Beyond the Pale

by Mark Anthony

  The catcalls ended. The roar became a murmur, then a whisper. The nobles sank back to their benches. Even Boreas, although his visage remained angry, lowered himself into his chair. The interior of the tower fell silent.

  Now all eyes gazed at the bard. Still Falken did not move. Misty gold light drifted down from the rafters above, along with a soft rustle: the wings of doves. Then another sound rose on the air. In a low but clear voice Falken began to sing:

  “Lord of the sky—

  Where has the wind gone,

  that snapped my banners bold?

  Olrig, father,

  You have forsaken me.

  Lady of Eldh—

  Where lies your soft bower,

  in all its secret green?

  Sia, mother,

  Your soil shall cover me.

  Father, come!

  Mother, come!

  You have forsaken me.”

  The bard’s voice merged with the calls of the doves. Despite the press of wool-clad bodies around her, Grace shivered. She did not know what the bard sang of, but never before had she heard a song so forlorn. Next to her Aryn sobbed quietly, tears streaking her smooth cheeks. Grace might have cried, too, if that was something she thought she still knew how to do.

  Falken lifted his head. “It is called Ulther’s Lament, that song. Few remember it now, but King Ulther of Toringarth sang those words a thousand years ago. He sang them as he knelt in the scarlet-stained snow before the very door of Imbrifale—cold and wounded and beaten. A thousand lay dead around him. They were Wulgrim, or had been: wolf-warriors, the most fearsome fighters of Toringarth. With Ulther they had come across the Winter Sea, to stand before the Pale King. They had been cut down like so much chaff. Ten thousand more men lay dead in the vale of Shadowsdeep behind him, slain by a horde of feydrim that clawed, and bit, and tore at the bodies long after they fell, long after their screams ended. But such was the pain of the Pale King’s servants. If the feydrim did not tear at another, then they would surely tear at themselves.”

  Falken began to walk now, and he paced around the council table as he spoke. “Save for a small guard of men—his remaining earls, his standard-bearer, his fool—Ulther was alone. He had failed. None would stand against the Pale King now. Falengarth was lost. And even as he thought this in despair, he looked up, and through the Gap of Teeth he looked into the land of Imbrifale and saw the Pale King coming.”

  Falken’s voice rose, until it filled the tower to the rafters. The doves flew from their roosts, out high windows, into blue shards of sky.

  “On a black horse he rode, its hooves striking sparks against the stony ground, but the Pale King himself was white from head to toe. Three lights gleamed on his snowy breast: one gray, one blue, one red. These were the three Great Stones, set into the iron necklace Imsaridur, which he stole from the dark elfs. With its magic the Pale King could enslave all of Falengarth. And all of Eldh after that. Nothing stood in his way. Only one broken king, and a handful of men, and a fool with crooked legs who sang of stupid good-men and bold goodwives even as his tears fell to the ground and froze there.”

  Falken paused, and another voice spoke: deep, gruff. It was Boreas. Anger no longer colored his face, but his expression was hard nonetheless. “You tell a sad tale, Falken. But then telling tales is your trade, and one at which you excel. What do your words have to do with this council?”

  “Everything.” Falken brushed his fingers over the broken rune and continued his tale. “In dread Ulther watched the Pale King ride near. His heart turned to ice. Here was his doom, and all the world’s. Then a radiance shone upon him. Across the battlefield three fairies drifted toward the king. They were tall and slender, shining as starlight, and clad all in gossamer. When he looked upon them his fear was replaced by wonder, and the king of Toringarth bowed his head.

  “ ‘The Pale King comes,’ the three light elfs spoke. ‘Yet still it is not too late. Lift up your sword, Lord Ulther, and hold it before you.’

  “Such was his awe that Ulther did as the fair ones bid. He gripped his sword Fellring, forged in the same dwarfin smithies as the magic necklace Imsaridur, and held the bloody blade before him. As he did the fairies clasped each other and, as one, threw themselves upon Fellring. Ulther cried out in dismay, but it was too late. The three had been pierced through. Yet the fairies did not shed blood. Instead a brilliant light welled forth from their wounds, so bright Ulther was forced to turn his head. When at last he looked again the light elfs were gone, and Fellring—stained by blood no longer—shone as if it had been forged anew from the stuff of stars.

