by Mark Anthony
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?”
“Look,” Graedin said, pointing at the floor.
In the center of the hall, a large patch of the rushes had been burned to ash and washed away by the water, and the floor showed through. The stones were pale and smooth, but something had marred them at some point in the past; there were five deep gouges in the stone, arranged in parallel.
“That’s it,” Oragien said, wonder on his ancient face. “It’s the key.”
Durge shook his head. It felt as if his skull were filled with fog. “What are you talking about?”
“This.” The All-master pointed at the floor with his staff, touching each of the five gouges in turn. “I would that I or one of the other runespeakers had set foot in here before they covered the floor with rushes. It’s a rune. The rune of blood.”
“‘The keep will know the heirs of King Ulther and Queen Elsara,’ ” Graedin murmured, repeating the words spoken by the image of the runelord which had sprung forth from the rune of hope. “‘Ever has the blood of Malachor been the key to hope.’ ”
Oragien laughed, and he gripped the younger runespeaker’s shoulder. “We should have known! That’s the key to awakening the keep’s ancient defenses. ‘The keep will know the heirs.’ ”
Graedin nodded, his eyes shining. “We must find Queen Grace at once and—Sir Durge, what is it? Your face, it’s pale as a ghost’s.”
Durge held a hand to his chest, certain he would find a dagger stuck into it, the pain was so great. He felt old and so terribly weak. A rushing filled his ears, and a gray veil descended over his vision. Graedin held his arm, and Oragien started to speak, but at that moment Samatha appeared in the doorway and rushed into the hall.
“Where is the queen?” the Spider said between gasps for breath. “I have news for her.”
“Is it the Pale King?” Oragien gasped. “We have yet to see Berash himself approach the wall.”
“It’s not that. Karthi saw them first—even now they’re marching up the valley from the Winter Wood.”
“Who?” Graedin said, confusion on his face.
“The Warriors of Vathris,” Samatha said, her eyes bright. “Hundreds of them. Thousands. They march under the banner of Calavan. I must go tell the queen!” Before they could ask anything more, Samatha dashed from the hall.
Oragien gripped his staff. “This is auspicious. Hope arrives not once, but twice. Come, we have our own news to speak to the queen.”
The elder runespeaker started to turn away. Durge gripped his staff, stopping him.
“What is it, Sir Durge?” Oragien said.
Durge felt a moment of sorrow, of regret, of bitter loneliness. Then he let out a sigh, and with that final, living breath, all those things passed from him. In his chest, his heart shuddered—then began to beat with a new rhythm.
Strength shimmered through his limbs. The pain was gone, and the fear and doubt. A certainty filled him, and a purpose, bright as fire. The gray veil lifted from his eyes, and he saw clearer than he ever had in his life. Yes, this was for the best. Why had he resisted so long?
The voice whispered in his ear, and Durge spoke the answer in his mind. I hear you, O King, and I obey!
Durge pulled the staff from Oragien’s hands. The All-master began to cry out in protest, but in a swift motion Durge spun the staff. There was a loud crack as it contacted Oragien’s skull. The old man’s cry was silenced; his frail body crumpl
ed to the floor like a bundle of sticks. Durge raised the staff again.
“No!” Graedin cried out. The young runespeaker threw himself to his knees, shielding Oragien’s body.
Durge watched him with disinterest. “You cannot be allowed to tell her what you’ve found.”
Tears ran down Graedin’s cheeks. “By Olrig, what’s happened to you, Durge? What’s wrong with you?”
Those words made no sense. Nothing was wrong with him. The error of his ways had been shown to him, and he had been corrected.
“Get away,” Graedin said. He raised his hands and began to speak a rune.
That could not be permitted. Durge swung the staff, and Graedin’s words ceased. The runespeaker slumped over Oragien’s body, motionless, blood oozing from his ears. Durge threw down the staff and turned away from the bodies of the runespeakers. He tilted his head, listening to the whisper in his ear.
Then he smiled and walked from the hall.
50.
Grace lay on her cot, staring into the darkness of her chamber. She knew she needed to rest while she had the chance. All the same, sleep was impossible.
