by Mark Anthony
Tarus moved to a jumbled heap of armor. It was forged of black metal; spikes jutted from it. “You did it, Your Majesty. You slew the Pale King.” With the toe of his boot, he kicked at a helm crowned by antlers of iron. The helmet rolled over; it was empty.
Grace stared at the fallen armor, pressing her aching arm against her chest. It seemed impossible. He had been a figure of dread majesty, and she was a skinny mortal woman. All the same, she had defeated him. She should have been relieved, only she wasn’t. Something nagged at her. Then, as the sun touched the tips of the mountains, she had it.
“Mohg,” she said, staring at the dying sun. “The Pale King wasn’t the real master of these creatures. Mohg was. He created Berash, just as Berash made the Necromancers and they made the feydrim and wraithlings. These things shouldn’t have died when the Pale King did.”
Teravian shrugged. “Maybe Mohg’s power couldn’t sustain them. After all, he’s still banished beyond the circle of the world.”
Grace looked up at the sky. Cerulean had deepened to cobalt. “Beyond the circle of the world,” she murmured.
“Can you walk, sister?” Aryn said, touching her arm. “It’s growing colder. We should return to the keep.”
Tarus nodded. “Sir Paladus and Sir Vedarr are in charge of things there at the moment, but I imagine they’ll be more than happy to turn command over to you, Your Majesty. There are many who are wounded, and the sight of you alive will lend all the men heart. I know Master Graedin and All-master Oragien in particular will be glad to see your face.”
“Wait a moment,” Teravian said. “We won’t want to forget these.” He took off his cloak, then laid the broken shards of Fellring on it. He wrapped them up in the cloak and held the bundle toward Grace.
She gave him a wan smile, then gestured to her right arm. “Would you do the honors, Your Majesty? I don’t think I’ll be carrying any swords, broken or not, for a while.”
The four of them moved slowly toward the passage that led back to the keep. Though the light was beginning to fail, men still combed the battlefield, looking for any survivors they might have missed, and gathering the bodies of their comrades who had fallen. The Spiders Aldeth and Samatha were directing the search, and the witches Senrael and Lursa assisted them, seeking out the life threads of any who still lived.
It was grim work, but according to Tarus it was nearly done. Of the five thousand men that had marched to Gravenfist Keep, over a thousand were lost forever, and many hundreds more would never fully recover from their wounds, but that they were not all dead was a miracle Grace still could not comprehend.
They had nearly reached the door to the secret passage when a massive figure strode over the battlefield toward them. It took Grace a moment to realize it was Kel. His bushy red beard had been shaved off, and without it the petty king looked younger and jollier—more like an overfed monk than a warrior-chieftain.
“Your Majesty!” he cried out, clamping big arms around her and lifting her off the ground. “By Jorus, you’re alive!”
Grace gritted her teeth. “Not for much longer if you keep that up.”
Kel set her back down. “Sorry about that.” He turned his head, gazing from side to side.
“Have you lost something?” Tarus said.
“As a matter of fact, I have,” Kel said with a grunt. “I’ve lost my witch. Somehow I managed to misplace her during the fray, and now I can’t find her.”
“Maybe she’s back at the keep,” Aryn offered.
Kel scowled. “I’ve already tried there, but no one’s seen her. This is most bothersome. I need her to look at her runes and tell me whether it would be auspicious to grow my beard back or not.” He clenched a meaty fist. “The wretched hag is hiding from me somewhere.”
“How about right in front of your face, Your Obliviousness?” croaked an acidic voice.
As one they turned to see a ragged form shambling toward them on stick-thin legs. Grisla halted before Grace and bared her lone tooth in a grin. “Greetings, Queen of Malachor.”
The hag bowed low, and Grace was so flustered she started to bow in return until Tarus caught her arm.
Kel glared at the crone. “What about me, hag? Aren’t you going to show me proper obeisance? And where have you been all this time?”
She thrust her hands against her lumpy hips and rolled her one bulbous eye. “I’ve been seeing to more important things than the fur on your face, Your Hairiness. I’ve been searching for stragglers on the battlefield. In fact, I’ve just found some.” She gestured with a knobby hand.
