by Mark Anthony
“All right, gentleman,” Grace said. “Aldeth tells us the Pale King is coming with his new toys. So let's get ready to play.”
Stretchers were called for and brought, and the still-unconscious forms of Master Graedin and All-master Oragien were carried to the barracks where the witches would care for them. More men were dispatched down the passage to the secret door to see how the runespeakers and warriors there fared. The report came back that all of them lived, though they had been knocked unconscious. In their haste to enter the keep, the feydrim had not molested them further.
Grace felt relief, as well as amazement. Despite what had been done to him, Durge hadn't succumbed to evil, and neither would she. The beginnings of a plan formed in her mind.
“Your Majesty,” Aldeth said, holding a rag to his wounded forehead, “you must send more runespeakers to the secret door at once. We must close it, and quickly.”
“No,” Grace said. “We're not closing the door.”
The Spider staggered. “Then what are you going to do?”
She gripped the hilt of Fellring. “I'm going to send my army through it.”
Grace described her plan to Tarus and Paladus, and the two soldiers raced from the hall to relay the orders. Grace started after them, then stumbled. Her jaw ached, and her head felt light. She touched her shoulder; the wound still oozed blood.
Aryn caught her elbow, steadying her. “You must go see Senrael, sister. You must not lose any more blood.”
“Not yet, at least,” Grace said, gazing at the rune embedded in the floor.
Aryn spoke to Aldeth. “Take the queen to the barracks. And have your own wound seen to.” She met Grace's eyes. “Don't worry, sister. I'll tell Teravian what you plan to do.”
“And will he agree?”
“He may be the king of Calavan, but you're the queen of Malachor. You outrank him.” Despite her haunted eyes, Aryn smiled. “I know he's not his father, but he's a good man.”
Grace nodded. “I believe you.”
She and Aldeth made their way to the barracks. Clouds swirled in wild circles above; the air smelled like snow and ash.
Lursa met them as they entered the infirmary. Scores of soldiers had been laid on cots, and on blankets on the floor when the cots had been filled. The most common wound was from the balls of runic fire the enemy had sent over the walls.
“We've created a salve that soothes the burns and helps them heal,” Lursa said.
Senrael clucked her tongue. “But we can hardly brew it quickly enough. I have blisters from stirring the pot!”
Lursa sat Aldeth down and examined the wound on his head, while Senrael started to lead Grace away toward a private chamber.
“No, treat me here, where the men can see me.”
Senrael gave her a sharp look. “As you wish, sister.”
Grace didn't want the wounded men to think she was getting better treatment; there were no finer healers on this world than these witches, and Grace wanted her followers to know that. However, she did allow Senrael to raise a sheet as a curtain while she unlaced Grace's gown and dressed the wound in her shoulder.
“Don't bind it too tightly,” Grace said, and though Senrael gave her an odd look, the old witch did as instructed.
When it was done, Grace asked how Oragien and Graedin were doing. The All-master slept now, but Graedin was conscious. The young runespeaker sat up on his cot as Grace approached. His face was pale, but his eyes were clear.
“Your Majesty,” he said. “I've been trying to go to you, but they wouldn't let me leave.”
“For good reason, I'm certain.”
“No, you don't understand, Your Majesty. The key to the magic of Gravenfist—I know what it is. It's the rune of blood in—”
“In the hall in the tower.” She smiled at his shocked expression. “I know, Graedin. Durge showed it to me.”
He frowned, then winced and touched his head. “There's something I feel I should remember about Sir Durge, but it's all so foggy. I can't quite recall what happened after I saw the rune in the floor.”
There was no need for him to. “Rest now,” she said.
“But I've heard the trumpets. The enemy comes.”
She pushed him back down to the cot. “Your part in this battle is done, Master Graedin. Without you, we'd have no hope at all, but your only duty now is to rest.”
He started to protest, but whether it was something the witches had given him, or some power in Grace's voice, his eyes fluttered shut. Grace rose and saw Aldeth approaching, a bandage wrapped around his head.