He’s coming for you, Grace. The Pale King. It’s only a matter of time until—
A knock sounded at the door—hard, urgent. For a moment terror gripped her, then she threw back the blanket. When she opened the door, she found herself gazing at the excited faces of Samatha and Sir Tarus.
“He’s come at last, Your Majesty,” the Spider said, her nose twitching, making her look even more mousy than usual.
Fear pierced Grace’s chest. Was this it, then? “You mean Berash?”
Tarus laughed. “No, Your Majesty! She means King Boreas and the Warriors of Vathris. They ride up the valley to the keep even now, five thousand men strong.”
Were it not for the speed of Sir Tarus’s reaction, Grace would have fallen. The room spun around her, and her knees buckled, but the knight gripped her arm, holding her upright.
“What is it, Your Majesty?” Samatha said with a frown. “Do you not feel joy that King Boreas is finally here?”
Joy? Did she feel joy?
After the Rune Gate opened—how many hours, how many days ago?—when the hordes of the Pale King swarmed toward the keep, she had thought she would be filled with horror. Instead, a grim resolve had come over her. She had gripped Fellring in her hand, had raised the blade above her head, and had called for her men to defend the keep.
She had seen the same reaction countless times in the ED at Denver Memorial Hospital, on the faces of cancer patients when she was forced to tell them their remission was over, in the eyes of burn victims who knew they were too damaged to live. There is a calmness when there is no hope, a peace. What is there to fear when death is certain? No, she didn’t feel joy that the Warriors were here; she felt terror. Because now they had a chance.
“You can let go of me, Sir Tarus,” she said through clenched teeth. “I think I can stand now.”
“As you wish, Your Majesty, but don’t blame me if your face hits the floor.”
“I’m the queen. I’ll take responsibility for my face. Sam, where are Sir Durge and Commander Paladus?”
“Paladus is on the wall, keeping watch. The enemy is holding back for now. It looks as if they’re fashioning some new weapon, and I doubt they’ll attack again until it’s ready.”
“A weapon? What is it?”
“We’re not sure. They’re too far away to make out what they’re doing, though Aldeth is still at the secret door, trying to get a closer look.”
Grace nodded. “What about Durge?”
“I saw him a couple of hours ago,” Tarus said. “I gave him your orders to get some rest, and last I saw he was headed back to the barracks.”
Good. He was going to need his strength. They all were. “Send word to both Paladus and Durge,” she said to Samatha. “Tell them to meet me outside. I want them to be there when I greet Boreas. Once the king is here, they’ll be following his orders, not mine.”
As the Spider left them, Tarus gave Grace a questioning look, but she raised a hand before he could protest. “King Boreas is the leader of the Warriors of Vathris, not me. I’m just the warm-up act. They’ve been waiting a thousand years for this day. This is their Final Battle. And yours, Sir Tarus.”
His grin was gone, replaced by a stricken look. “I follow you, Your Majesty.”
She touched his shoulder. “Vathris is your god, Sir Tarus. I’m just a woman.”
“No,” he said, his eyes serious. “You’re not just a woman, Your Majesty.”
Grace was suddenly afraid what else he might say. She brushed past him, through the door. “Come on, Sir Tarus. Let’s go meet our salvation.”
A bitter wind rushed up the valley, and Grace was forced to clutch her cloak around her as they hurried across the yard between the two wings of the barracks.
“I can’t see them,” she said when they reached the gates of the keep. The gloom hung thick on the air.
“Perhaps the Spiders were mistaken,” Sir Vedarr said. The grizzled knight had been standing guard at the gate with several of the Embarrans. “Perhaps their eyes were tricked by some wizardry of the enemy.”
However, at that moment, another gust of wind raced up the defile, and suddenly—for the first time since the opening of the Rune Gate—a ragged-edged gap appeared in the clouds. Beyond the gap was a shard of blue sky, and a shaft of sunlight, heavy and gold, fell through.
So it was late afternoon out in the world; night had not yet fallen over the land. And perhaps it wouldn’t after all, for just as Samatha had said, a host marched up the valley toward the keep. The sunlight glinted off breastplates and helms like five thousand sparks of fire.
