The day wore on, and Rayna, dizzy with the thinning air, came to the end of the wolf path, still alive. She could celebrate this later, she hoped. For now, another obstacle stood in her way: a sheer cliff-face twenty tail-lengths high. She had never scaled anything so tall in her life. She had prowled on boulders as a pup, finding it easy enough. She'd had to climb in the Pass of Kiriathin, as well, but that did not compare to the challenge that rose before her, with its unheeding rock and ice-wreathed crevices.
Rayna squinted at the sun through her leather eye protection. She had four fingers of daylight left. Taking Lumae’s advice, she settled against the bottom of the cliff for a short rest. Better to sleep now and move through the frigid night. But try as she might, sleep would not come. Every time she came close, the voices rose in volume and persistence. She had to climb.
She stood, dusting her hands to test her gloves' friction before searching out the path with the most likely looking hand and foot holds. Twenty tail-lengths, about five times her own height, was all that separated her from the Eye of Heaven. Another time, such a task might have seemed easy, or at least possible. But at that moment, when the cold and fatigue had stripped her of any feeling, when her head swam with disequilibrium, when her lungs burned as if she were running, nothing had ever seemed less possible. Rayna stretched her frozen joints, settling on her first set of holds. She would put one hand over the other until she was done, either in death or in victory.
She crammed her gloved fingers into the crevices above her head, dragging her aching body upward with a grunt. Her boots scrambled for purchase, finding it in time to take the pressure off her arms. She wanted to rest here, but the longer she waited, the more her negligible energy would be used up. Rayna pushed against the bone cold rock, extending her right arm as far as she could reach. This time, when she pulled herself up, a screaming pain tore her shoulder. Still she held on, pulling until she reached the next hold. She continued until her own shouts were louder than the voices. Her yells turned to a wolf-like snarl, and it took everything she had to keep her claws from extending, slicing through her gloves. Three times she slipped on the ice, but held on, never daring to look down. If she fell, the narrow wolf path would not catch her from such a height. She would tumble down and down, cracking her skull and snapping her bones until death released her.
Rayna gulped breaths more out of habit than anything else; the air was so thin, she might as well have been climbing underwater. Blood pooled in her boots and gloves, sticky and blessedly warm until the frozen air stole its heat. Still she climbed. Her scraped knees knocked against the sharp points of rock, opening her scabs, leaving more blood as tribute to the mountain. It was hard to know if her spinning head was from the lack of fresh air, the height, or the blood loss. Still she climbed.
Anyone else might have given up. They might have embraced the promise of death, the ecstasy of letting go. Rayna may have done that, were it not for the ancient, primal strength running through her veins–the strength of the wolf. It was the same survival instinct that allowed wolves stuck under fallen limbs to gnaw off their own legs. More than that, it was the power of her bond with Channon. No amount of pain would make her forsake him. She would break her body beyond repair if she could have him back, ripping and tearing anything in her way, giving the mountain all the blood it could suck into its limestone depths. She would not be stopped when she was so close.
Finally, Rayna glimpsed the top of the cliff face. Two tail-lengths were left to conquer. She threw her arm up with a guttural roar and pulled, the promise of relief too incredible to believe. Her left hand grasped the last handhold, leveraging her weight against it.
The ledge to which her fingers clung fell away. Ice showered her face as all her body weight swung to one side. It was too much for her hold. Her other hand broke free. Her stomach jumped into her throat, her legs scrabbled against the mountain, and her arms flailed forward, finding nothing to grip. She was falling.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Rhael woke to the first red rays of sunshine creeping beneath his tent walls. The days grew colder and shorter. They would have to attack before the heavier snows came, complicating matters. He had half-expected some pathetic plea from Bayne and his savages, but no such messages had come. With the exception of a single wolf, presumably a spy, that Nero and the camp guards had let escape, there had been no sign that the Fenearens wished for contact. Bayne must have known Rhael’s terms of surrender would be merciless, and thought it best to fight. Besides, he likely wanted to avenge his precious Rayna.
