by David Estes
The moonslight shifted, finding the statue’s face, and Ennis’s heart skipped a beat. For it was the face of an angel. The face of his cousin, Rhea. Though he knew they bore a resemblance and that Rhea had been named after the famous queen, he’d never really understood just how similar their features were until now. Perhaps the last few months had reshaped Rhea to look more like her ancestor, but still, Ennis couldn’t look away from the statue. His joints aching, he rose to his feet, clambered onto the stone pedestal, and gazed up at that moonslit face. He was dimly aware of the chains that clanked behind him, attached to the iron band that circled his throat.
An odd shape appeared on the statue’s shoulder, giving her the appearance of being deformed, hunched over. Then he spotted another similar shape. And another. And another still.
Birds, Ennis realized, squinting. Dozens of them alighted on the statue, their heads cocked to the side, staring at him. Above the statue were hundreds more, wheeling about, so silent in their flight it took Ennis a few moments to realize what type of fowl they were.
Crows. Hundreds upon hundreds of crows.
“They follow my Horde wherever it goes,” a voice said from behind, startling him. He almost fell from the platform as he turned, but managed to steady himself with a hand on the statue’s leg.
More than anything, Ennis wanted to deny this evil man. To raise a sword, to attack. To kill him. The fear, however, echoed in his chest cavity in time with the beat of his heart. He had no sword, and this man gripped the very chain that was tethered to his neck. Also, there was the fatemark the man bore, the power to wield fear and pain as a weapon.
Ennis knew he was lost. But still, there was no honor in surrender, not in his world. “Oh ut irsif,” he tried to say, but Go rut yourself sounded no better than a meaningless gurgle without a tongue to help him form the words.
Helmuth took a step closer. “The thing I’ve been wondering, is why you were leaving Knight’s End through the backdoor? But now I think I understand. I mentioned you to your brother, and he said—”
“Air ish eee?” Ennis gurgled.
“He’s close,” Helmuth said, but something about the hollow way he spoke gave Ennis little comfort. “He said you’d been banished. Well, he wasn’t exactly forthcoming with information, but I managed to persuade him. Anyway, I know how it feels to be discarded like an old scrap of clothing. I was banished once. Well, in a manner of speaking. My own father cast me out, can you believe that? It’s because of him that we are in this little predicament now.”
Pale forms moved all around, edging closer. Ennis could make out glistening fangs and the flash of claws. Barely restrained snarls issued from the backs of their throats.
So it comes to this, Ennis thought. He knew he was about to die, but he would do everything in his power to take at least one of the barbarians with him.
The man wrenched the chain back so suddenly and with such force that Ennis had no time to react, tumbling forward, unable to twist his body to lessen the impact as his body flopped heavily onto the blood-soaked stones.
He groaned, his eyes finally adjusting to the darkness, seeing the blunt-featured faces of the barbarians prowling nearby. Their eyes were hungry, so hungry, drinking him in. Seeming to taste him with their gazes. But it wasn’t the barbarians that caught his attention.
Oh Wrath, he thought as he realized what was odd about the pikes surrounding the square. Instead of flags, they were mounted with heads. Horrified, Ennis’s vision spun, but he blinked furiously, knotted his teeth together, and forced himself to scan the pikes, naming them one by one.
House Morrow. Lord Morrow’s dead eyes stared at him, the nobleman’s head slumped at a strange angle.
House Rhode. Lady Rhode was hardly recognizable, her face bruised and swollen.
House Dahlia. House Verroen. House Pratt. And on and on and on, the head of each major ruling house headless and staring with those blank expressions.
Ennis swallowed back more bile, skipping all the way to the last pike, which he’d once been proud of each time he passed through this very square, and—
Tears dripped from his eyes, a guttural sound wrenching from the back of Ennis’s throat, not unlike the snarls made by the enemies prowling closer and closer…
For there was not one pike, but two, each mounted with severed heads representing his own house. House Loren.
