“Well,” Gryle said, feeling his face flush, “a thousand? I…it’s unlikely. As for the rest…well, there were other people with me during all those events. In truth, I’m afraid, I did little more than get in the way, but I thank you for your kindness just the same.”
“That right?” the man said, as if he didn’t believe a word of it. “Well, that ain’t how I heard it. Rumors goin’ around seem to all agree that you’re one tough son of a bitch.”
Gryle frowned at that until he realized that the man was giving him a compliment. “I…well…thank you.”
“No, thank you,” the man laughed. “I ain’t never met a hero before, and I just want you to know, it does me and the other boys good to have you with us. That bastard of a mage ain’t got a chance so long as—”
There was a flash of something in the darkness, and the man cut off abruptly, his body stiffening. Gryle gave a shout of surprise and confusion as something wet struck his face, and immediately felt a fool. Overreacting again, jumping at every sound, screaming at the rain. Some hero, alright. “Sorry I…” He frowned, looking closer at the man. His features were hard to make out in the darkness, but there was something strange about them. Something…wrong.
At first, Gryle couldn’t put his finger on what it was. Something about the way the man was standing, perhaps, or the way his neck sat strangely on his shoulders…then, abruptly, the man’s neck wasn’t sitting on his shoulders at all but it—and the head attached to it—were sliding off and falling to the ground, his body following a moment later.
Gryle’s eyes grew wide, and wider still as he saw the figure standing behind the man, a thin figure with a bloody sword in his hand, the crimson looking black in the moonlight. “Wha—I don’t—” The newcomer stalked toward him, a shadow in the darkness, but had barely taken a step when something whistled through the air, lodging itself in the approaching figure’s throat. Kevlane’s creature—some part of Gryle’s confused mind recognized it as such—took another stumbling step toward him before collapsing at his feet. Gryle stared down at its form, and the thing sticking out of its neck, in stunned surprise. An arrow. Oh, by the gods that’s an arrow.
He spun in the direction from which the arrow had come and saw one of the army’s sentries stumble into the light of the perimeter torches, one of his legs dragging noticeably, covered in blood. “Bastard,” the man spat, lowering the bow he held and turning to the chamberlain, wobbling drunkenly. “S…sound. The…alarm.”
“A-alarm?” Gryle asked, his thoughts confused and jumbled at the sudden violence. “I…I don’t—” But the man abruptly collapsed on the ground and did not rise.
Gryle heard something, what sounded like the rustle of dry leaves, and spun to see other figures emerging in the torchlight, their too-slender forms marking them as more of Kevlane’s creatures. Sound the alarm. Sound the alarm. “A-alarm,” he said, his voice little more than a whisper, and he spun. Do not be a coward now, he told himself, not now. “Alarm!” he bellowed at the top of his lungs. “We’re under attack!”
Soldiers began to rouse themselves from the nearest tents, poking their heads out groggily to see what all the fuss was about. The creatures moved forward slowly, like wolves stalking their prey in the darkness, apparently unconcerned with the soldiers beginning to form up against them.
Gryle had been backing up without being aware of it, and the creatures were past the torches now, less than a few dozen feet away from the camp itself. He was still backing up when a hand grabbed his shoulder from behind, and he nearly screamed. He spun to see a soldier looking at him with wide eyes, along with at least twenty others. “C-chamberlain?” the soldier asked. “Oh gods, they’re here. What do we do? What do we do?”
Why are you asking me? Gryle thought wildly. Gods, where’s Aaron? Or Adina? Someone else, anyone else. They were all looking to him, all watching him and waiting for what he would say, as if he was some hero that could save him. I’m no hero, he wanted to scream, I’m a chamberlain, and a coward. That’s all. But there was no one else, not yet at least, and by the time someone else arrived, there was no telling what damage the creatures could have caused, so Gryle took a deep breath, turning back to the approaching monsters. “Go and send for help,” he said, and he was surprised by how confident his voice sounded. “Look for General Envelar.” He’ll know what to do, he thought. He’ll know what to say. I only pray that we’re still alive to hear it.