Rhael propped himself on his elbows, glancing at the other side of his pallet. For one foolish moment, he'd expected to find Morna there. But he was alone. Morna woke beside another now, in the traitor’s bed to which Rhael had ordered her. The thought of that filthy savage’s hands running over her clamped Rhael’s stomach in irons. Perhaps he should have told her the whole truth about why he had forced her to be with another. Morna might have understood then, but she also might have seen his choice as some act of love, and that would not do. It was safer that she hated him.
Rhael went to his basin. The icy water he splashed on his face rid him of such sentimental thoughts. He dressed, pulled back his hair with a stretch of rawhide, and strode from his tent. The morning routine was well underway. Servants built fires from the timber they had cleared to make camp. Soldiers drank their coffee, gambling and laughing. All bowed, pounding their chests in salute as Rhael passed through the tent aisles. But he fixed his gaze above. The sun continued its bloody climb into a sky pale with snow.
Now that Terayan’s men had arrived, Rhael’s army had swelled to nearly fourteen thousand, not to mention a thousand Da’ Gammorn. According to Nero, they would outnumber the Fenearen fighting force handily. Even so, Rhael had sent for another two thousand Corsair mercenaries. Years of planning, of negotiating with Terayan, the irritating business of kidnapping Rayna, was finally done. What was left–the fighting, the carnage, the glory–would make all the tedium worthwhile. In a short while, he would meet Bayne on the battlefield. Rhael would make sure Bayne lived long enough to see his pathetic hopes for victory crushed and bloodied. Bayne would see his people suffer and die, and if Rhael had the chance, he would kill Bayne's beloved Silverine in front of him. Only after Bayne saw his country and pack destroyed would Rhael take the Alpha's life.
“My lord?”
One of Rhael's commanders, Captain Ioren Ellis, stood before him. The man was too old to be of use in the coming battle, but he was still shrewd. It was not like him to interrupt Rhael's morning walk, or to betray a lip tremor as he spoke.
“My lord,” Ellis repeated, “please excuse my interruption, but a matter needs your immediate attention.”
“Very well, Captain.” Rhael allowed the graying man to lead him toward the center of the camp where roll call had begun. Several hundred men stood at attention in steel armor, their cloaks bearing the black and gold vipers of the Demetrian line, their helmets in hand. Everything seemed in order. Rhael turned to question his commander, but stopped when he noticed the empty spaces among some of the soldiers. Gaps large enough for one or two men dotted some of the lines, but wider gaps broke up many others.
“What is the meaning of this?”
“They—aren't here. My men are checking the other regiments, but so far,” Ellis swallowed hard, “almost eight hundred men are missing.”
“Eight hundred? What do you mean missing?” Rhael could feel the eyes of the closest regiments on him as he raised his voice. Good. Let them look.
“I’m sorry, my lord. They are not in the camp, nor can we find any sign that they have left. It’s as if they disappeared.”
Before Rhael could respond, a courier scurried up to Ellis.
“Sir, I–” He stopped, realizing Rhael was there. He fell into an awkward bow. “Overlord.”
“What news do you bring, boy?” Rhael snapped impatiently.
“Another one hundred and sixty men reported missin
g, my lord. And,” he turned back to the gray-faced Ellis, “Captain Seperun is gone, too.”
“Markus Seperun is missing? Are you certain?” When the boy nodded, Rhael grit his teeth. Seperun was one of his best warriors. He had been counting on him to lead his cavalry. No one was as adept at inspiring men to die as Markus Seperun. He was silver-tongued and level-headed, a rare combination.
“Negiol.”
Both Ellis and the boy jumped back as the Da’ Gammorn commander's shade appeared beside the Overlord. Rhael had earlier ordered the Da' Gammorn north to escort the hired Corsairs as they arrived.
“You called, Lord Rhael?” Negiol’s black eyes glittered more than usual as they lit upon the terrified men beside him.
“Nearly a thousand men went missing from our camp last night. Did the guards you left at camp sense anything?”
The demon gave a shrug that was almost comical on its gargantuan, rotting form. “We sensed nothing out of the ordinary, but if this is true, then it signals only one possibility.”
