he remembered it, and her uniform wasn't so different than what she used to wear in Castle City, though it was the uniform of a security guard now, not a sheriff's deputy. A crescent moon was sewn just above her left shirt pocket.

  Broken glass crunched under her boots as she took a step forward. She held a gun in her hands.

  “Hello there, Travis,” Jace Windom said, and pointed the gun at his chest.

  49.

  Fires burned in the distance.

  Durge stood atop the wall, peering through the gloom that filled Shadowsdeep, trying to see what they were doing. It had been twelve hours since the Pale King's army had withdrawn from the wall, and they were gathering themselves again for another assault, he was sure of it.

  A league out into Shadowsdeep, a column of green flame rose up to the clouds. It blazed for a moment, rending the shadows, then went out. They were formulating some new deviltry, only what could it be? Never had there been so long a pause between their attacks on the keep. Yet as sure as water flowed and stone cracked, they would come again.

  Five times the army of the Pale King had thrown itself against the high wall of Gravenfist Keep, and five times Queen Grace and her men had turned them back.

  Durge had lost count of the hours—or was it days?—that had passed since the Rune Gate had opened and trumpets had sounded, calling the men of Gravenfist to arms. Clouds filled the sky, black as ink, blotting out sun and stars, so there was no way to know whether it was day or night, and acrid smoke hung on the air, burning lungs and making eyes water, casting a perpetual gloom over the world. While torches burned inside the keep, behind curtained windows, they could not light torches atop the wall, lest they make easy targets for the enemy.

  Not that the arrows of the opposing forces could reach so high, but they had other darts at their disposal: balls of red sparks propelled by magic. The balls wove back and forth through the air until they struck a man. Once they did, they burned into his flesh, and the only way to stop them from digging deeper was to cut them out.

  In the second wave of attacks, one of the fiery balls had struck a Calavaner who stood atop the wall near Durge. It had hit the man in the foot and had quickly burned its way upward. Durge had swung his greatsword, lopping the man's leg off at the knee to stop it. Only then another one of the orbs had struck him in the face. Durge had never heard a man scream like that before. He had clawed at his eyes as sparks shot out of them, then his writhing carried him to the edge of the wall. Durge had tried to grab for him, but he slipped in the blood from the stump of the man's leg. The Calavaner had fallen over the edge, his screams merging with the jabbering of the horde below.

  It was Master Graedin who discovered, during the third assault, that the fiery orbs were attracted to motion, and that if one stood still the things would fly past. Once the balls flew over the wall, the runespeakers were able to speak the rune of breaking, directing the force of the magic at the orbs so that they burst apart and vanished.

  Where the balls of sparks came from was still a mystery, but while it was difficult to get a good look in the gloom, Durge had seen more than feydrim among the Pale King's army. There were men among them as well. No doubt many of them were ironhearts, and some had to be wizards. Logic dictated that if the runespeakers could dispel the fiery orbs, then it was rune magic that had created them.

  That there were men in the Pale King's army was a startling and horrible realization. They must have dwelled in Imbrifale for a thousand years, since the last ride of the Pale King. Durge could not help wondering what had happened to them in the centuries since. Were any of them still truly alive? Or were they given new hearts, tiny lumps of iron, the moment they emerged from the womb?

  Another gout of green fire leaped up toward the black sky, then died back down. Durge pressed a hand to his chest. The pain was constant now, jabbing between his lungs, though at times, when the feydrim surged against the wall of the keep, it became fiercer yet, setting his entire body afire, so that Durge would think he had been struck by one of the fiery orbs.

  You should throw yourself over the wall, Durge, as that Calavaner did. It was no accident he went over the edge; he knew he was doomed, and so do you . . .

  “Sir Durge, there you are.”

  Durge lowered his hand and turned around. A shape appeared in the gloom: Sir Tarus, walking along the top of the wall.

  “Yes,” Durge said. “Here I am.”

