by David Estes
Fleeting memories slashed at the edge of his mind. The Horde. His men, dying. Surrounded, death on all sides, a foe stronger than any he had ever faced. Stronger than him.
But not stronger than the monster inside him, a monster he’d held back until it was too late.
Not too late, the monster said, and for some reason hearing that familiar snakelike voice gave him comfort. As usual, I saved you.
How? Tarin asked. The fact that his heart continued to beat seemed impossible.
Images flashed through his mind, memories that were not his own, but that of the monster:
Snarling faces, their scalps hairless and pale. Heavy, clawed fists, beating, beating, some gripping clubs swung with enough force to crack skulls and shatter bones. The rattling thud of heels against armor, each impact shaking his lifeless body.
And fire. The fire came not from without, but from within, as the monster tore through the wall he’d erected to hold it back, an inferno of power and rage. Its efforts were not enough to bring him back to consciousness, but the monster did manage to fortify his body, sheathing his bones in iron, preventing them from being ground to dust.
Tarin tried to laugh, but it turned into a rasping cough, flecks of bloody spittle marring his smooth, pale chin. His relationship, if one could even call it that, with the thing inside him had always been strained, but their co-dependency was never truly called into question. Tarin knew the monster protected him only to protect itself. Still, he owed much to it—the last ten years of his life, both the good and ill. Thank you, he said.
The monster only laughed. I don’t want your thanks. Only to be your partner. Defy me no more.
It wasn’t a promise Tarin could make—at least not now—but he didn’t immediately rebuild the wall between them.
He tried to sit up, but failed. He might’ve weighed a hundred stones.
Patience. Even your body takes time to heal.
But Tarin didn’t have time, he realized with a sudden jolt of panic. They’d barely slowed their enemy’s pursuit, and they’d lost a hundred of their hardiest defenders in the process, a thought that made Tarin feel ill.
He looked left and right, the nauseous feeling intensifying. The dead lay all around him. He took the smallest measure of solace that they hadn’t become food for the barbarians, but that only meant their foe was in too great a hurry to catch the greater body of refugees. In hindsight, the Horde’s haste was also what had saved his life.
Run, Annise, Tarin thought. Run like the wind.
Tarin tried to move again, with slightly more success, his joints creaking, his makeshift armor rattling like tin cans strung together on a string. Not a plate was without damage, most of them dented in, bruising his flesh. The chest plate felt like the press of a vise, making it hard to breathe. He wheezed, still trying to roll over.
Fool! his monster hissed. Rest for a day, and then we will hunt them down. The next time we meet the Horde, it will be different. I will do what you could not.
“No time,” Tarin muttered, rolling over with a groan. He didn’t have the mental strength to silence the voice in his head, so he contented himself with ignoring its protests as he removed each plate of damaged armor. He growled through the pain, managing to plant one foot while using his thick knee for balance. The world spun and he closed his eyes until the dizziness passed.
And then he stood, hands on knees, trying not to look at the carnage all around him.
No, he thought. They deserve more from their commander. They deserve to be honored. So he looked, his eyes roaming across the killing field. Proud men, broken, tossed aside like dolls. “May you smile in the halls of the frozen gods for the eternities,” he said. “You will not be forgotten by this soldier. What I do next, I do for you.”
And for Annise, he thought, taking his first step toward the east.
Sixteen
The Northern Kingdom, Walburg
Annise Gäric
Annise’s chest felt empty, hollowed out, a cavern of loss and pain and fear. Because of Tarin.
However, as she ran, barking orders, she filled the void with determination and loyalty to her people, who needed her now more than ever before.
“Honor guard! With me! With me!” Her personal guard closed in around her, forming a wedge through the throng of weary, exhausted northerners. Many hauled carts and wagons pulled by slow moving mules, but these were few and far between—the “lucky” ones who had evacuated Castle Hill and Gearhärt early. Most hauled only what they could carry on their own backs. Even small children were slung with satchels and water skins.
Now, Annise knew, they couldn’t take any of it, not if they wanted to survive the next few hours. Food and water no longer mattered. Only speed.
“Flee!” she cried, to all within earshot. “Flee! Carry your children! Drop all else! The enemy is upon us!” Some heard and understood her call, throwing their burdens down and rushing for the gates, while for others her words seemed to have the opposite effect, like she was speaking in a foreign tongue. They stopped, blinking in the pale morning light, frowns of confusion marring their brows.
“GO!” she shouted again, leading by example, sprinting eastward through the gates. A bottleneck formed as thousands pushed in from all sides. Inch by inch they shoved forward, and Annise was hemmed in on all sides as her guard fought to keep the crowd at bay. Too slow, she thought. We will never make it.
She fought off her dark thoughts, remembering that the Horde was still two or more hours from the castle. There was still hope.
But not for Tarin.
Tears threatened once more but Annise dashed them away. This was not the time for grief, nor did a queen have such luxury—not in these times, perhaps not ever.
And then they were through the gates, and suddenly there was more room than they needed, the throng widening, rushing up the hill that overlooked the city from the east. Annise brought her guard to a stop at the top as her people passed around on all sides, streaming down the hill toward safety. They were miles and days from Darrin, but at least now they had a chance, which was more than she could ask.