Grace and the others looked up. Five figures walked toward them—slowly, as if exhausted beyond imagining. At first they were only silhouettes in the gloom. Then one last stray beam of sunlight found its way through a gap in the mountains to fall on the battlefield, illuminating their faces.
There is a joy that is beyond expression in words. It is experienced, not by the heart or by the mind, but by the soul—a sudden sense of rightness so clear and perfect that man’s fleeting glimpses of it are surely what first gave him the idea of heaven.
Grace felt such a joy now. The sunlight made their faces shine, as if illuminated from within, so that each of them was more fair than she remembered. Melia and Falken. Beltan and Vani clad in strange, primitive leathers. And . . .
“Travis,” she whispered, and then louder, with all the force of her joy. “Travis!”
She staggered forward, then he was running. He caught her in his arms, holding her with gentle strength. Her right arm wasn’t much use, but she gripped him with the left, holding on with all her might. Like Vani and Beltan, he wore clothes made of aurochs hide, though his were stained orange with ocher.
The others reached them, and Grace was being held by Falken and Melia at once, and she was dimly aware that both the bard and the lady were weeping. Before she knew it, Beltan scooped her up in his arms, and she didn’t care—she couldn’t feel pain, not now. Then she found herself gazing into gold eyes. Vani. She embraced the T’gol, and as she did Grace felt the faint swelling of the other woman’s stomach.
After that Travis was there again, and he held her hands in his own. He looked older than she remembered. There were lines she hadn’t seen before around his mouth and eyes, but they made him look handsome and wise.
“How?” she said. “How can you possibly be here?”
His voice was soft with wonder. “I’m not sure I know myself, Grace. I’m not sure any of us do.”
“And is that true, Runebreaker?” Grisla said. She let out a cackle. “Or should I say, Worldmaker?”
Grace gave Travis a questioning look. He pulled his hands away from hers.
“Travis, what is it? What’s happened to you?”
Grisla hobbled toward him. “I’ll tell you what happened. He did it. He broke the First Rune.”
An edge of terror cut through Grace’s joy. “That’s what happened to the sky, isn’t it? It was the other Runebreaker. He broke the rune of sky, and Mohg returned to Eldh to break the First Rune, but somehow you stopped him.”
“No,” said a sardonic voice. “He didn’t.”
There was one more figure they hadn’t seen; his black robe blended with the twilight. He approached Grace—slowly, hand pressed to his side—and the webwork of scars on his face glowed in the half-light.
“Master Larad?” Grace stuttered, completely confused. “How are you here?”
He said nothing, but only gestured to his black robe.
Confusion gave way to cold understanding. “You,” Grace said softly. “You’re the other Runebreaker. You broke the rune of sky and let him back into the world. That was the shadow that fell over us, right before the end. It was Mohg.”
“Yes,” Larad said, pain twisting his face. “It was.”
“But you stopped him, Travis.” She clutched his arm. “You must have, or none of us would be here. You stopped Mohg from breaking the First Rune. Only how?”
A queer light shone in Travis’s gray
eyes.
“I’ll tell you how he did it,” Grisla said with another cackle. “He broke the First Rune himself, that’s how.” She jabbed a bony finger at his chest. “Bones and stone, that showed him, lad! Mohg wasn’t ready for that.”
Grace stared at Travis, trying to understand. Only maybe she didn’t need to. Travis was here, and so were the rest of them. So was the world. That was all that mattered.
“The witches were right,” Aryn said to Travis, her blue eyes wide. “You really were the Runebreaker. Yet if that’s so, how are we still here?”
“He chose the world that was!” Grisla said gleefully. She capered about in a circle and chortled as if this all were a grand joke. “For the world to be, he chose the world that was! He’s the Worldsmith now!”
Grace reached up and touched his face. His beard was coming in, copper and gold flecked with gray. “Is it true, Travis? Did you really choose this world?”
He gripped the bone talisman that hung against his neck. “Hope. I chose hope, Grace.”