  Tarus halted beside him. There was a bandage on the young knight's cheek. In the fourth wave of attacks, while their attention was focused on the enemy below, another threat had descended from the sky. Hundreds of ravens had swarmed down from the clouds. They were great birds, their wingspans as long as a man's arm. They had pecked with beaks and clawed with talons. In the confusion of beating them back, several men had fallen from the wall, and more might have done so had the witches not woven a spell that outlined the ravens in shimmering witchlight, making them easy targets for the bowmen. The ravens had come again in the last assault, and one had clawed at Tarus's cheek. Durge had seen it: a dirty, ragged gash.

  “How is your wound?”

  Tarus touched his bandaged cheek. “Sister Senrael said that women will find the scar alluring. I told her that was something I really wasn't concerned with.” He frowned. “She seemed to find that funny for some reason. She was still cackling away when I left her.”

  It was funny. Tarus had heard the Call of the Bull. The thought of women chasing after the handsome knight was an amusing one, and Durge found himself grinning. It was strange; for so many years he had thought he had forgotten how to smile. Why was it now, when things were at their most hopeless, that he had suddenly remembered how?

  Tarus groaned. “Not you, too.”

  “Do not fear,” Durge said. “I am certain not only women will favor your new countenance.”

  The red-haired knight peered into the murk. “Can you see what they're doing out there?”

  “The smoke is too thick on the air.”

  “Maybe the Spiders will see something. Queen Grace has sent them back to the secret door, to open it a crack and peer out. Don't worry—she sent All-master Oragien with them to seal it back up if any feydrim try to get through.” Tarus took a step closer. “So you know why I'm here, don't you?”

  Durge pretended he didn't.

  “I have orders from Queen Grace. You're to return to the keep at once and get some rest.”

  “I will rest later.”

  Tarus let out a frustrated growl. “She's your queen just as she's mine, Durge. You have to obey her. Besides, she's right—you have to rest. You're stronger than any of us, I won't argue that, but even you can't go on forever.”

  His hand crept back up to his chest. No, he couldn't go on forever, could he?

  Tarus gave him a sharp look. “Brother, are you well?”

  “I'm fine,” Durge said. “And I will do as our queen orders. I will go rest—until the next assault begins. But before I leave the wall, tell me the state of our men. Have you spoken to Commander Paladus?”

  “Not long ago. He was in the barracks, going among the wounded to lend them heart. Although I have to say, I think King Kel has him bested at that.” Tarus laughed. “Did you see him in the last assault? He was grabbing ravens out of the air and breaking their necks with his bare hands. Then one of those fire balls struck him, right in the beard, and set it ablaze. I've never heard such cursing in my life, but Kel's hag was there, and she jumped forward and cut his beard off with a dagger, quick as that. Needless to say, he was less than pleased—I gather he hasn't cut his beard since it started growing—but he got off with no more than a scorched chin, so I'd say he's lucky. The witches were putting salve on it while I was there, and he was telling jokes that would make a sea captain turn red. Needless to say, he had all the men roaring.”

  Durge was glad to hear that. Laug
hter would help wounds mend faster. And many of those men, despite their injuries, would soon be called upon to return to the walls.

  “How many?” he said. “How many have we lost so far?”

  Tarus's smile vanished. “In all the attacks, fourscore and eight. We've gotten better at dodging the orbs, but not perfect, and the ravens have made it all the harder. And I think the enemy has other spells at work as well. I've seen men drop dead without a mark on their bodies. All-master Oragien says they may have runespeakers uttering the rune of death down there. It's a long way for their magic to reach all the way up to the wall, but apparently some of their wizards have succeeded.”

  “Fourscore and eight gone,” Durge said. “And how many wounded and unable to fight?”

  “At least twice that number, though the witches are working on that, and Queen Grace herself. She's in the barracks, healing those with the gravest wounds. When she's near, it's like a light shining in the dark. The men love her. They would give their lives for her.”