“Drome, Struger,” she said, rattling off the names of two of her lieutenants. “Rally what’s left of the army. Gather at the rear of the refugees. Protect them at all costs.”
They each saluted. “It shall be done, Your Highness,” Drome said.
“We should go,” Fay said, mounting the hill.
Annise was relieved to see her, though the truth that passed between their eyes was hard to stomach. “I know. It’s just…”
There was nothing else to say. Moving forward without him was far more difficult than placing one foot in front of the other.
“It’s just nothing,” another voice said, sneaking up from behind her. Strong hands grabbed her arms and shoved her down the eastward facing side of the hill. Annise stumbled but maintained her footing. There was only one person who could get away with treating the queen so harshly.
Zelda offered a half-grin as Annise looked back at her. “That weak feeling in the pit of your stomach?” Zelda said. “It’s hunger, nothing else.” Without warning, she extricated an apple from one of the many deep pockets in her cloak and threw it at Annise.
Annise raised a hand and caught it, and Zelda laughed. “Hunger,” she repeated. “Now go.”
“I—” It wasn’t only the thought of leaving Tarin behind that bothered her, Annise realized. It was the thought of leaving anyone behind. The elderly. The weak. The small and helpless. My people, she thought. They were her responsibility and she was supposed to rush on ahead?
“Your mother always told me you were the strongest member of our family,” Zelda said.
“What?” Annise frowned. “She did?” A shiver ran through her. Every new thing she learned about the mother she’d never really known was like a ray of sunlight piercing the clouds.
“Aye. But not because you always whipped the lordlings in the yard, though that was true too.”
�
�Then why?”
“Because you always made the hard choices.”
Annise shook her head. In truth, she’d never even thought her mother was paying attention to any of the choices she made. Just knowing the queen had been aware of her made her feel warm inside. “Is going back to face the Horde not a hard choice?” she said.
Zelda shook her head. “Not for a woman like you. Nor like me. We are Gäric women. Courage is but a second skin we wear when we’re feeling cold. No, going forward to lead our people is the far more difficult decision. Now go, before your aunt shows you her nasty side.”
Annise would’ve laughed, if not for something unsaid she sensed in her aunt’s words. “What about you?”
Zelda grinned. “I’m not the queen, so I don’t have to make the hard decisions. My choice is easy. I’ll fight to the last with the rearguard. I’ll protect my niece and my people.”
“Aunty, no,” Annise said, feeling the swell of dread once more.
Zelda strode down the incline, her shoulders squared as if preparing for the fight of her life. Just before she reached Annise, however, her entire countenance softened and she opened her arms. Annise fell into them, squeezing her tight.
“I’ve loved you like a daughter,” Zelda whispered in her ear. “I will do everything in my power to give you time to escape.”
“Please, don’t go. Don’t leave m—”
“I won’t. I won’t ever leave you. But I will fight for you. That I will always do. Now go, before it’s too late.” Once more Zelda shoved Annise away, leaving her feeling stricken and empty.
Annise shook her head, biting back tears. “I will never forget you,” she promised.
Her aunt’s smile was a banshee grin. “I know. I’ve always been unforgettable.” She started to turn away, but then cocked her head back. “When you meet the Horde, promise me you’ll give ’em frozen hell.”
Annise wanted to cry, and she could tell her aunt did too. But neither of them did, because they were Gäric women, just like Zelda had said. Instead she smiled right back. “I will. We’ll show the bastards why the shield of the north is cracked but never broken.”
Zelda nodded, and then tapped the sigil etched on her breastplate before turning away, cresting the hill before vanishing from sight.
Fay was by Annise’s side a moment later. “Are you well?”
“Well enough,” Annise said. “C’mon.” Surrounded by the honor guard, they fell in amongst the refugees, hastening their pace to make their way to the front. As much as Annise wanted to fall back and defend them, she knew her role was to lead.
Seventeen
The Northern Kingdom, Walburg
Zelda Gäric
We could really use some mamoothen, Zelda thought as she waited, watching the hideous creatures lope over the land still separating them from Walburg. Unfortunately, however, the last of the wooly beasts had been sent from Castle Hill to Darrin weeks ago, just in case a last stand was required.
Still, Zelda missed Chantilly, her favorite of the herd. She longed to feed her apples from her hand, the feel of her moist, hairy snout against her palm. Together they could romp through the Horde, goring them on Chantilly’s long tusks. Zelda shook her head, frustrated by her foolish desires. “Mamoothen,” she muttered.
“Thinking with your stomach again?” one of the other soldiers said. He was a knight, a man named Sir Jonathan who’d been friends with Tarin Sheary for years. They’d had to practically restrain him when Tarin marched with his battalion to face the Horde.
“Better than with my manhood, like most of the male species,” she fired back.
Sir Jonathan laughed, though she thought it felt forced. “Here.” He handed her a buttered roll. “Someone might as well eat the food before it spoils.”