“Speak not in riddles. What are you saying?” Rhael’s patience was at its limit.
“Our apologies, Lord Rhael. We, the Da’ Gammorn, do not sleep as you living men do. If such a large number of men left the camp, our guards would have known. Unless, of course, we were spelled.”
“Spelled?” The messenger boy threw his hands over his mouth as Negiol turned its oily stare upon him.
“Just so, our lively young friend.” It turned back to the Overlord. “The only explanation is that someone used magic, allowing a thousand men to escape their posts without notice. Lord Rhael, the question is not how, but who and why.”
Rhael clenched his fists. “I already have an answer. The Resistance. They have finally scurried from their hiding places. And you,” Rhael stepped toward Negiol, “you were fooled by this parlor trick?”
“As were you, Lord Rhael.”
Rhael tried to shove Negiol backward, but his hands rippled through the shade, pushing Ellis to the ground instead. “Let them run and join the ranks of the doomed. Hear me,” Rhael pointed at Ellis where he sprawled in the mud, “any members of this so-called Resistance, any such traitors who manage to survive the battle, are to be brought to me for execution. And,” Rhael raised his voice so all the terrified soldiers around him could hear, “anyone considering joining these deserters should know that they will die screaming, and they will die for some time.”
He turned to the ashen-faced messenger boy. “Send the word.” As the boy turned, Rhael grasped his cloak, spinning him back. “Let it be known that I want Markus Seperun most of all. I want him alive and as whole as possible, so that I myself might change that. Do you understand?”
He nodded, and Rhael released him. Ellis scrambled to his feet, disappearing among the soldiers, leaving Rhael standing alone with Negiol.
“Who could have cast the spell you spoke of?”
Negiol hissed. “Not a covenant mage. We would know if there was another like you so close at hand. It would have to be one of the Norala, a mage chosen by the False God.”
“A born mage? All such lines are dead and have been for centuries. My family and the Kyreans saw to that.”
“Perhaps.” A note of contemplation deepened Negiol’s strange, dissonant voice. A few snowflakes drifted from above, but did not melt as they passed through the Da’ Gammorn’s shade. “Or perhaps not.”
Bayne walked the path leading to the Trues’ Densite in his black wolf form. Snowflakes caught in his whiskers, tickling his nose. As he pressed through the leafless trees and evergreens, worries tangled in his mind. Roxen had not been the same since his mother's death. He performed his duties, training the warriors, overseeing the trap preparations planned for Rhael’s armies, but his once cheerful personality and compassionate smile were gone. Instead he barked orders and then retreated to his den to be alone. Perhaps this was to be expected in a time of war. But Bayne missed his old Beta. He missed his friend.
Silver, too, haunted his thoughts. She was strong and serene in the face of danger, but Bayne knew and loved her well enough to see beneath her cool exterior. When Rhael had taken Rayna, he had taken the last of her blood family. She hid her sorrow well, but sometimes Bayne wished she would not. He knew how grief could fester, turning rancid, until grief was gone and anger was all that was left, or nothing at all. Like Roxen, Silver distracted herself with thoughts of vengeance, of making Rhael suffer. Bayne understood, and wanted the same. But even if they succeeded and survived, what would be left? Would Silver and Roxen heal when they had denied their wounds and opened them afresh with acts of violence? He thought not. They did not need only vengeance or victory; they needed a miracle. Thanks to Seperun, Bayne thought he might find one. Find her.
Rayna was alive. Or at least, she had not died at Rhael’s hands as they had been led to believe. There was a chance she still lived, and if she were anything like her parents, a chance was all she needed. She was out there, separated from her pack. He had to find her, bring her home, for Roxen, for Silver, for himself. Her return would be a miracle indeed, and if he were fortunate, he might manage another miracle, too, one that gave them a fighting chance against Rhael’s forces. But for this, he would need help.
When Bayne approached the sycamore grove, Gar sat beside Pike and Ash in the shadow of the huge tree where he made his den.