  “I imagine she would rather they keep them,” Durge said. He considered the knight's words and made the calculations in his mind. “So we cannot hold out much longer, then. Two more assaults, perhaps three. After that our defense of the wall will go thin. We're already out of naphtha to rain down on them, and we cannot cast enough stones to crush them all. We'll not be able to push their ladders back as fast as they raise them. When that happens, all is lost.”

  Durge knew he had a reputation, like all Embarrans, for being overly gloomy, but he did not think he was overstating the facts, and from his expression neither did Sir Tarus.

  “Commander Paladus and Sir Vedarr have said much the same thing. If King Boreas and his warriors don't arrive soon, the enemy will swarm the keep. The Pale King will ride across all of Falengarth. There'll be no stopping him.”

  As if to punctuate Tarus's words, more flames erupted into the sky, igniting the clouds with sickly light. It was hard to be sure, but for a moment Durge thought he saw spindly shapes casting long shadows across the vale.

  “Come,” he said, “let us obey the wishes of our queen.”

  However, as Durge lay on his cot in the darkness of his cell, he could not shut his eyes. Instead he stared at the darkness, and it seemed he could see things there. He saw the livid green fires, and the shapes of ravens swooping, and in their midst a tall figure clad in black steel. Spikes rose from his armor and from his great horned helm. Around his neck was an iron necklace in which shone an ice-blue stone. Eyes like coals burned in a lifeless face. The figure reached out a pale hand. . . .

  Durge sat up, sweating despite the bitter cold. It was a dream, it had to be. He must have fallen asleep. His pulse thudded in his ears. He groped beneath his tunic, feeling his chest. His heartbeat was rapid, but strong and even. Only for how long?

  “It is time, Durge of Embarr,” he whispered to the dark. “You should do as that man from Calavan did. You should throw yourself over the wall before it is too late.”

  Lady Grace believed he didn't know about the splinter of iron in his chest. However, old as he had gotten, his ears were still sharp. He had heard Grace speaking with the witch Mirda in Calavere; he knew what had been done to him two Midwinters ago, though all these leagues he had done nothing that might cause Grace to think otherwise.

  This duplicity gnawed at him, but she had never asked him what he knew, and so he was not bound to tell her, and it seemed to ease her mind to think he was unaware of what was happening. That was reason enough to keep it from her.

  Or was it something else that compelled him to keep silent?

  What a fool you are, Durge of Stonebreak. What a prideful old fool.

  Two Midwinters ago, he had allowed himself to believe he had slain the feydrim which attacked him that night while he waited alone in an antechamber—even though afterward he couldn't fully remember how he had done it. However, it wasn't his memory that had failed him that night; it was his heart.

  You should have died that night, Durge. Perhaps you even did, before they put the splinter into you.

  However, the wicked magic had kept him alive. That it had not taken him immediately was only a small and bitter consolation. In the time since, the splinter had worked its way steadily toward his heart. When it finally pierced that weak and mortal organ, he would suffer a fate far worse than any death. He would become a thing of evil, a slave of the Pale King.

  Only, the strange thing was, he couldn't quite make himself believe that. And that was what kept him from going over the edge of the wall.

  It wasn't that he doubted Lady Grace; never in the time he had served her had he known her to be wrong. All the same, he couldn't help doubting. For even when the pain stabbed at it like a hot knife, his heart felt true.

  Durge loved Lady Grace as his noble mistress; he could no more imagine betraying her than lopping off his own head with his sword. And there was another he loved. Not as he loved Grace, who was his queen. Rather, he loved this other with a tenderness he had not thought himself capable, not since he was a young man. Not since he had buried his wife and son in the cold ground. Only he was wrong; such feelings were still possible for him, as he had discovered the moment he first laid eyes on her brave, beautiful face.

  Only you'll never see Lady Aryn again, and it's just as well. She has an affection for you, yes, but as for a favored uncle and no more. And even if you're wrong, even if somehow she could have loved one so old and worn as you, what would she do if she knew what lies in your chest?

  No, it was better he never saw the horror in her eyes. For that, more certainly than any splinter of enchanted iron, would break his heart.

