The Complete Duology

by M H Woodscourt

  “What’s done is done, I suppose. Just rest, Gwynny. If you can…”

  Choking on swelling emotions, Gwyn caught Lawen’s cool hand to rest it against his face.

  Lawen’s arm stiffened. “You’re burning up.” The fingers of his free hand pressed against Gwyn’s forehead, cold and welcome.

  “It doesn’t matter,” Gwyn whispered. “We must enter Talbethé on the morrow, well or otherwise. I shan’t let a fever stop me.”

  “But, Gwynter—”

  “No, Lawen. We ride on. We take the keep. After that, I’ll rest for a little while.”

  “If you ride like this, we won’t reach the keep.”

  “Aluem won’t let me fall.” Gwyn closed his eyes. Weariness washed through him, stifling, heavy…

  “You’re using too much magic. You’re trying to sustain yourself with it, aren’t you? Gwynter, that kind of abuse kills mages. It can drive them mad.”

  Gwyn smiled. “Worrywart.” He sighed faintly and let sleep take him, down, down, to a place of blissful darkness.

  An hour’s sleep granted Gwyn some strength, and he used it to rise and mount Aluem even as Lawen protested.

  “You’re fevered?” asked Nathaera, stepping from the shed, cheeks red in the cold.

  “Just a little,” said Gwyn. “I’ll be fine. We must keep moving.”

  She took another step, lips parting as though to argue, but then she nodded and mounted her steed. “Kive.”

  The fallen fae trotted from around the back of the shed. “Yes, Fairy Wren?”

  “Ride with Shiny if you please. Keep him upright.”

  Kive bobbed a nod and clambered onto Aluem’s back behind Gwyn, who didn’t protest. Indeed, he welcomed the support as he relaxed his throbbing muscles against the bony frame of the fallen fae. The pounding in his head eased a tad. Sunlight stung his eyes as he turned his attention toward the path ahead.

  The company moved out. Every hoofbeat against the earth pulsed through Gwyn’s body.

  ‘Can you keep this up, young Gwynter?’ asked Aluem.

  Gwyn set his jaw and nodded. The unicorn didn’t push further. Gwyn called a halt once to partake of a meager meal of salted pork. After that, they pushed with all they had to reach the keep by dusk.

  As the sun drew its last threads of light from the sky, Gwyn spotted the looming walls of Keep Talbethé highlighted by countless torches. The keep was made of black stone, rough and sharp, with jutting metal spikes glistening in the guttering flames. The walls rose, solid and heavily manned with armored guards stalking the battlements above. Around the keep spread a vast wasteland of ice. Snow fell heavily.

  Gwyn shivered. The atmosphere of this place was dark, darker than the growing night, and the frigid air tasted like sorrow and cruelty in conflict.

  The company stayed hidden within the last stand of trees before the keep, waiting until true night swallowed the world.

  Gwyn turned to the fallen fae. “All right, Kive. It’s time to do as we discussed.”

  “Eat the rats?” asked Kive.

  “No, Kive,” said Gwyn, smiling. “Remember the gate?”

  “Oh, yes, yes. I must tell the rats to let you enter because you are an ally.”

  “Yes, Kive. Exactly.”

  “Won’t they remember after a moment?” asked Nathaera.

  “Not before it’s too late to stop us,” said Gwyn steadily. “Kive and I have been experimenting with his manipulation. I’m confident that wording isn’t what’s important. Kive could tell me to stand perfectly still and I would do so. He could also tell me to find the nearest cliff and jump to my death, and I would start off to find that cliff—but the accomplishment of his order depends, not on the nature of the command, but upon the conviction with which he states it. Should he tell me very casually to jump off that cliff, I would likely fight it off long before I had to jump. Should he, however, insist earnestly that I do so, I might not be able to resist before it was too late, if I resisted at all. I’ve timed Kive’s most earnest command. Without fail, it lasted nearly an entire day and night. I’ve also tested to see if the number of people under the command’s sway would alter the length of its influence. It didn’t.”

  “Just how did you test all this?” asked Lawen, eyes narrowed.

  Gwyn smiled faintly. “I assure you, Kive did no worse to my council than to belay its fears a few times. I’ve worked more closely with Kive independently. I also tested the group potency, but that I did using ignorant Heshi prisoners before we started toward Talbethé—to keep them from killing us in our sleep. Still, I’m confident in my conclusion.” He rested a hand on Kive’s shoulder. “Before you head for the gate, Kive, tell me very strongly to have a clear mind and not feel the effects of my fever.”