  “There was time no more for wonder, for then the Pale King was upon him, his steed snorting fire. Behind the Pale King stood thirteen whose faces were hidden by black hoods, and whose feet left no imprint on the snow. They were the Necromancers, the Pale King’s wizards, who had forged his army of feydrim.

  “With brave battle cries, Ulther’s earls rushed forward, but the Pale King struck them down with his icy sword. The last to stand was Ulther’s fool, still singing songs of good cheer for his master. Then he too fell, his song silenced, to spill his blood upon the snow. Now indeed was Ulther alone.

  “Leaving his wizards, the Pale King approached. He did not fear Ulther, for such was the power of Imsaridur that no mortal hand might wound him, dark elfin blade or no. Nor did Berash have a mortal heart to pierce, for his had died long before, and had been replaced in his chest by an enchanted heart of cold, hard iron.”

  Grace drew in a hissing breath and sat up straight on her bench. Aryn gave her a puzzled glance, as did Durge and Melia, who sat just beyond the baroness. No, it can’t be! This is all a story. A myth. Damn it, a myth from a world that’s not even Earth. It can’t be the same, Grace. It can’t.

  Even as she said these things to herself, Grace knew it was the same. Somehow the dead man in the ED, and Detective Janson—and the other ironhearts Hadrian Farr knew of—were connected to this world, to this story. But how? She gave Aryn’s hand a squeeze to reassure the young baroness, even though her heart pounded in her throat, and leaned forward to hear the bard’s story.

  “The Pale King descended from his mount and stood above Ulther. Imsaridur blazed upon his breast. He lifted his sword to strike off Ulther’s head.

  “ ‘None can stand before me,’ spoke the icy king.

  “ ‘Then kneeling I shall strike you!’ Ulther cried.

  “The king of Toringarth gripped the hilt of Fellring and thrust up to smite the Pale King. Berash’s white eyes flew wide. Enchanted by the sacrifice of the fairies, the shining sword sank into the Pale King’s breast, and there it clove his iron heart in two. At the same moment Fellring shattered in Ulther’s grip, and a great chill coursed up his arms, deep into his own breast, striking his own heart. The Pale King fell to the snowy field, but Ulther kept his feet, the broken hilt of Fellring in his hand. He stumbled to the Pale King and took the necklace Imsaridur from around his foe’s throat. Then Ulther fell to his knees on the cold ground. He glimpsed the Necromancers approaching, their robes fluttering like black wings. Now his end would come.

  “All at once a sound pierced the frigid air, high and clear: the sound of horns. The sun broke through the shroud of mist that hung over the vale, and the horde of feydrim, disheartened by the fall of their master, quailed before the light. The sun glinted off the tips of fifty thousand spears. Again the horns sounded, closer now, as a bright army marched into Shadowsdeep, led by a proud woman on a horse of white. Elsara, Empress of Tarras, had come at last. Ulther laughed, then fell forward and knew no more.”

  Falken’s voice grew quiet, and the council chamber came back into focus. For a moment Grace had been there, in the snowy vale, and had seen the Pale King, colorless as ice upon his midnight horse. Yet the story couldn’t be over, Falken hadn’t finished.

  “But how did it all end?”

  In belated shock Grace realized the voice was her own. She had only meant to murmur the words, but such w
as the silence in the wake of the bard’s tale that the words carried across the council chamber. Boreas glared at her, and Grace shriveled inside her gown.

  “End?” Falken said. “How did it end? But the story did not end, my lady. It goes on even today, and now we are all players in it, whether we wish it or not. Without their master’s magic to bind them, the feydrim were no match for Elsara’s army. To the last they were destroyed. When Elsara reached the Gap of Teeth, she found Ulther in the snow, clutching the broken hilt of Fellring and the necklace Imsaridur. However, the Pale King was gone. The Necromancers had borne their fallen master back into Imbrifale.