Trumpets sounded, sending a thrill through Grace. Banners snapped in the wind, and the tallest of them were the two at the fore of the army. One showed a crimson bull against a white field, while the other bore a crown above a pair of crossed swords: the crest of Calavan. Only the crest was different than Grace remembered. The crown had seven points, not nine. Did the king intend never to rebuild the two towers that had fallen?
She could ask about it later. Suddenly she wanted nothing more than to look upon King Boreas’s fierce, familiar, handsome face. While it probably wasn’t very queenly, Grace picked up the hem of her gown and rushed through the gate. Two others already stood on the rocky slope outside the keep—the witches Lursa and Senrael. Grace gave them a questioning look.
“We came out here to gather sintaren sap,” Lursa said. “It helps stop bleeding when applied to a bandage. Then I looked up, and I saw them coming. I thought surely it was another one of my visions.”
“No, deary, it’s no vision,” Senrael said, wonder on her wrinkled face. “The Warriors have come, as foretold by the seers long ago.”
Grace faced into the wind, and her hair—so much longer than when she first came to Eldh—tangled back from her brow. Boreas had done it. Against all odds he had brought the Warriors to her. They could hold Gravenfist Keep for weeks now, perhaps months. And after that, if the hordes of the Pale King kept coming? She didn’t know. But Travis Wilder was still out there somewhere. He still had two of the Great Stones, and they had just bought him some time.
“By the Blood of the Bull,” Paladus swore. The Tarrasian commander stood beside her now, along with Tarus, Vedarr, and several other knights, though there was no sign of Durge. The army was close now, its vanguard no more than a hundred paces away. The horses tossed their heads, and the foot soldiers marched with swift precision, as if none of them felt the burden of the long journey north.
“Where is the king?” Tarus said, squinting.
They had dwelled so long in the darkness that the sunlight dazzled Grace. She lifted a hand, shading her eyes. Two figures rode beneath the banner of Calavan, but both were too slight of build to be the bullish king. One rode a white horse, while the other’s mount was jet-black. Then the riders drew closer, and Grace staggered.
This was
impossible. She couldn’t be here. Only she was, and now Grace did feel joy—true, boundless joy.
“Aryn,” she gasped. Then louder, her voice ringing out over the valley. “Aryn!”
The young baroness urged her mount into a gallop. She was clad in royal blue, and she looked proud and regal astride the white horse. Strapped to her right shoulder was a shield, and in her left hand, a sword. She raised the sword, and its tip caught fire as the sunlight struck it. At that moment a roar rose up from the army behind her, echoing off the walls of the valley. Queen Aryn the Fair! Queen Aryn the Fair!
Grace’s mind spun. What did that chant mean? And where was King Boreas? The figure on the black horse was riding hard after Aryn, and Grace saw it was Prince Teravian. None of this made any sense. Both Aryn and Teravian should be in Calavere, not here—not at the end of all things.
Aryn brought her horse to a halt a few paces away. She sheathed the sword and slipped out of the saddle with an easy motion before any of the knights could hurry forward to help her. Grace tried to say something, to find words to express what she was feeling, but Aryn was faster. She rushed forward and threw her good left arm around Grace, catching her in a fierce embrace. The shield made the gesture awkward, but no less warm. Grace returned the embrace with all her strength, holding on tight to the young baroness.
Or was she still a baroness? Queen Aryn, the men of Vathris had called her, and there was no sign of King Boreas. An edge of fear cut through Grace’s joy.
Gently, firmly, she pushed the younger woman away. “Aryn, what’s happening? How can you be here? And why have you brought the prince instead of the king?”
Aryn’s blue eyes were solemn. “I have brought the king, Grace. The king of Calavan.”
Teravian had caught up to them now. The prince climbed down from his horse. His face was graver than Grace remembered it, and he was clad all in black and silver, just like his father always wore.
Just like his father . . .
Grace took a staggering step back. She looked at Aryn, at the prince, then at Aryn again. It felt as if someone had jabbed a needle into her heart. In the sky, the gap in the clouds closed; gloom settled back over the world.