Sai Loren.
Wheaton Loren.
Ennis collapsed to the side, curled up into a ball, and wept.
The Horde moved closer, fangs bared. And their leader, the Lost Son of the North, did nothing but watch.
Thirty
Somewhere
Bane Gäric
Bane awoke drenched in sweat in that mist-filled place. His scalp was burning as if on fire, and for a moment he wondered whether the plague had returned worse than ever, sending him into a feverish state.
But no.
Though he hadn’t felt it in a while, he remembered the feeling.
My deathmark. Filling with blood.
Seven, he thought. Seven dead. His next thoughts were: Who? And how?
He checked his clothes and skin for blood, wondering whether he’d done it in some strange fugue state, driven by the Western Oracle’s ghost to finish the job he’d started months ago.
Nothing. He was clean. Which didn’t mean anything.
Still, something told him it wasn’t he who had killed, but another, darker, menace.
The Horde.
And they would kill again.
Thirty-One
The Northern Kingdom, Darrin
Annise Gäric
Night charged toward Darrin on swift, heavy feet.
Annise felt the passage of time more than ever before, because she knew each moment was precious, a gift she might never receive again.
She hadn’t given up. No, it simply was not in her, not after all she’d been through. She stalked the area behind the main gate, watching and waiting. She didn’t need to utter a single word of command, for Sir Metz’s soldiers were already in position, prepared. Fay was absent, choosing to pass the time in the forge, producing as much as she could in the time that was allotted. Zelda sat near the gates, her legs crossed. Annise hadn’t been hungry for supper, so now her aunt was polishing off her evening ration. Tarin stood nearby wearing a jumbled assortment of makeshift plate. It was the best Fay could do for now. At least his breastplate is large enough to cover all the vital areas, Annise thought. Still, she wished he had his old armor, the suit painted as white as a freshly fallen field of snow.
Tarin, of course, had tried to coerce Annise into going to sleep—You need your rest, and we don’t even know if the barbarians will attack on this night, he’d said.
But she knew. They would come on this very night. It was only a matter of when.
Plus, even if she wanted to sleep, she knew she wouldn’t be able to, her mind ablaze with worries for her soldiers. Her people.
Even now, the non-soldiers were asleep within the inner wall of the castle, although she’d spread the word that they should remain vigilant, sleeping in their clothes with a small supply of food and water packed and ready at a moment’s notice. Please let them sleep the night through, she thought now. Please let us hold the gate.
Her gaze caught the last remaining stream worker as he hurried across the large area just within the gates. Earlier, Annise had sent a final stream using their last Ferrian inkreed. She was too proud to beg, but she had implored Gareth Ironclad to at least respond so she knew his position. Now, she tried not to get her hopes up because she’d commanded the stream worker to update her every hour. Still, her heart fluttered each and every time she saw him.
However, before he’d reached her she knew what his answer would be, his eyes downcast and unwilling to meet her queenly gaze. “Thank you,” she said, trying not to take her frustration out on him. “You may return to your post.”
“I’m sorry, Your Highness,” he said. “There have been no
streams from anywhere.”
She nodded and turned away. Any hope of a miracle from their eastern rivals was fading quickly.
A shout on the wall drew her attention upward. A soldier was gesticulating wildly, waving and pointing toward the south. Soon other soldiers were doing the same, and then the southern flagbearer confirmed the enemy’s position.
Annise waited, watching for the next sign, her heart in her throat.
The flagbearer brought the flagpole down with a sharp chop.
Nearby, Tarin drew the Morningstar, unwrapping the chain from around the hilt.
The barbarians were coming.
Christoff
Christoff wasn’t one to make assumptions or jump to conclusions, so before he gave any order, he climbed the steps to the wall, locating the southern flagbearer who had raised the official signal that they were under attack.