  “Although at first Elsara feared Ulther dead, he was not, and after many days under the care of her healers he was able to stand again. He walked back to the Gap of Teeth with a hundred runewielders, the strongest in all of Falengarth. With the help of Elsara’s army they raised a great gate of iron across the door of Imbrifale, and the runewielders bound it with three powerful runes, so the Pale King and his servants might never ride forth again. The runewielders became the first of the Runelords, and Ulther gave them the necklace Imsaridur for safekeeping. Then came a hundred witches to Shadowsdeep, and they wove enchantments of illusion and madness over the mountains, so that none might cross into or out of Imbrifale that way.

  “Finally, Ulther and Elsara forged a new kingdom to keep watch over Imbrifale, to make certain the dark Dominion never rose again. They set their children upon the throne in marriage, and thus was Malachor born. For a long age peace and light ruled Falengarth. For an age …”

  Falken shook his head. “That age is over. Malachor fell centuries ago. The Runelords are no more. The Imsari, the three Great Stones that once graced Imsaridur, are scattered and lost. And now”—he pointed to the broken rune on the table—“now the Rune Gate weakens.”

  There was silence. Then—harsh and jarring—laughter.

  It was Eminda of Eredane. “You tell a glorious tale, Falken Blackhand. For a moment I half fancied I believed it. However, if there is any enchantment here, it is simply the spell of your voice, and nothing more.” Now the humor drained from her face, replaced by annoyance. “We are here to discuss real troubles that face the Dominions. We do not have time for tales meant to frighten children by the fire.”

  Other heads around the table and chamber nodded at this.

  “Don’t we?” Falken said, his voice rising. “Perhaps children have more sense than we. The Pale King stirs, there can be no doubt. The Dominions must take action, and take it swiftly. They must raise an army as strong as that of Ulther and Elsara of old, and they must do it now.” Falken raised his black-gloved fist on high. “By the blood of Malachor in my veins, I demand a reckoning of the council!”

  Eminda stood, her broad face crimson. “This is ridiculous!”

  King Sorrin, who had hardly moved throughout the bard’s tale, now lifted his head. His sunken eyes were unreadable. “Let the bard have his reckoning. Then we shall be done with it.”

  The other rulers nodded in agreement. Eminda sank back into her chair. Boreas motioned to Alerain, and the seneschal hurried over with a leather pouch. Boreas emptied the pouch onto the table. In it were seven white stones and seven black stones. He passed one stone of each color to each of the rulers.

  “The question stands before this council whether to muster the Dominions for war,” Boreas said. He held up his white stone. “White signifies agreement, and a mustering for war.” The king lifted his black stone. “Black signifies disagreement.”

  Each of the rulers held their two stones beneath the table, then drew one out, hidden in the hand. They rested their hands on the table before them. Grace held her breath. She barely knew Falken, but his tale had affected her in a way she could not explain. She did not pretend to understand everything about this Pale King. However, she had seen a thing of evil—a man with a heart of iron in his chest—and she had seen the feydrim as well. She knew there was danger, and greater than any of them could imagine. However, as the kings and queens opened their hands, Grace knew before she saw each stone what color it would be.

  On the open palms of Boreas, Kylar, and Persard rested a white stone: war. Revealed on the hands of Eminda, Lysandir, and Sorrin were stones of black: no muster. Only Ivalaine was a mystery to Grace. The beautiful queen of Toloria sat still, then she too opened her hand.

  There was no stone upon it. “I abstain,” Ivalaine said.

  Boreas’s eyes flashed in rage, but before he could speak Eminda stood.

  “Then it is a deadlock,” she said. “And a deadlock means no muster!”

  Falken gazed at the queen of Eredane and the rest of the council. His face was gray and haggard. Grace started to reach out a hand, then snatched it back. What could she possibly do to help? If Falken could not sway the council, she hardly could. Falken gathered up the broken rune.

  “Then there is no hope for Eldh,” he said, and walked from the tower.

  71.

  The next morning, Durge came to Grace’s chamber to teach her how to use the knife Aryn had given her.

  “There has been one attack upon your person, my lady,” the knight said when she opened the door. “That makes another all the more likely. I do not expect to let you far from my sight, but I cannot be with you every moment.”

  Grace gave a tight smile. “You could, Durge. I just don’t think I’d appreciate you quite as much as I do now.”