  Kive moved to stand before Gwyn, looking up into his eyes. “Shiny, have a clear mind and do not feel the effects of your fever.” His tones rang deep, silken. Insistent.

  Gwyn’s thoughts broke through the murky fog and he sighed. “That should last at least through the night.”

  “But, Gwyn,” said Lawen, “you’re still sick.”

  “Yes, but now I can fight.” He turned to Nathaera. “One flaw in Kive’s ability is the matter of perception. His wording does impact the effects, not just his tone or intent. Should he tell a guard to turn around, for instance, the guard may make a full circle rather than turn his back on us. Simple, precise commands are best.”

  She nodded. “I understand well enough. I’ll keep him straight.”

  “Good. Then it’s time to go. Sir Bened, the banner?”

  The black knight proffered the Crow banner he’d kept tucked in his saddlebag, now tied to the tor of a long, straight stick. “It is prepared, Your Majesty.”

  A shadow passed over Gwyn’s heart as he considered the black crow against the red field. He curled his hands into fists and bowed his head. “May Afallon be our shield this night. We ride.”

  Chapter 21

  Thundering toward the gates of Talbethé, banner streaming against the chill wind, the Winter King’s company stayed behind Kive, who sprang up as he reached the gateway and darted up the wall among the spikes until he crested the battlements and disappeared from view.

  “Ho the keep!” cried Lawen, as the horses slowed before the towering entrance.

  “Who goes there?” boomed a voice from the left gate tower.

  Lawen said nothing. A moment later the portcullis lifted with a rumbling of apparatus. Two guards appeared in the entrance, spears in hand but not pointed at Gwyn’s company.

  “Enter, allies,” said one guard in a gruff, distant voice.

  Gwyn nudged Aluem forward, nerves taut, straining for any discordant noises to indicate a trap. The clatter of hooves behind him rang loud in his ears. The entire keep might easily stir. Was this a mistake? What if Kive’s command wasn’t enough to control so many Corvus mages? What if the fallen fae lost his focus mid plan? What if the Crow King came to Talbethé rather than a subordinate?

  Am I prepared to meet him in combat?

  Wind rushed through Gwyn’s mind. ‘Steady, Gwynter. Be bold.’

  Kive scampered into view to Gwyn’s right, waving vigorously. “Shiny, I told them. I told them we’re allies. They’re listening, Shiny.”

  Gwyn smiled despite himself. “Well done, Kive. Very well done.”

  Kive glowed with pleasure as he turned to the armored man standing beside him. “Let them through. Let them through. They’re allies.”

  The two guards remained stationary. Gwyn glanced at the banner flapping above the keep. “Lawen?”

  His brother dismounted, grabbed a folded Unicorn banner, and sprinted toward the steps leading up to the battlements.

  “Nathaera?”

  The girl was already racing to Kive’s side. “Come, Kive,” she said breathlessly, “we must alert the officers that the keep has fallen to the Winter King!”

  “Oh, yes. The keep has fallen,” declared Kive.

  “Don’t tell me!”
laughed Nathaera as she dragged Kive by his wrist toward the inner tower where the officers and mage leaders would soon assemble to direct their forces.

  Gwyn waited a moment, then turned to Bened. “Sound the alert, Sir Knight.”

  Bened moved to the nearby battle horn and blew into the mouthpiece. A deep, resonating sound shook the earth, waking the compound. Scurrying feet flooded the corridors and slapped against the flagstones as metal clanged and rattled, while troops of armored men and cloaked figures formed rows. The long-bowmen strung and nocked their weapons, prepared to let fly their arrows upon whatever force lay beyond the walls.

  Gwyn waited at the open gate, not daring to breathe, willing his heart to stop drumming against his chest. Had Kive and Nathaera made it to the tower unscathed? Would the Ilidreth’s command do what it must?

  A shrill cry broke from the wide tower window. Gwyn’s heart convulsed. Dear Afallon, let that be one of Kive’s victims and not Nathaera.

  A voice rang out across the bailey, strong and familiar. “Look at all the rats, Fairy Wren!”

  The army shifted. Several cloaked mages lifted their heads higher to listen. Gwyn resisted the urge to flinch, though no one could see him in the shadows of the gate. He dismounted Aluem.

