The Complete Duology

by M H Woodscourt

  Kovien froze. “You mean not to fight?”

  “You cannot kill me. This we both know. So, take me into Crowwell. Present me to the people and try to burn me at the stake. Make an example of me if you can. I will not die, Kovien.” The storm in his eyes blazed.

  The Fiend took a step back. Kovien glowered. “You think to influence the people of Crowwell with your invincibility. Nay, Gwynter. Bring your army. Besiege Crowwell. Try to defeat me that way. I shall not fall into your trap.”

  Gwynter didn’t blink. “You already have, Kovien.” He lifted his hand and pointed it at Kovien’s head. “I know your power. I know your secret. I know how to break it.”

  “Impossible. You’re lying.”

  “I’ve seen you upon the isles of the sea. I’ve seen the altar upon which the Crown of the Blighted laid until you seized it in your hands and were consumed by its will. Alone, you stood upon the mount and declared the world yours. You seek to purge all magic from it. But I saw even more than that, Kovien. I saw your end. I saw you fail. I’ve seen my victory, and you cannot stop me. You cannot stop the Weave. You’ve lost.”

  Trembling before this creature of light, Kovien shook his head. “Lies. Lies! You cannot win. The voice has chosen me!”

  “The voice laughs at you, Kovien. It has abandoned you.”

  Kovien threw his hands over his face. “Liar! Liar!”

  “The world shall burn, but not with death and tyranny. It shall burn with liberty and faith, bright and unquenchable. You have lost, Crow King. Your reign ends this day.”

  “No!” Kovien drew his sword. “I have not steeped Ilid and Simaerin in blood only to fail now!” He urged the Fiend to charge forward, blade gleaming in the noon sun. Wrath filled his soul, writhing and torrential.

  Gwynter raised his sword and blocked Kovien’s blow as Aluem danced sideways. The unicorns backed up, then charged at the same moment. Swords clashed, Kovien gritting his teeth. Gwynter was stronger; his mount pressed his advantage, forcing Kovien back.

  With a cry, Kovien withdrew his sword and snatched a dagger from a second sheath with his free hand. He hurled it at Gwynter even as the young king brought his blade down to deflect it. The dagger struck metal and bounced away.

  “In physical strength, I’m superior,” said Gwynter. “Surrender, Kovien. Stand down and let Simaerin alone.”

  “And what becomes of me?”

  “You will be executed for your crimes.”

  Kovien barked a laugh. “I will not bend to a human child to face my own destruction.”

  Gwynter’s eyes narrowed. He nudged Aluem forward and the white unicorn lowered his head, horn pointed toward the Fiend. Kovien lifted a hand and conjured wind, forcing Aluem off course.

  “You cannot die, and I cannot best you in combat, but I am the Crow King! I am chosen to win.”

  “How, Kovien?” asked Gwynter.

  He clenched his jaw. Let the frustration die. He is goading you to blind you. Think, Kovien. He does not have the power here. He smiled softly. “Simaerin is my hostage, Gwynter. Defy me if you must, but know that our people will suffer for it.”

  Gwynter’s expression remained impassive. “If I do nothing, you will still kill them all. I would rather offer them a chance for escape. I must defy you. You must be stopped at any cost.”

  “Any?” whispered Kovien. “What of your lovely maiden? What of her fate? If that is the cost?”

  “Kill her,” said Gwynter calmly. “But know that I can resurrect her again, as I was once revived by your mother.”

  Kovien’s smile slipped. “Liar. You couldn’t resurrect your brother. You’ve lost the stone or used it up already.”

  “Nay, Kovien. Lawen had already been healed by the stone. I couldn’t use it twice upon the same soul. But Nathaera—I can save.”

  “Then I shall kill her twice.”

  “You won’t.” Gwynter sounded so certain.

  Kovien scowled. “You have forgotten in all of this the most crucial point: The Crown of the Blighted is mine. How can you stop me? How can you win?”

  “I told you already, I know your secret, your weakness.” He leaned forward. “You, Kovien. All the magic of that crown will avail you nothing, because you’re too weak to use its full power.”

  Kovien stared. His blood ran thick and hot. “You think so? You think my stores are depleted, do you? My time wasted? You think I have been idle?”