Zelda couldn’t argue with that as she bit into the crusty bread. Along the wall, hundreds of other men waited, eating and drinking, sharpening their weapons and oiling their armor. Other than Annise’s honor guard, every last soldier had stayed behind to fight. To give the refugees the time they needed to escape, or so they hoped.
Silence hung between them as they ate, and Zelda could sense the man’s thoughts, which were a mirror into her own.
If Tarin Sheary was unable to stop the Horde then how could they? At the same time she felt a deep chasm of sorrow for Annise. She’d lost so much—too much—already. Leaving her on that hill had, despite what she’d said, been the hardest decision of Zelda’s life. Only her need to protect Annise gave her the strength to place one foot in front of the other.
“Freakish demons,” Sir Jonathan finally muttered, tossing aside the uneaten portion of his roll.
You don’t know the half of it, she thought, remembering how it had been to fight them in close quarters, on the deck of a ship. That time, she’d failed the other most important person in her life—Archer. I will not fail again, she vowed.
“I wonder how Tarin missed them,” Sir Jonathan said. The man seemed to abhor silence, filling every possible second with chatter. In this case, his words were full of denial.
“The Horde might be smarter than they look,” Zelda said. “Perhaps they saw him coming and went around him in the night.” She wouldn’t deny the knight a sense of hope. He would need it for the battle to come.
His eyes met hers, and again something passed between them. “Perhaps,” he said.
The Horde moved ever closer, a pale tide full of dark tidings. As Sir Jonathan continued to speak, Zelda scanned the creatures, searching, searching for her brother. Where are you Helmuth? If you see me, will you kill me? Does the hate in your heart extend so far that you would not recognize your own sister?
Long had his disappearance haunted her. She remembered the day she learned of her father’s decision, how he’d deprived his eldest son the throne that should’ve been rightfully his. She was just a young girl then, though she’d loved Helmuth above all her brothers. His withered legs had never bothered her. Why should they? They were just legs, after all. To her other two brothers, however, they’d been weapons, used viciously to grind Helmuth into the ground, until eventually even his own father could not grant him the one thing he had left.
The throne.
And I hid in my room all day, crying. I didn’t go to comfort him. I left him to think dark thoughts and plot his escape. And now…
Now he was strong, the warrior he always dreamed he would be. But his heart had turned black, and all he knew was vengeance.
And, Zelda knew, it was all her fault. Things might’ve been different if she’d gone to him that day. Things might’ve been so different.
Her hand slid down to grip the hilt of her sword. She would kill as many of the barbarians as possible to protect her niece, but she would not kill Helmuth if it came to that. No, she would take her own life before she took his.
The decision made, she turned her attention back to the wave of enemies. Just then, however, their path diverted southward, angling away from the direct line they’d been carving toward Walburg.
Zelda leaned forward, staring. A murmur arose amongst the other soldiers as they realized the same thing she had.
The Horde was purposely avoiding them.
Hell-bent on catching their prey.
“Move out!” Zelda shouted, shoving away from the wall.
Eighteen
The Southern Empire, Phanea
Roan Loren
This was a place of shadow and light in equal measure, striating across Roan’s face, playing with his vision. The laws of the natural world didn’t apply here, and Roan was once more struck by the floating sensation as his feet couldn’t find anything to rest on. He wasn’t flying exactly, but not standing either. It was something other, just as this place was other, only accessible by the power coursing across Bane’s fire-lit scalp.
The fires were coming from within the boy’s skin, crackling with unburning heat.
Roan realized he was still holding Bane’s hand, and he released his fingers sharply
, flinching back.
Bane stared at him with glassy eyes.
“I’m sorry,” Roan said. “It’s this place. It’s unnerving.”
“It’s the only place I feel at home,” Bane said. Though his voice was monotone, Roan could sense the enormity of feeling in it.
And, in that moment, he felt abject pity for this boy who’d never had the chance to live. Which made him angry. Who was the Oracle to steal lives in this way? Who was she to decide who should have to participate in the games of war and peace played by the rulers of these lands? He longed to commune with her again, not to learn, but to fire back these heated questions, force her to be held accountable for her actions.
It was an empty desire, Roan knew, for she was a dead woman, even if her soul lingered to watch the future she’d created unfold one section at a time.
“Your thoughts are laid bare in this place,” Bane said, his eyes having never left Roan’s. Roan shook his head, trying to dispel his thoughts, and at the same time realizing the truth of those words. For he could sense Bane’s thoughts just as easily, which was how he had discerned the feeling in Bane’s monotone voice.
“I’m sorry,” Roan said. “I don’t mean to pity you.”
“You think I care about that?” Bane said, a quizzical frown creasing his forehead. Mist roiled around him, striped with bands of bright light.
“Most prefer not to be pitied.”
“Most prefer not to be hated.”
Roan was about to object, but the words faltered on his tongue. For he had hated Bane, once. He’d hated what he’d stood for, what he’d done, and what he knew he would still do. It was the opposite to everything he held dear in his own heart. It was the same reason he’d become so angry with Gwen when she’d let her animosity drive her to seek revenge on the Sandes.
“You see?” Bane said. “None are innocent, not even the Peacemaker.” There was no malice in Bane’s tone, no accusation nor anger. Just truth.