It was growing colder and darker; all the same none of them could move from that place. More questions were asked. In quick words Melia, Falken, Vani, and Beltan explained what had happened to them, and Aryn, Teravian, and Tarus did the same. On Eldh, Shemal and Kelephon were dead, along with their master the Pale King. On Earth, Duratek was doomed. However, there was one thing Grace didn’t have the heart to speak of yet; she didn’t tell them about Durge.
“What about Mohg?” Vani said, gazing up at the deepening sky. “Is he dead as well?”
Grisla gave Travis a piercing look. “Well, lad. Is he?”
Travis seemed to think for a long moment, then he sighed. “No, he’s not dead. But he’s . . . dispersed. He was right there when it happened, when the—” He swallowed. “—when I used the Great Stones to break the First Rune. I think he was torn apart by the force of it.”
“That he was, my lad,” Grisla said. “Mohg remains in the world, but only his spirit, not his hatred, not his will. Never will he gather himself again.” She looked up at the darkening sky. “Night still comes. There will always be darkness in the world, there will always be evil. But dawn will come again, at least tomorrow.”
Grace smiled at Travis. “Hope,” she said.
Though the expression was tentative and fragile, he returned her smile.
Falken moved to Grisla, giving the old woman a sharp look. “If you don’t mind my saying, you seem to know an awful lot for a simple hag. How did you know Travis broke the First Rune?”
She shrugged knobby shoulders. “It was a lucky guess, Your Nosiness.”
“I think not,” Melia said, gliding forward, her catlike eyes gleaming. “You were not there in Imbrifale with us. So how could you know?”
Kel roared with laughter, slapping his thigh, the sound of his mirth ringing out over the vale. “Well, it looks as if the bard and the moon lady have finally got you, hag. Don’t you think it’s time you finally told them who you really are?”
She scowled at the petty king. “What are you talking about, Your Deludedness? I’m Grisla, your witch.”
Kel’s laughter subsided, and his face grew unusually thoughtful. “In one of your guises, yes. But you are other things to other people, are you not? Don’t look at me that way. I am not quite the simpleton you take me for.”
Grace didn’t know what Kel was talking about. Or did she? She held a hand out toward the hag. “Vayla?”
Grisla was silent for a moment, then she sighed. “It’s time for me to go,” she said softly. “I suppose there’s no harm in it now.” She hobbled toward Grace, and as she did she changed. In the place of Grisla stood another old woman, still gnarled and withered, but she wore a brown robe rather than motley rags.
“Greetings, my queen,” Vayla said, bowing. She turned toward Aryn. “And to you as well, child.”
As she spoke these last words, Vayla was gone, and in her place was a striking woman of middle years clad in a rainbow-hued gown, her jet hair marked by a single streak of white, her almond-shaped eyes accented by fine, wise lines.
Aryn’s eyes went wide. “Sister Mirda!”
“Yes, sister,” the beautiful witch said. “It is I.”
“But how?” Aryn gasped.
Mirda smiled. “Does she not have many faces to wear? Crones. Mothers. And Maidens.”
With this last word, her form shimmered again, and in her place was a radiant young woman Grace had never seen before. Her hair was like flax, her lips as red as berries.
Falken staggered, clutching his silver hand to his chest. “You!” the bard said, his voice hoarse. “For so many centuries I’ve searched for you.”
She laughed, a sound like water over stones. “And you found me, only you didn’t know it. Yet I would always know you, Falken of Malachor.” She reached out, taking his silver hand. “Tell me, has it suited you?”
He gazed at her, amazement on his weathered face. “It has. Thank you. It’s served me better than my own hand did.”
“I am glad,” the young witch said. “For I know what it is like to lose a hand.”
Now the flaxen-haired woman was gone, and in her place stood a tall man, his face stern and imposing, but softened by kindness and wisdom. His left hand was missing at the wrist. He held up his right hand, and a silvery symbol shone on his palm: three crossed lines.
“The rune of runes,” Travis murmured. “So that’s who you are. You’re Olrig Lorethief. You’re an Old God.”