“The rest of you,” he said, swallowing hard. “Follow me.” He started toward the creatures then, and was stopped by another hand on his shoulder.
“Sir?” He turned to see the man offering him a sword. “You’ll need this.”
Gryle took the offered blade, feeling awkward and stupid, like a cow who has fastened wings to itself and suddenly decided it could fly. I’m no hero, he thought. The problem, of course, was that all of the heroes were sleeping or unaware of what was happening—either way, they weren’t here. He nodded his thanks to the man. “Come on.”
He had seen how fast the creatures could move, when they wanted to, so he approached them warily, the sword feeling clumsy and alien in his hand. And just what do you think you’re doing? a little voice, a hold-over from his old self, whispered into his ear. What do you know of sword fighting? They’re all laughing at you behind your back, you can see that can’t you? All just waiting for you to fail, for the foolish chamberlain who tried to rise above himself to be knocked back down again. It’s what the world does, you know. Knock you back down when you get out of your place. So what, exactly, do you think you’re doing?
Gryle took a deep breath, forcing the fear away. What I can, he told the voice, remembering the words Aaron Envelar had told him only weeks before. It’s all any man can do. The creatures watched Gryle and the makeshift defensive force of soldiers walk toward them with their heads cocked to the side, as if surprised that any of the men would be foolish enough to stand against them. They watched, they waited, and when Gryle and the others were less than a dozen feet away, they moved.
There were several pops of displaced air, as the creatures launched themselves forward in a blur toward the overmatched defenders, kicking dried leaves in the air as they did. Gryle tensed in expectation of being cut down for his foolishness—who was he to wield a sword against such creatures?—when, at the same moment the creatures started forward, he saw something fly over his head from behind. Or, more accurately, a bunch of somethings, tiny, metallic somethings that glittered in the pale moonlight and scattered in front of the defenders on the forest floor.
The onrushing blurs of the creatures moved over the covered area an instant later, and instead of the death that he’d so expected, Gryle watched in surprise as they stumbled and fell, rolling and tumbling to a stop only feet away from the chamberlain and his companions.
“What?” Gryle asked in confusion, but the soldiers didn’t hesitate, moving forward and taking advantage of whatever miracle had transpired to cut the creatures down before they could get their feet under them. Just like that, the attackers were dead.
“I don’t…” Gryle began, but hesitated as he looked closely at the nearest creature, saw that his feet were bloody and mangled, and not from one of the soldier’s blades. Instead, the chamberlain could make out the tiny metallic shapes embedded in the creature’s booted feet. The caltrops, he thought surprised, the ones Caleb had the smiths working on before.
Of course, these weren’t normal caltrops, built to stop cavalry charges. At the youth’s instruction, the smiths had made them smaller, with more hooked metal edges than their larger counterparts, and where they’d entered the creature’s feet, the metal had torn and ripped at the flesh, opening great bloody furrows. But how, Gryle thought, how did they get here?
There was a satisfied grunt from behind him, and he saw Sergeant Wendell standing a short distance away, a bag in one hand, the other covered in an absurdly thick glove. “That’ll serve you bastards right,” the sergeant said, spitting.
“Sergeant Wendell?”
“Ah, Chamberlain,” he said, grinning as he walked up. “I’d shake your hand, but…” He glanced down meaningfully at the glove he wore, and Gryle saw that several of the metallic devices had embedded themselves in the thick material.
“Um…t-that’s quite alright,” Gryle said, imagining what the caltrops would do to his hand, tearing it to shreds as easily as they had the feet of the creatures. “B-but thank you, Sergeant Wendell, for showing up. Were…were you on guard duty, then? I had thought you were with the honor guard around Queen Adina’s tent.”
“And so I was,” the sergeant said, his expression souring. “But that bastard Darrell either has the gods’ own luck, or he’s a cheater at cards, and when faced with either, a wise man walks away from the game while he’s still got some coins in his pocket.” He scowled. “Not that I did, mind. If I’d hung around any longer, I would’ve been marchin’ to Baresh in my bare feet.”