Alpha Bayne. Gar stood as Pike and Ash did the same. I have been discussing your strategy with my wolves, and we agree it will be best to force the Maenorens into the trees. I know you and your packmates have some ideas on how to do this, but perhaps a well-placed True Wolf squad, he nodded to the wolves beside him, could serve to speed them as well?
I agree, Alpha Gar. Pike, Ash, find another twenty-five pairs of wolves as light on their feet and fierce in their hearts as you. Then meet with Roxen and Silver to discuss your placements. Gar, may I speak with you alone?
Gar’s brow wrinkled in quizzical concern, but he nodded to Ash and Pike. Do as he says.
Once they had left, Gar followed Bayne onto the trail. They padded in silence for some time, past the bushes where raspberries bloomed in the spring until they stood on a hill, looking down on the ice-filmed brook below.
Bayne? Gar sank onto his haunches, turning his yellow-green stare on him. We are quite alone. What is it that you have to say?
Bayne sighed. We have a plan. It’s a good plan. We take away Rhael’s advantage, force him onto ground familiar to us. We have archers and traps for the Da’ Gammorn. But Gar, it will not be enough.
Gar bristled, his lips quivering as if he might protest, but a breath later, he deflated. They were alone. Two Alphas away from their packs. There was no one to be strong for, no one to lie for. This I know.
Silver knows, too, though we do not speak of it. Our words are always of hope and battle plans. But she knows. Maybe all the pack knows. We will fight bravely and kill thousands. But Rhael’s forces are too great—you saw that for yourself. He has powers beyond any other Overlord our ancestors faced; He called the Da’ Gammorn. We will fight, we will kill, but most of all, we will die. One by one, hundreds by hundreds, thousands by thousands, until Fenearen and True Wolf kind will be no more.
Bayne snarled, slashing the snow-frosted ground where they stood. Even surrender won’t save us. If we do not change the stakes, you, Silver, and I will be the last Alphas of the Southern Densite. We will fail our pack.
Bayne knew Gar was not used to seeing him so vulnerable. No one was. The True Wolf did not respond at first, but rather laid down, with his head upon his paws. Do you truly see no path to victory?
There may be one chance. Bayne turned his gaze eastward.
Alvorn? Gar looked askance at Bayne. Haven’t you asked for their help already?
Aye. I have. General Pheros has remained adamant that it is no longer their fight, that they are better off protecting their own borders, leaving us to our fate. A doom of our own design, he said.
What has changed? Why wou
ld he help us now?
The Maenoren Resistance has joined us. Our cause is not as hopeless as it once was–perhaps Pheros will see that. We can make him understand that this is less about saving Fenear and more about defeating Rhael and his family's plague over this Peninsula. With us gone, Alvorn and Soulous will have Rhael's undivided attention.
Perhaps. Gar stood, trotting to the brook for a drink. Bayne followed. But Bayne, Gar lifted his snout from the water, why tell me all this?
First, I trust you Gar, and value your judgment. Secondly, I need to send a message to Pheros. I can’t risk another falcon; it could be too easily intercepted. If I send a Fenearen, Pheros could speak to the messenger, arguing, trying to gain more information. There isn’t time. If I send a wolf with a single letter, Pheros will be forced to decide quickly. This is our only chance.
So. Gar’s lips shortened into a near snarl. You’re asking me, an Alpha, to leave his pack on the edge of war? To abandon them to their fate while I chase a phantasm? Would you do such a thing, Alpha Bayne?
Bayne pressed on. You would not be abandoning them, Gar. You’d be trying to save them, save us all. I would go if I could, but we cannot give Pheros the chance to argue or bargain. Besides, my absence would be conspicuous to Rhael. Even if you returned after the battle had begun, the Alvornian forces would be a circumstance that Rhael could not have foreseen.
Gar’s face softened, and the growl left his voice. Or I could return to find everyone I love and swore to protect, dead.
Yes, Bayne allowed, but you would know you had done all you could.
Gar's breath swirled like steam from his nostrils. Will you tell my wolves why I have gone?
I will not tell them where, but they will know you seek aid.
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