She touched his arm. “Are you sure you're well enough to go out there?”
“No, the blow to my head has clearly knocked me silly.” He bared his rotten teeth in a grin. “I should be terrified at the thought of fighting the Pale King. Only I'm not.”
Grace wasn't either. “Don't worry, Aldeth. I think we've all gone a bit mad. I think it's the only thing that gives us any sort of a chance.”
55.
It was the most terrible day of Grace's life; it was the most glorious day. The glint of fire on steel, the banners bright against the dark sky, the sharp tang of smoke, the call of trumpets echoing off the mountains—all of these things were clear and vivid. It was as if she had never really seen, had never really lived, before that day.
She stood upon the wall and watched the enemy march toward the keep—a force far larger than those of the previous five assaults combined. There were feydrim, and pale wraithlings, and lumbering creatures like gorillas, only larger. Their fur was thick and white, and yellow tusks curved down from their jaws.
The beasts were trolls, King Kel said. He laughed and raised his bow—a massive weapon as tall as a man, and which none besides Kel had strength to pull—and released an arrow. It flew with such speed that it struck one of the trolls two full furlongs from the wall. It passed through the beast, felling it. The army trampled over the corpse as it advanced.
There were men among the army as well—wizards in crimson robes who conjured the blazing orbs of fire and sent them up and over the wall. There were women with them, witches in black who had learned to twist the power of the Weirding, to pervert it to their cruel will. All of them, men and women alike, were dead, hearts of iron in their chests.
Like a dark tide surging toward a shore, the army marched toward the keep. Then, just when Grace was certain there could be nothing more, the stones of the wall shook beneath her feet, and a rumbling noise drowned out all other sounds.
Out of the smoke and gloom, three towers appeared. The towers were fashioned of iron, not wood, and lit from within by fire, so that Grace could see a confusion of gears and pulleys moving inside them. Each one was a hundred feet high—as tall as the wall—and they belched steam as they lurched forward, rolling on great wheels that crushed to a pulp any not swift enough to get out of the way.
Balls of sparks shot through the air. The men raised their bows, ready to fire, waiting for Grace's command. She did not give it. She had to wait until they were close, until all of the Pale King's army had entered the sharp-walled defile below the keep. Kel's arrows might reach them, but the bows of the other men would not. However, it was more than that. The only way they could win this battle was to lose it first. The enemy had to reach the keep.
The siege engines lurched closer. Shouts rose from the dark army—jeers and taunts meant to boil the blood. Still Grace's men held.
More of the fiery orbs shot over the wall. A dozen soldiers fell, blazing like shooting stars. Others dropped dead where they stood; it was not the wizards who worked that terrible magic, but the witches in black. One by one they sought out the threads of men who stood on the wall and cut them short.
However, their task was made difficult by the coven of witches behind the wall. Lursa, Senrael, and the others stood in a circle, doing what they could to unravel the weavings of the dark witches. Grisla stood with them, so that their number was thirteen. Grace could feel the magic that radiated out from the circle—the sh
immering, wholesome power of life.
The towers rolled close to the wall, grinding feydrim beneath their wheels. Bridges extended from their summits, reaching toward the top of the wall. Still Grace raised her arm, holding her men back. The gap between the bridges and the wall closed. Below, the dark ocean of the Pale King's army surged against the walls.
“Now!” Grace called, lowering her arm.
Feydrim rushed over the bridges to the top of the wall with wraithlings behind them, and the warriors loosed a storm of arrows. The air was thick with the shafts, buzzing like angry insects. Hundreds of the gangly feydrim died, their carcasses falling onto their brethren below. More swarmed up the siege towers to take their place. Already the creatures had reached the wall and were beginning to force the men back from one of the bridges. In minutes all would be lost.
“Hold them back!” she called to King Kel and Commander Paladus. “Keep them on the wall but don't let them get past it!”
The two men nodded, then turned back to the battle. Grace climbed down a ladder and raced toward the keep's main tower. As she passed inside, she slipped her fingers beneath the bandage on her shoulder and dug them into the freshly scabbed wound. There was pain, then blood flowed.