  “No, Kovien. I think if you use all the magic you’ve stored within that Crown through all your blood sacrifices, the Crown will consume you. Does its source care who lives or dies? Does its source want magic destroyed when it’s so useful to inflict pain and suffering? Nay, Kovien. That Crown wants only one thing, a thing it has been grooming for ages now. You.”

  Chapter 39

  On his own, Bened had little power. But the Crow King had granted him more, and with it and the paltry cost of several souls, he traveled in a mere blink to the armory of Andonn, the garrison nearest to the Winter Army’s camp.

  Once at Andonn, he mustered a force of 3,500 cavalry. It should be enough against the rabble. The garrison captains were glad to act.

  “We’ve been nervous since we spotted the Swan banner along the highway,” said one captain. “Ilidreth aren’t creatures you let pass you by. Bad luck, they say. Best to kill them before they can curse you.”

  Bened said nothing to correct him. If superstitions encouraged the men to march upon the enemy, all the better to feed such nonsense.

  It took most of the night to ready the horses and gather accoutrements. Thankfully, the Crow King had poured most of Simaerin’s wealth into outfitting his men and outposts, and not one man at Andonn rode without full armor, sword, and shield. Now Bened beheld the orderly rows of horsemen from the garrison walls. This was an army. This was power. Gwynter’s hodgepodge force, made up of farmers, runaway slaves, and the savage Ilidreth, couldn’t compare with this awesome sight.

  The Winter Army would flee from true warriors before the new day died.

  Bened drew a breath, then spoke, straining his voice to let it ring across the bailey. “At dawn we march upon the treasonous swine who dare to defy our noble king! Let none be afraid. We are superior in might and experience. Embolden yourselves and know that you serve the cause of right! We cannot let Simaerin be overrun with malcontents and heretics. We must purge our land of wild mages and Ilidreth savages. Ride with me and cut down the enemy. The blessing of Afallon rides with us. The rightful king of Simaerin shall never fall. Long live the Crow King!”

  Cheers rose from the mounted men and echoing cries for the king’s health followed in discordant chants. Bened let the thrill of their enthusiasm course through him as adrenaline galloped through his veins. He smiled to himself.

  While the Crow King hadn’t told him to bring an army, this was the surest way to victory. Nathaera would be well shielded, especially by her man-eating fae. Bened wouldn’t risk his life alone in the enemy camp a second time. He would ride over the Winter Army and cut them down to the last man. Afterward, the Crow King would see his wisdom, his cunning, his strength—and Bened Arnnor would make Arianwen his bride, or no man would have her. Not even the Crow King.

  Bened hustled down the steps with as much grace as impatience afforded. He pulled himself into the saddle of his borrowed steed, drew his broadsword, and cantered to the gates. With a curt swing of his sword, he cried: “To war!”

  His army followed in unison—the perfect war machine to slaughter peasants.

  The enemy marched along the plains, smaller than last Bened had seen. Unsurprising after a long, merciless winter within the forsaken Keep Talbethé. Gwynter had been a fool to remain there after Bened’s betrayal; but then, Gwynter was a foolish boy in every sense—far too reckless to long survive. What had possessed the boy to ride alone ahead of his forces to meet the Crow King? Gwynter ren Terare might well be mad.

  Bened Arnnor shook his head. What did it matter? Then or now, the army would fall. This way
the Crow King could cut the usurper down and obtain satisfaction even as Bened plowed through the rebel force. By tomorrow, Simaerin could lay this entire affair to rest.

  Crouching upon the greening knoll, Bened watched the marching line along the highway.

  “I count 500 cavalry, 300 foot soldiers,” murmured Captain Brandivven. “That’s half what we expected. This won’t take more than an hour or two, Sir Arnnor. We’ve greatly overestimated them.”

  Bened frowned. Where were the Ilidreth riders?

  “Sir, your orders?”

  “They’re trying to trick us,” said Bened half to himself. “But where are they?”

  A new voice spoke behind Bened. “Sir?” The aide crawled up the hill, trying to press himself to the ground. “We intercepted a messenger pigeon, sir.” He held out a rolled piece of parchment. “It appears the Ilidreth army is farther up the road, about two hours ahead. The human forces have lagged behind.”