  “Listen, rats,” cried Kive’s voice unseen in the tower. “The Winter King has besieged the keep! The gate has fallen! You are overrun by your enemy!”

  Murmurs rose and cries filled the night sky. Above the din, Kive’s voice rang on, repeating the words Nathaera fed him, his tones thick with power, heavy, adamant. Urgent.

  “Attack, rats! Attack your neighbor! Attack your friend! He is the enemy! He is a traitor of your king!”

  Gwyn stood apart from the soldiers and mages of Talbethé, unaffected by Kive’s words, already being a traitor of the Crow King and not a rat. Turning, Gwyn smiled toward Bened, but the man had vanished in an ocean of soldiers as they drew their swords on one another. The clash of weapons and screams of the dying stained the wind.

  Guilt surged through Gwyn’s soul as he watched the cracks between flagstones seep with blood and snow, but he drew his sword and started forward into the melee. Lawen joined him, panting slightly.

  “That was brilliant, Gwyn. Very effective, from what I saw on the wall.”

  Gwyn nodded. “Unfortunate, though. Not all these men are evil.”

  “Few are, I suspect.”

  Conversation died as a pulsing wave of magic berated Gwyn’s soul. He staggered but righted himself and searched the scrabbling crowd for the mage challenger. There, on the stone steps that spiraled up the command tower, a cloaked figure stood in repose, the calm in a storm. Gwyn started for him, stretching forth fingers of his magic to knock aside any soldier who approached. Lawen fended off any stubborn combatants, using his sword like a master, keeping astride of Gwyn.

  “Go,” Lawen said, as they reached the bottommost step. “I’ll be right behind you.”

  Gwyn stared up at the cloaked figure. Traycen ren Lotelon had come, and Nathaera hid within the same tower. Had she encountered him? What was the source of that scream? Was she well, or…?

  A sound like crashing thunder broke through Gwyn’s thoughts, and he wheeled as boulders rained down from the battlements above. Laughter filled the sky, booming, manic. Lawen flung himself aside, narrowly escaping the barrage.

  A jeering voice followed the mad laughter. “Hold fast, Winter King! It is I who will destroy you.”

  Gwyn spotted a man leaning over the walkway on the wall above. As the dust from the boulders swept aside in a rising wind, Gwyn frowned. Windsur ren Cloven? Why had he come here? He was no mage, no soldier, not even a formidable noble. Only his wealth allowed him to aspire to any ambitions. But then, he had a grudge against Gwyn. That much he’d proved when he turned Gwyn over to the Crow King’s justice for using magic to save Lawen’s life. No doubt, the source of his grudge had been the direction of Nathaera’s affections.

  Gwyn sighed and raised his sword toward the man. “A duel would be best undertaken upon even footing.”

  Windsur barked a laugh and lunged from the wall with a shout. Gwyn exclaimed and shot out a hand as though he could break Windsur’s fall—

  But Windsur didn’t fall. He glided toward the earth, expression torn between glee and shock.

  There. Tied by a cord to Windsur’s neck, a black stone pulsed with magic. The young man landed on his feet between Lawen and Gwyn. Both brothers pointed their blades at him.

  Windsur grinned. “I’ve ached for this moment, Gwynter ren Terare. I’ve dreamed of nothing else.”

  “That isn’t healthy,” said Lawen, eyes glinting, tone mocking. “Have you spoken with a physician?”

  Windsur scowled. “Silence, demon. You shouldn’t be alive! Only Gwynter’s heresy preserves you.”

  “His heresy?” Lawen scoffed. “If by that you mean magic, what was it that aided you just now when you stupidly jumped from a forty-foot wall?” He stabbed a finger toward the battlements.

  Windsur grinned. “The grace of Blessed Afallon.”

  Gwyn bristled as Lawen took a step forward, jaw clenched.

  “I’ve no interest in you,” said Windsur. He raised his hand, the stone at his chest pulsed, and Lawen flew backward. He crashed into an armored soldier long-since hacked to death. Lawen untangled himself and charged toward Windsur, magic weaving at his fingertips. A rope of watery light shot from each hand, and the tendrils wrapped themselves swiftly around Windsur, binding him even as the noble sputtered. Few knew that Lawen, too, was a mage.

  “Go, Gwynter,” Lawen growled. “I’ll see to the half-pint knight. You have a keep to take.”