She burst through the doors of the main hall. Men were waiting, forming a circle around the rune of blood, guarding it. They let her pass to the center. Grace knelt on the floor and looked at her hand. It was wet with blood.
Now, Aryn! she called out across the Weirding. Now, Teravian! Ride forth—drive them toward the keep!
She thrust her hand against the rune of blood.
This time she was ready for it. She was the keep again; its power was hers to wield. With a thought she lashed out. The runes embedded in the stones of the keep blazed to life. Creatures of evil screamed, burned, died. The feydrim and wraithlings atop the walls perished, as did those who were pressed against the wall below by the force of their kin pushing behind them. The creatures stopped prowling across the bridges from the siege towers; the dark army started to pull back from the wall.
Trumpets rang out. The slaves of the Pale King turned around, and they saw an army behind them.
Grace could see everything as if she were an eagle flying above. A thousand horsemen thundered toward the defile, quickly cutting off the enemy's retreat into Shadowsdeep. Three thousand foot soldiers marched behind, spears lowered, driving the enemy back toward the wall. The warriors had made it through the secret passage in time and had come upon the Pale King's minions from behind, flanking them.
Two figures rode at the fore of the army. One was a grim-faced young man on a black horse, but it was the young woman the warriors looked to. She shone in the gloom on her white horse. A shield was strapped to her right shoulder, and in her left hand she held a sword. She pointed the sword at a knot of feydrim, and the creatures flew back as if tossed by invisible hands.
Shouts rose on the air, louder than the din of battle. Aryn! Queen Aryn!
Again the trumpets sounded. The army of warriors pressed forward, pushing the Pale King's slaves back toward the wall. Once the creatures touched its stones, the keep's magic took them, burning them to ashes. It was like a hammer crushing the enemy against an anvil.
Wave after wave of monsters were pushed against the wall where the magic consumed them. Some of the warriors fell, from claw or arrow or deadly spell, but more marched through the secret entrance to take their places. Sir Tarus rode with them, and Grace watched the three fight together. Tarus was skilled with his lance, using it to drive the feydrim before him. Teravian was not unskilled with his sword, but he gave it up in favor of wielding the power of the Weirding. He and Aryn wove a net of power between them, using it to force the enemy back against the walls.
Finally, the heap of ashes before the wall was a drift ten feet high. Soot choked the air. Still the warriors pushed the enemy back against the wall, and still the monsters perished, thousands upon thousands of them.
The end was in sight. Shadowsdeep was empty; all of the enemy lay in the defile between keep and warriors. There were but a few hundred of them now. The siege engines stood empty, their fires burnt out, their gears still. The call of trumpets sounded again as the men realized victory was at hand.
Weary, dizzy, Grace pulled her hand away from the floor. Her vision collapsed back inward; she was a woman again. Before her, the rune of blood still shone. The magic of Gravenfist had been awakened from its slumber; it would not cease until the enemy was no more. Grace staggered to her feet.
“What will you do now, Your Majesty?” one of the men who had stood guard asked her.
“I ride into Shadowsdeep.”
Grace made her way to the secret passage, where a horse was waiting. She rode down the tunnel and out into the vale. She glimpsed the silver-and-blue banner of Calavan and urged her mount into a gallop, pounding across the battlefield. Cheers rose up as the men saw her. One of the guards rode behind her, bearing the banner of Malachor.
Grace reached Aryn and Teravian. Tarus was with them, a grin on his face. The young king and queen were more somber; all the same, their eyes shone.
“We've done it, Your Majesty!” Tarus said. “The Pale King's army is no more.”
It was impossible, but it was true. The warriors circled around the last knot of feydrim. They didn't bother to drive the creatures against the wall, but instead slew them with lance and sword. It was over. The blue sheen faded from the wall of the keep; the magic of Gravenfist was quiescent again. A great roar rose from the army, echoed from the keep above.
“Your plan was a sound one, Your Majesty,” Teravian said. His gray eyes were thoughtful. “King Boreas would have been proud of you.”