  Bened snatched the parchment from the aide and unrolled it to read the elegant lines scrawled in golden ink. He frowned as he devoured the words, trying to catch any hint of a trap. The missive detailed the whereabouts of the Ilidreth army several leagues ahead, with a push for the stragglers to hasten. The Ilidreth would wait for three hours and then march on.

  One tidbit brought Bened’s heart to a halt: We are relieved that you have caught Lady A. Do all you can to keep her safe. Will be of benefit if W. K. is captured by the Crow and negotiations are necessary. –Bowrin

  Crumpling the parchment up, Bened smiled. “Afallon favors us this day. We will wipe out this force first and proceed south to destroy their Ilidreth allies. Mount up. We ride against the rebels at once.”

  Springtime isn’t the best season for going to war, Nathaera thought with a grimace. Cold one moment, blistering the next, more prone to rain and sleet than sunlight, and even then, the sun sometimes burned a person when the air felt chilly. An all-around miserable affair, though she must grant it was a sight better than marching in winter.

  Or, indeed, crushing a man’s hopes.

  Poor Adesta Gilhan had been as graceful and stoic as a gliding swan when he’d accepted Nathaera’s news that she and Gwyn had reached a mutual understanding. But since that midwinter discussion, she’d seen little beyond the back of the Fraeli knight’s head as he trained far away from her.

  I’ll take a war any day over love, she thought.

  A smile tugged at her lips. That’s a lie and you know it, silly girl. Doesn’t Gwyn love you? Is there anything so grand?

  A cry brought Nathaera’s head up. She gripped her stallion’s reins.

  There. Against the southeast hills, a host of horsemen charged toward the Winter Army, Crow banner streaming in the wind.

  Shouts rang down the column along the highway.

  “To arms!”

  “Make ready!”

  “Steady, steady!”

  Nathaera whipped her horse around. “Arianwen, stay with me.” She kicked the stallion into a gallop even as the other woman nodded. Arianwen followed upon her own horse as Nathaera led her away from the highway and into the western hills.

  “It’s him, it must be!” Arianwen shouted above the wind noise.

  Nathaera smiled grimly to herself. Bened Arnnor had come at last. “Stay close!”

  The hills riddled the land for miles, dotted here or there with leafless trees, gray and soggy in the spring melt. Nathaera veered through the flat stretches and wended around the slopes to maintain as much speed as she could. Arianwen kept up splendidly.

  Nathaera glanced back once and found a half dozen soldiers bearing down hard on their heels. The heraldry of the Crow blazed upon their chests and shields. Nathaera scowled and whipped her eyes forward again, fixing them upon the single tree atop a high rise a few hundred yards on. Nearly there. Just a bit farther.

  Her stallion perked up. Nathaera leaned forward as much as she could, letting the wind tear through her hair, ears aching, lips numb.

  The horsemen were gaining. Thundering hooves rattled the air.

  A voice shouted: “Arianwen, you shall never escape me!”

  Nathaera’s grin returned, sly, perhaps even wicked, but she suspected Afallon would forgive her a moment’s relish. Her horse rounded the bend, and the hills gave way to a hidden valley filled with color—but the colors weren’t natural.

  Motley shades of red, blue, purple, green, and gold adorned the mounted army waiting with bows drawn. Behind them sat a dragon, steam rising from his snout. Nathaera charged into their midst as a pathway opened to her. Arianwen followed, and the path lined by Ilidreth closed to the enemy.

  Nathaera heard Bened’s cry of distress, followed by a scream of fury.

  Her smile grew as she steered her horse around. “Celin, don’t kill the knight.”

  “As agreed,” the Ilidreth said, glancing toward her as he unleashed an arrow. “But he will not be unmaimed.”

  Six soldiers in red lay unmoving upon the damp ground. Bened clutched his leg where a shaft jutted from the flesh between the joints of his armor. “That’s just fine,” she murmured, and nudged her horse forward.

  Bened Arnnor looked up with pain bright in his eyes. His wince fell into a glare. “You.”

  She shrugged. “I told you I would make you pay, Bened.”

  He barked a laugh. “You sacrificed your main forces just to lure me into a trap?”

  Nathaera arched an eyebrow. “Sacrificed them? How?”