  Durge stepped into her room and asked if he might see her knife. Grace gave it to him. She had cleaned the feydrim’s blood from it, and its edge glinted in the sunlight streaming through the window. The knife was small, but its blade bore a sensual curve. It seemed alive, but then knives could be living things. Grace knew that from the ED. Sometimes a scalpel could jump out of her hand. Other times it seemed to guide her fingers, as if it knew better than she the incision that needed to be made.

  “It is old and of a good make,” Durge said. “As good as any blade from the forges of Embarr, although I would say this blade was fashioned here in Calavan. Third century after Founding I would hazard, which means it is nearly two hundred years old. Of course, it’s been hafted to a new hilt since.”

  “How do you know all that, Durge?”

  The knight shrugged. “I have a passing interest in metals and other elements, my lady. Do not be too impressed. Certainly my speculation is quite wrong.”

  Grace doubted that. She took the knife back and gazed at it with new wonder. How many hands had held it before her?

  “One can study for years to learn how to wield a knife properly,” Durge said, “and we have but a morning. However, I can teach you some moves and positions. They are simple enough, but they will make an enemy think twice about attacking you again.”

  Grace steeled her shoulders. “Show me.”

  For the next hour Grace concentrated, knife in her hand, as Durge showed her how to position her body to guard her most vulnerable areas—the stomach, the throat, the face. He taught her to make, not large slashes, but quick, short thrusts. The goal was not to kill the opponent, only to stick him, to slow him down, and make him hurt. That would give Grace time to run, or to call for aid.

  By the end of the hour Grace’s cheeks glowed with effort, and the shoulder of her knife arm ached. However, when Durge made a feint at her from behind, she was able to crouch quickly and thrust behind her.

  A strong hand clamped around her wrist. “Very good, my lady.”

  She looked back over her shoulder. The tip of the knife was no more than an inch from Durge’s thigh.

  “I knew that blow was coming. Your enemy would not. I think he would have felt that sting.”

  Grace stood, her heart pounding, and grinned. Could she really do it? Could she really harm another to save herself? Why not, Grace? You’ve done it before. Remember the baker in the lower bailey. And that was not the first time. That was not the first.…

  Her grin faded.

  Durge cocked his head. “I think that is enou
gh for today. You are a swift learner, my lady, although I would that I could teach you how to use a larger weapon. Even in close quarters, I prefer my greatsword …”

  “… but this is a little easier to fit in one’s boot,” Grace said. She bent and slipped the knife into the sheath inside her deerskin boot. It was foolish—she shouldn’t let herself feel this way—but she did feel more confident with the knife snug against her skin.

  She rose, and a thought occurred to her. “Durge, what does King Sorrin think of your spending so much time with me?”

  Durge was in the act of strapping on his sword harness, which he had removed for their exercises. She could not see his face—only his broad back, his stooped shoulders.

  “Do not concern yourself with Sorrin, my lady. I have pledged my sword to you, and in Embarr the word of a knight is stronger than steel, more enduring than stone.”

  Grace opened her mouth, but any words she might have uttered were preempted by a knock on the door.

  “Grace!” Aryn said as she rushed into the room. “I’m so glad you’re here. King Boreas wants to see you.”

  Grace crossed her arms over her gown—the paler lavender today. She had known it was only a matter of time before the king summoned her, although she had not expected it this soon. After the disastrous reckoning of the council yesterday, a recess had been called. She had thought Boreas would want to be alone with his thoughts.

  Aloud she said to Aryn, “When did Boreas want to see me?”

  “He said at once.”

  Grace swallowed hard. Boreas always assumed everyone would carry out his orders immediately. That he had specified at once did not bode well.

  She glanced at Durge. “I think I’d better go.”

  “No, my lady. I think you had better run.”

  Moments later she and Aryn dashed through the corridors of the keep. Servants and petty nobles scurried to get out of their way. One red-cheeked page dropped a bowl of apples, and they went bouncing and rolling away across the floor. Grace shot him a look of chagrin as he ran after them. She hoped he wouldn’t be beaten. However, if she didn’t hurry, she wasn’t sure her own fate would be any better. She thought Boreas was above throwing her over his knee and spanking her, but she wasn’t perfectly certain.