Aryn glanced at Teravian. “He would be proud of all of us. And so would Durge.” She looked older than Grace remembered. All traces of the mild, tentative girl she had been were gone. She was a woman now, a queen. Yet she was still Aryn.
“So now what do we do?” Teravian said.
If she hadn't been so exhausted, Grace might have laughed. For so long, all her thought, all her being, had been focused on fighting this battle. Only now did she realize she had never expected to survive it, for she had no idea what came next. She opened her mouth, unsure just what she would say.
It didn't matter. A deafening sound rent the air, like the call of a horn, only at once more shrill and more thrumming. The air trembled. All around, men held their hands to their ears. Slowly, the sound faded to a low sound of rumbling; the ground vibrated like the skin of a drum. The men turned toward Shadowsdeep, confusion on their faces. Then confusion gave way to a new emotion: fear.
Sir Tarus's grin vanished. Teravian and Aryn stared, eyes wide. An unseen hand squeezed Grace's heart.
She was a fool. How could they believe they had fought all of the Pale King's army when they had not seen the Pale King himself? Her hand sweated around the hilt of Fellring.
He's coming, Grace. He's coming for you.
The army that marched toward them made all the others that had come before it seem no more menacing than a swarm of flies. It advanced across Shadowsdeep like a black wave, stretching from wall to wall of the vale. There were not ten thousand creatures, but ten times ten thousand. And still they kept coming, pouring out of the Rune Gate, as though it were a mouth breathing a fog of darkness.
A hundred siege engines jutted up from the churning sea, fire spurting in gouts from their summits. Feydrim, trolls, and men all marched under the black banners of the enemy. The sound of drums shattered the air, and the gloom was sundered by the light of a thousand wraithlings.
The Warriors of Vathris stared, unmoving. The cheers had turned to silence. No orders were given, no swords and spears were raised. It was they who had been caught this time, between army and keep, between hammer and anvil. Already the vanguard of the dark force had come level with the entrance to the secret passage. There was no retreat, and against this force they could not prevail.
The prophecies were t
rue. The Warriors of Vathris would fight gloriously in the Final Battle. And they would lose.
“What do we do, Grace?” Aryn said beside her. Her voice was not panicked. Instead it was quiet.
Grace shook her head. There was nothing they could do, save die. We're coming, Durge! she called out in her mind.
A fear such as she had never felt before pierced her. At the head of the army, on a black mount twice the size of a horse, rode a terrible figure. Spikes jutted from his armor, and on his snowy brow was a crown wrought into the twin shapes of antlers. In his hand was a scepter of iron.
The scaly mount tossed its head and snorted fire. It stamped its hooves, sending off sparks as it turned in Grace's direction. So it had seen her. The Pale King rode toward Grace, his eyes two hot coals in his white face. An iron necklace hung against his breast, and in it was embedded . . .
. . . nothing.
A note of confusion sounded in Grace's mind. Shouldn't there have been a stone in his necklace? A Great Stone?
Fear dulled her brain; she couldn't think. Fellring. She had to draw the sword—it was her only hope—but she couldn't move. Beside her, the others were frozen. Even the horses stood still. The dread majesty of the Pale King paralyzed them all.
The dark army jabbered and jeered. The beast the Pale King rode drew near. Berash raised his iron scepter. His crimson eyes burned into Grace, and she bowed her head. Who was she to stand against one so great?
There was a booming sound, like a clap of thunder. The sound struck Grace, ringing in her head, and for a moment she wondered if that was it, if the Pale King's scepter was shattering her skull.
New shouts rang out: the terrified cries of men. And of monsters.
Dazed, Grace raised her head. The Pale King still held the scepter above her, but now he gazed up at the sky. Grace looked up as well.
Above Shadowsdeep, the clouds boiled, then parted, revealing a cold blue sky. Dawn had come at last—only there was something wrong. A dark line ran across the sky from east to west, like a jagged crack. Men cried out. Feydrim barked and whined. The Pale King's eyes blazed with a new hatred.