  The shadows still swirled above him. A pale face leered at him out of the dark. He could almost hear a voice, whispering in his ear. . . .

  Durge threw aside the covers and stood up. Staying abed was pointless. He could not sleep; there was only one rest left to him, and he was not ready for that. By all the gods, he was not ready yet. There was too much to do.

  He picked up an object from the table next to the bed: a silver star with six points. It was the deputy's badge he had worn in Castle City—a symbol that represented his vow to protect others. He tucked the badge inside his tunic, then strapped his greatsword on his back and headed out the door.

  As the wind struck him, he remembered he had left his cloak in his cell, but he did not turn back for it. These last years, since he had passed his fortieth winter, the cold had seemed to bother him more and more, seeping into his joints and bones. Now he suffered the cold not all. Bits of ice danced on the air, scouring his cheeks, but he did not feel them.

  A group of foot soldiers passed him, marching toward the wall. They clamped their fists to their chests in salute.

  “Have you seen Queen Grace?” he asked them.

  “She left the barracks an hour ago, my lord,” one of the men said. “Perhaps she has returned to the keep.”

  Durge headed that way. The wind hissed in his ear. It seemed he could almost hear a voice in it.

  The guards at the door of the keep nodded to him, and he passed down a corridor into the main hall. There he found, not Grace, but rather Master Graedin.

  “Hello, Sir Durge,” the young runespeaker said, his voice cheerful, though his homely face was smudged with dirt and lined with weariness.

  Durge came to a halt in the center of the hall. The rushes that strewed the floor crunched under his boots; they had turned dry and brittle. The torches seemed to throb. Durge held a hand to his head.

  Graedin cocked his head. “Is something the matter, Sir Durge? Were you injured in the last assault?”

  Durge shook his head. “Where is the queen?”

  “I think she has taken a brief respite in her chamber. The guards said she would return shortly. I hope she does—I have something important to show her.”

  Despite his excitement, Graedin's voice sounded dull and distant. Durge licked his lips; his mouth had gone dry. “What is it you wish to show
her?”

  “It's quite promising,” Graedin said, his eyes lighting up. “I've been observing the balls of flame the enemy has sent over the wall, trying to fathom how they are created. I think I've gotten close to discovering the secret. At first I thought they must be bound runes, but I don't believe that's the case. I think they're created by speaking several runes—fire, air, swiftness, and others—in a single incantation. Here, let me show you.”

  Before Durge could question the wisdom of it, Graedin held out both hands, then uttered several arcane words in rapid sequence. A ball of sparks, not unlike those that the enemy conjured, appeared between his hands. Graedin smiled—

  —then cried out in dismay as the orb burst apart. Sparks flew in every direction, whizzing across the hall and bouncing off the stone walls. Dozens of them fell to the floor, and in seconds flames sprang up all around. The dried rushes had caught fire. Graedin stared, jaw agape.

  “Water!” Durge cried as the flames leaped higher, running in search of a bucket. “We need water.”

  “Sharn!” spoke a commanding voice.

  Like rain from a clear sky, water precipitated from thin air and poured down on the floor. There was a hissing of steam, and when the air cleared Durge saw that the fire was out.

  “What are you doing, Master Graedin?” Oragien intoned in a stern voice as he strode into the hall, leaning on a wooden staff. “Do you mean to do the enemy's work for them and burn the keep down from within?”

  Graedin's gray robe was blackened in several patches. “No, All-master,” he stuttered. “I was just trying to conjure a ball of fire as the enemy has, to use against them. Only I think perhaps I got the order of the runes wrong.”

  “Evidently,” Oragien said, then his face grew a fraction less stern. “I am glad you seek to find a way to help the queen in battle, but perhaps next time you could see fit to do it outdoors.”

  “Yes, All-master,” Graedin said, hanging his head. “I won't do it—by Olrig!” He jerked his head up, eyes wide.

  The anger on Oragien's face was replaced by concern. “What is it?”