The soldier’s flag was still pointed downward as he stood at attention, his eyes trained to the south. Christoff stood beside him, following his gaze until he located the pale white forms emerging in droves from the shadows of the mountains. They were moving fast, but not as fast as he knew they were capable of on such open terrain. If they breached the city walls…
Christoff blinked the thought away. Speculation was pointless. Vigilance and order were the keys to victory. More than half his force was gathered in this portion of the city to protect the main gates, with the remainder scattered to the north, east and west.
Slowly and methodically, he counted their number. Though he’d done the same as the barbarians had retreated two days earlier, it always paid to be certain of such things. He reached one hundred, filing that information away as he started on the second hundred. In the back of his mind was the count from before: Two hundred and twenty-six.
More forms emerged from the shadows of the mountains, a strangely silent tide.
“What orders, commander?” the flagbearer asked, growing uncomfortable in the silence.
Christoff ignored him, focused on the count.
The last of the barbarians appeared and Christoff frowned, waiting for more. The distance between the enemy and the mountain’s shadow grew larger, but still no additional pale forms came forth.
One hundred and eighty-six, Christoff thought, pursing his lips. He knew he should recount to be certain, but time was of the essence, a greater priority than exactness and procedure.
“Signal to the other flagbearers,” Christoff said, finally meeting his soldier’s eyes. “Tell them the enemy has flanked us.”
“Sir?”
“Do it!”
Just before the man raised his flag to issue the signal, shouts arose from the eastern side of the city.
Where the castle is, Christoff thought.
He took off at a run, thinking about all the civilians asleep in their beds, fully clothed, unaware of the enemy closing in.
Tarin
Tarin strode toward Sir Metz even as he ran up. “I saw the signal,” Tarin said. “How could they flank us?” After all, they were mindless barbarians, right?
“I don’t know,” Metz said. “But I need to go, rally the soldiers to the east. I’m taking a hundred archers too. Can you hold the gate?”
Annise, her armor glistering in the moonslight, said, “Go with honor. Protect our people. We will do what we can here.”
Sir Metz saluted and broke away, shouting orders as he sprinted. A mix of infantry and archers fell in behind him.
Tarin said, “Annise.” Time felt like sand spilling between his fingers, and there was so much he wanted to say to her.
“Later,” Annise said, understanding. She gripped his fingers tightly.
“What if—”
“Don’t even think it. Right now, we need you. We need you both. Do whatever you have to do to keep us safe.”
Tarin felt a swell of determination at her words. “I will. Be safe.” Before she turned away, he grabbed her and pulled her against him, drawing her lips to his. The kiss was too short, but full of all the words he didn’t have time to say. When they broke apart, Tarin spun and marched toward the gates, toppling the wall between him and his monster.
Hello again, the monster purred.
Annise
First, Annise located Zelda, her heart still thrumming a chord from her last kiss with Tarin. No, she thought, not last. First of many more to come.
She kept that thought planted in the back of her mind as she said, “Come with me.”
Zelda was still sitting, despite all the activity buzzing about, but now she stood. Her broad jaw jutted out even further, and there was a look of confidence in her eyes. We are more alike than you think, Zelda had once told her, and now that thought gave her strength. For if she had even a small portion of Zelda’s courage and ability, she would be fine.
They hustled over to the nearest set of steps pressed against the wall. Annise, to her surprise, felt calm but energized. She’d faced many foes before. Hell, she’d faced this foe before, twice now. She did not fear them, only what would happen if she couldn’t stop them.
The long, narrow causeway at the top of the southern-facing wall was already filled with soldiers. Not just archers, but infantry too. The strategy had been discussed at length. Though holding the gates was the priority, Annise knew there was the potential for the wall to be breached. The crowd parted for them as the soldiers noticed their queen’s arrival, and she made her way to the edge, looking down at the sheer drop. She could scarcely imagine anyone climbing such a wall, but she also knew the barbarians they faced were not like other enemies. Who knew what they were capable of?