  Gwyn nodded and turned back to the tower steps. The cloaked figure still stood there, observing, perhaps coldly, perhaps with amusement. Traycen had never been easy to read.

  Gwyn started up the steps. “Lord ren Lotelon,” he said evenly. “I’d heard you were dead.”

  “Once,” said the familiar voice, strangely remote. “But my lord and master has revived me to serve him a while longer.”

  “Show me your face,” said Gwyn, disturbed by the shadows hiding the mage’s features under a heavy cowl.

  The figure lifted an arm to pull back his hood. Gwyn shivered. The mage’s movements were too fluid, too silken. The cowl fell back, and Traycen ren Lotelon stood before Gwyn, exposed, the same as he’d been before—but somehow changed. The life was gone from his face. His skin glowed a pale hue, stretched too tight. The features were right, yet terribly wrong. But the man’s eyes were his own; cold, fathomless, save for the flicker of fervor burning there: A zealot in service to his idol.

  “Have you harmed Nathaera?” Gwyn asked.

  “No,” answered the master mage. “She is nothing. I have come for another purpose.”

  “Do you intend to kill me?”

  Traycen smiled, chilling Gwyn to his core. “Not you, Winter King.” His eyes flicked behind Gwyn. “The Crow King sends his condolences.”

  Gwyn whirled. Windsur had been knocked to the ground. Before him stood Lawen, gasping for breath, sword hovering above the noble’s chest where the pendant no longer hung. The din of fighting raged on. Snow fell quietly from the pitch-colored sky. The caustic breath of iron pervaded the air. He could sense Traycen behind him, unmoving. What was he missing? He looked again, desperation clawing at his stomach. Something was wrong. He could sense that much.

  There.

  Gwyn’s heart tripped.

  “Do you yield?” asked Lawen, voice strangely loud, echoing in Gwyn’s mind.

  Windsur glowered up at him, hands fisted at his side, sword out of reach. But the pendant wasn’t gone. It was in his hand, glowing, pulsing. Bloodlust poisoned the air around the knight.

  “Never!” screamed Windsur, ignorant of the danger, assuming himself invincible. He didn’t understand. He didn’t perceive the Crow King’s cruelty.

  “Lawen, no! Windsur, it’s a trick!”

  Too late. Gwyn was too late.


  The magic of the pendant, charged with murder, erupted as Windsur held it aloft. The pulse scattered across the ground like a ripple, too low to touch Gwyn or Traycen on the steps. The wave of power swallowed every soldier, every mage, every living being who stood upon level ground within the keep. Snuffing out life like breath against a flaming candle. Swords clattered to the flagstones as bodies dropped, soulless, to the ground.

  Gwyn screamed. His eyes sought Lawen, found him, fallen, motionless. He screamed again and bolted down the steps, but strong arms wrapped around him, holding him fast.

  “Fool,” breathed Traycen into his ear. “The magic still thrives. Enter its path and your life will be forfeit.”

  Gwyn wrenched against the mage with every ounce of strength. “Release me! Let me go!”

  Traycen lost his grip and Gwyn stumbled down the steps, tears searing his eyes. The magic was fading, and as he stepped into its remains, he felt only a tingling stroke against his soul.

  There, lying so still, so very still…

  Gwyn fell to his knees before Lawen, vision swimming, hands shaking. He reached down and touched Lawen’s face, sought breath against his lips. Found none. Already Lawen’s flesh felt cold as ice, pale as snow, and his eyes stared heavenward.

  Tears fell harder. Gwyn whimpered. “No, please. Please don’t, Lawen. You can’t. Not now, not like this. I need—need you. I can’t fight without you. Lawen.” He gripped his shoulder and shook gently, as though he might wake him from slumber. “Lawen, please. Come back. Come back. Come back!” He crumpled forward and pressed against his brother’s chest as sobs racked his frame.

  Lawen was gone. The Crow King had taken him, had sacrificed the mages of Corvus to do so, had fooled Windsur into using his own life to see it done. And Traycen ren Lotelon had known.

  Gwyn lifted his head and turned. Traycen stood nearby, face the same impassive, hardened exterior it always was. Just a puppet, a mere doll. Wrath filled Gwyn with a surge of heat so terrible, he thought he might wither. He rose, caught up his sword, and faced the Crow King’s faithful servant.