Gryle nodded slowly, his panicked mind—he’d been sure, only moments ago, that he was going to die—struggling to understand the other man’s rambling words. “Well…in any case, I thank you for showing up when you did. I had thought…” He glanced around, making sure none of the other soldiers were within earshot, and saw that they were even now finishing up the creatures, making sure they were dead. “I thought we were going to die.”
“Well,” the sergeant said grimly, staring over the chamberlain’s shoulder as his gloved hand reached into the bag he carried, “you might still get the chance.”
Gryle frowned, and his heart leapt in his chest as he saw a dozen more of the creatures only now emerging from the woods, the flickering torchlight making of their already cruel, twisted features nightmare visages that would have been more at home on the faces of demons. “Oh gods.”
“Not quite,” Wendell said, “but they ain’t human, that’s for sure.”
Gryle looked around him and was relieved to see that more soldiers had gathered, the news of an attack spreading. It appeared as if at least a hundred armed men waited for the creatures now. He breathed a sigh of relief. There looked to be only ten of the creatures, if that, and with such numbers against them, even they would be cut down in short order. It was then that he heard the roar.
If, he thought, such a noise can be called a roar at all. It was not the angry shout a man might make, not even the deep, resonant sound—somewhere between a bark and a cough—that was said to be made by some of Telrear’s largest jungle cats. Instead, this sound was what might be made if some great, angry mountain were given lungs and a mouth. It was a sound unlike anything he’d ever heard, one that seemed to crash like thunder, and he had a vague idea that the ground beneath his feet trembled. The soldiers, too, must have felt some of the panic racing through Gryle, for they began to look around frantically, casting their gazes about for the source of the great cry.
Surely, everyone in the army heard that, the chamberlain thought. They’ll be here in a few minutes, Aaron and the others, and they’ll handle whoever—or whatever—could make such a sound. A moment later, a massive shape—eight or nine feet tall at the least—lumbered out of the shadows of the trees, and Gryle stared in shock at the impossibly thick shoulders, the grossly muscled chest and arms of the giant. He’d seen one of Kevlane’s strong creatures before, of course, when Aaron and the others brought the corpse of one back to Perennia to prove to the council what the ancient mage was creating. But seeing it in real life, standing before him, its scarred, thick features twisted with an insane rage, was very different, and his breath caught in his throat.
“Well, shit,” Wendell muttered beside him. “Reckon I should have kept playin’ cards, after all. A man can survive without boots.”
The smaller, faster creatures drew closer to the giant as he emerged, their small frames making them look like nothing so much as ticks swarming around a dog. The sergeant glanced at the big creature, then down at the handful of caltrops he was holding, a dubious expression on his face. “Don’t think the same trick’s goin’ to work twice, Chamberlain. Unless, maybe, we can convince that big bastard to swallow a few of these, that is. What’s the plan?”
Why are you asking me? Gryle thought wildly. But he took a deep, shuddering breath in a vain attempt to still his galloping heart, and turned back to the creatures where they were making their way past the perimeter torches. “I think…I think we’d better kill them.”
Wendell grunted. “Sound plan, I reckon, if a bit vague on the particulars.” He turned to regard the soldiers around them. “Well, you heard the man, lads. Let’s kill ‘em then, aye? And while you’re at it, maybe do your best to keep all your insides where they belong.”
There was some nervous laughter at that, but a moment later the giant gave another roar, and the sound—if such an all-encompassing, earth-shaking thing could be called a sound—drowned out any answer they might have given. Then the giant and the creatures milling around him started forward, the large creature’s long strides eating up the ground with a deceptive quickness.
What are you doing here? Gryle thought. You’re no hero.
Kill.
Not his own voice, his own thoughts, but another’s, and in that one word was a rage that was nearly unfathomable, and not just rage—madness. The Virtue of Strength had spoken at last, and for all his efforts at communicating with it in the past, Gryle wished that it had not. Hello?