“More than that,” Master Larad said, limping closer. “You’re the one who made this world. You’re the Worldsmith.”
“I was the Worldsmith,” the one-handed man said. He turned his ancient gaze on Travis. “You are the Worldsmith now, Runebreaker.”
Travis shook his head. “I chose the world that was. This is still the world as you made it.”
The man’s eyes were thoughtful. “So it is,” he said. “So it is.”
Master Larad held out his right hand. The rune of runes shone faintly on his palm. “The rune of sky has been broken. I don’t need this anymore, and somehow it seems I’m not going to die after all. You must take it back.”
The bearded man shook his head. “I cannot. Once a thing is made, it cannot be unmade without breaking it.”
Larad lowered his hand. “Like Sky, you mean. You made him, didn’t you? He was your servant.”
“I gave him the form you knew, that he might do my work upon the world, yet I did not make him or any of the other runes. I spoke them at the beginning of the world—this world—and I bound them so they would not fade. But the runes were first wrought by an even older Worldsmith than I.”
Larad closed his right hand into a fist and lowered it by his side.
Aryn hesitated, then stepped forward. “You’re not just the Worldsmith, are you? You’re Sia as well.”
The man smiled, and in his place stood a woman, though what she was—maiden, mother, or withered crone—it was impossible to say. The features of a thousand different women flickered across her face. “Sia and the Worldsmith are just two names for the same thing, daughter. Why people insist on believing otherwise, I cannot say.”
Aryn smiled, and Grace did as well. She wished Master Graedin was present. What would he think to learn that his mad idea, that the runespeakers and the witches were not so very different, was in fact the truth? Olrig. Sia. They were one. Magic was magic—it all sprang from the same source.
It was almost full dark now. Grace couldn’t stop shivering. They could talk more tomorrow. Tomorrow, when the sun rose again. Until then, they should return to the keep.
“Will you stay?” Grace said to the woman with many faces, though she wasn’t certain if she meant here, at Gravenfist, or if she meant in the world.
The woman’s face blurred, and she was Grisla again. She grinned, baring her one tooth, but there was sorrow in her eye. “Perhaps I’ll stay for a time, Your High-And-Mightiness. But my children have already gone on before me, back into the T
wilight Realm. This time, when we go, we shall never return, and I think the Maugrim shall come with us. No one will remain who knows the way through the mists. Our world, our time, will be removed from yours forever.”
Grace wept. “Why? Why are you leaving us?”
“There, there, daughter.” She brushed the dampness from Grace’s cheeks. “I am old. We are old. And the world has newer gods. Look—here comes the newest of them all even now.”
They turned as ruby-colored light pushed back the gloom. Three figures walked toward them from the direction of the keep, hand in hand. One was a man with coppery eyes, a grin on his handsome, familiar face, though he walked on two feet, not one. The other was a beautiful woman with black hair and eyes and skin like polished ebony. Between them was a child clad only in a gray shift, her hair wild and fiery. It was from the girl that the light emanated.
“Lirith!” Aryn called out. “Sareth!”
But Grace called out another name. “Tira!”
The little girl slipped her hands free and dashed forward on bare feet. Grace knelt and caught Tira in her arms.
“You came back,” she said, even though she knew she hadn’t. All the same, it felt good to say it. She stroked the girl’s wild hair.
“I love you,” Tira said in a solemn voice.
The crimson light grew stronger, encapsulating Grace in warmth. Then it dimmed and Grace held, not her warm little body, but shadows. She stood and looked up. A star shone in the southern sky, bright as a ruby. A fierce ache throbbed in Grace’s chest, but it was a good pain. It meant that somehow, after all that had happened, her heart was still there.
It meant she was alive.
“Come on, Grace.” It was Travis. He touched her arm. “It’s getting cold. We should go inside.”
They started back toward the keep, and as they went Grace noticed how Travis and Beltan stayed close to Vani’s side. Though they had not spoken of it, it was clear both men knew the T’gol was with child. Grace wondered what would happen to them, but for now the three seemed content to walk close together. As for what the future held—if Fate would allow them to stay together—that could wait for tomorrow.