Beyond the wall was her enemy, a pale flood of muscular bodies working their way across the plains set against the backdrop of the Mournful Mountains.
They were almost within range…
“Archers!” she shouted. “At the ready!”
Hundreds of bows were lifted, followed by the scrape of arrows being drawn from satchels.
The barbarians seemed to pick up speed, as if realizing the imminent danger. Closer. Closer. Almost there…
“Nock!” Hundreds of arrows were fitted to hundreds of bowstrings.
“Draw!” Each archer’s lead arm locked at the elbow so it was as straight as their arrows, their back elbows positioned up, at the ready.
“Aim!” Those with longbows tilted their bows back, estimating the distance to the enemy furthest to the rear, while shorter range weapons were targeted to hit the frontrunners. Their positioning was perfect, shoulder blades together, hips and shoulders in line with their targets. Their anchor points rested just under their chins.
“Release!”
Strings twanged as the air was filled with hundreds of zips as the arrows shot forth. Some of them collided, fluttering awkwardly and falling to the ground like injured birds, but most flew straight and true, arcing across the night. Annise held her breath.
The darts fell amongst the enemy. The barbarians were fairly spread out, so many missed, embedding themselves in the soft ground, but others hit their marks, as evidenced by the way the enemy flinched and jolted. None, however, fell. Nor did they slow their gait, absorbing the impacts like boulders being hit by stones.
“Again!” Annise cried. “Nock—draw—aim—release!” More arrows, more hits. Still the barbarians came, and now they were close enough that Annise could hear their grunts as they ran. Once more, she launched a flock of arrows. This time, one of the barbarians crashed to the ground, an arrow protruding from its eye. Another barbarian was directly behind, a large female, but managed to hurdle the first, never faltering in her stride.
A few dozen broke away from the main pack, charging for the gates. There was no need for Annise to give an order—Tarin would handle the gate. She refocused on the remaining barbarians, which numbered more than a hundred. They charged directly for the wall and she gave the command for the archers to fire at will.
Her heart beat faster. She could now see the large, black irises of her enemies’ eyes.
“Prepare the oil!” she shouted, though it was unnecessary: the vats of scalding oil had already been positioned and, even now, soldiers gripped the handles, preparing to dump the contents over the side.
The first several barbarians threw themselves at the wall. Instead of crashing into the stone and falling back, their fingers and toes somehow found purchase between the cracks in the mortar. Like spiders, they swarmed up the wall, much faster than should’ve been possible. Then again, they’d lived in the mountains for centuries—climbing was probably no different than walking to them.
“The oil!” Annise shouted.
In a steaming gush, the vats were overturned. Annise leaned over the wall to watch as the first few barbarians were hit full in the face by the liquid fire. They released inhuman shrieks and fell back, many dropping more than twenty feet before their bodies crunched to the ground.
Annise felt a swell of satisfaction. “Bastards,” she muttered. “More oil!”
Now, however, the barbarians had spread out even more, climbing the wall in over a dozen places. The vats of oil were mounted on wheeled carts, but even as the soldiers’ repositioned their payloads the barbarians changed climbing routes, clambering up the wall at strange angles. The next three loads of oil missed completely.
They’re learning, Annise thought with dread.
The archers continued to fire down the length of the wall, point blank. A few of the barbarians had been hit, but only one had fallen, the others absorbing the arrows, which now poked from their thick skin like a porcupine’s quills. One even had an arrow jutting from her bony scalp, but still she climbed toward them, grunting and snuffling.
More arrows. More oil. Further down the wall, the first of the barbarians neared the top. No swords shrieked from scabbards for they were already drawn, gripped by determined northern hands. Several slashed down toward the barbarian, but it dodged agilely to the left and then leapt, taking a slice on its meaty shoulder and another across its ribs. Snarling, it flung a clawed hand to the side, slamming its fist into one soldier’s skull so hard his eyes rolled back and he tumbled from the wall.