  “My men outnumber yours by several thousand strong. You think they still stand?”

  Nathaera caught her hair and tossed it over her shoulder to emphasize her disdain. “What do you take me for? You? More importantly, do you truly underestimate the Ilidreth so much? 200 to one, Sir Knight. That is how much stronger the Ilidreth are than your king’s brood. One Ilidreth can slay 200 human knights, let alone enlisted men. By the way, how many Ilidreth do you see before you? Fifty? I confess, I chose that many only to frighten you, but that’s not important right now. How many Ilidreth are missing, Bened Arnnor? Consider that and consider the odds I just gave you. Whose men are cutting down whose, I wonder?”

  His expression hardened, though the color in his face faded enough to satisfy Nathaera. She motioned to Celin, who approached on horseback wearing a perfect mask of indifference.

  “So, this is the dread right hand of the Crow King?” His tone hummed flat. “How the mighty do fall.”

  “Now, now,” said Nathaera. “Be kind, my lord. He’s much more impressive when he’s standing upright.”

  “Is he. Well.” Celin’s eyes swept up and down the lame man’s frame. He turned away and waved a hand to one of his scouts, who rode forward and bowed his head.

  “My lord?”

  “Bind him and bring him along. Bury the rest.”

  “Yes, my lord.” The Ilidreth slipped gracefully from his horse and tied Bened’s hands fast behind his back.

  “Why let me live?” growled Bened.

  Nathaera held his gaze. “Who said I shall?”

  Approaching hooves brought her head around. Arianwen’s mare trotted near and halted before the prisoner.

  Bened’s eyes brightened with greater fury as the raven-haired maiden considered him with a countenance of deep winter. “Sir Knight,” Arianwen said in frosty hues, “gaze upon me and know that you shall never see me again. I am not yours. I shall never be. Die knowing that.” She turned away.

  His eyes narrowed, and he trembled. “Don’t forget, I kissed you. I tasted the untouchable lady of ice!”

  She glanced at him with indifference equal to Celin’s, then with perfect ease she moved away on horseback, as regal and self-possessed as any queen Nathaera might dream up.

  “We must go,” Celin said, drawing Nathaera’s focus back to the situation at hand.

  She shook herself and nodded. “Of course. At once.”

  “You won’t win,” cried Bened after them. “The Crow King is far more powerful than your woeful army!”

/>   Nathaera patted her ear as she rode away. “I’m sorry, Celin. Were you saying something? A bug was snared in my hair, you see, and all I could hear for a moment was its tiny buzzing. Such a nuisance. I do hope that’s the last of his noise I shall ever endure.”

  They moved east toward the Winter Army, and as she rode, Nathaera plotted the most poetic end for Bened she could think up, a gleaming smile lighting her countenance. Though she knew the surest way to humiliate the man was to turn him over to the Winter King as soon as she had the chance.

  That thought made her smile brighter still.

  Chapter 40

  “It is not possible! The Crown has not stained the world merely to claim my soul!” Kovien thrust his hand out, shaken, and furious that he was so. In his distress, the Crown of the Blighted hummed a single, prolonged note. He dropped his hand and smiled. He was not wrong; the voice had chosen him, not the Winter King, nor any of the Wintervale line of old. “Ah, Gwynter, how little you perceive. I shall not call your ruse a waste, for it might have worked upon another, lesser man. But I am not as other men.”

  He raised his hand toward Gwynter, palm forward. “Behold the truth of the world.”

  The Crown hummed again as the sun lost its glow and bathed all in darkness. All, save Gwynter ren Wintervale and his unicorn, swathed in the soft light of the Weave as it pulsed within their souls.

  Kovien smiled. “Alas, Gwynter, were all the world as you are, I would not be called to purge it.”

  Gwynter’s eyes searched the darkness for the Crow King’s face. “I don’t doubt that you were called, Kovien. I only doubt from what source the voice springs. You call my words a ruse, but I meant them: You’re nothing but a tool for some unholy specter.”

  A laugh escaped Kovien’s lips. “A tool? Yes, Gwynter. This I knew already. And gladly I accept my place. Long did I search for a purpose, a reason for what I was.”

  “And you found a purpose, yes. But does that make it right?”