Kill, the voice said again, and suddenly Gryle’s mind was filled with thoughts of Beth, with the way she’d died, of how she’d looked lying there in the tavern, bloody and unmoving, her normally kind, slightly cynical expression slack in death. Kill, the voice said. Had anyone who knew him seen the snarl that rose on the chamberlain’s face, they would not have recognized him, for he was that man no longer.
“Yes,” he hissed, “kill.” Then he let out a roar of his own, quieter than the creature’s, but no less full of hate and rage, and he rushed forward, some small, still sane part of his mind guiding his feet around the shining pieces of metal littering the ground between him and the creatures. These creatures killed Beth. They killed her and took from Michael his grandmother. Now, I will take from them. I will take.
***
Wendell recoiled at the chamberlain’s roar, saw the man’s face twist with a rage he would not have thought him capable of, then he watched, stunned, as the normally quiet-spoken, polite man charged toward the creatures, his chubby hands balled into fists. In another place, at another time, such a thing might have seemed ludicrous, funny even, but there was nothing funny about it now, and the bestial, guttural sounds the chamberlain made as he charged were, in their own way, even more unnerving than the giant’s.
“Well, alright lads,” Wendell said, clearing his throat as he turned to the soldiers who watched the chamberlain with shocked expressions. “Let’s not let him have all the fun.”
With that, they rushed forward. It wasn’t until he was standing directly in front of one of the small, thin creatures—its sword held up and at an angle behind it—that Wendell realized he hadn’t drawn his sword, that, in fact, he still held the bag of caltrops in one hand, the other covered by the thick glove that did well enough to protect his skin against the caltrops, but that he doubted very much would help stop a blade.
The creature seemed as surprised as he was himself, staring at the sergeant as if trying to decide what sort of weapon he carried. Wendell was telling himself, once again, that he should have stayed at the card table with the swordmaster and never mind how the man cheated, when one of the soldiers gave a shout, charging the creature from the side.
It reacted instantly, its sword lashing out with the incredible speed Wendell had seen its kind use before, and the soldier screamed as the blade traced a bloody line across his chest, stumbling away. The creature’s head spun back to Wendell, no doubt intending to take him out next, and doing the sergeant the favor of adding its unnatural momentum to his strike as his gloved hand—and the many, jagged caltrops em
bedded in it—struck it in the side of the face.
Blood spurted from the creature’s already ruined features as the metal tore into it, and it stumbled, though if it felt any pain, it showed no sign. It straightened a second later, regarding him through a crimson mask. Staring at it, the blood pouring down its face, one eye gone, Wendell promised he’d take the first opportunity to puke his guts out—assuming he survived—then dropped the bag he was carrying, drawing his sword. “Come on then, you ugly bastard,” he growled.
The creature appeared intent on doing just that, when a soldier separated himself from the melee going on all around the sergeant and charged the creature from behind. The creature spun, its blade impaling its attacker, but that did nothing to stop the man’s forward momentum, and the wounded soldier bowled into it. Wendell felt an instant of relief at being saved, but it was short-lived as, a moment later, the soldier—and the creature—toppled into him, all three sprawling on the ground.
The soldier lay unmoving—clearly dead—but the creature somehow managed to get on top of the sergeant, and he grabbed its too-thin wrist, hissing as he struggled to keep it from bringing its blade down. Despite its frail form, the creature was possessed of a wiry, frantic strength, and it was all Wendell could do to keep it away. His own sword had gone flying when the two struck him, and so he lashed out with his free hand—the one that happened to still be wearing the glove, now soaked with blood—hitting the creature in the face again.
More blood spurted, but the creature fought on, seemingly not inconvenienced in the slightest that half its face was little more than mash. “Just die, you bastard,” Wendell growled, struggling desperately now as, to his shock and dismay, the creature’s squirming thrashes were bringing the edge of its sword closer and closer to his throat.
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