by David Estes
As if in response, dark clouds assembled overhead, blotting out the sun. The temperature dropped, infusing the air with an icy chill. Snow began to fall in earnest once more, huge flakes that stuck to everything they touched, the men included.
The soldiers thumped their chests and stomped their feet. Winter had returned, and with it their advantage.
Twenty-Three
The Hinterlands
Annise Gäric
“I should have stayed unconscious,” Archer said, rubbing his gloved hands together.
And I should’ve stayed in bed, Annise thought. Why had she ever wanted to flee into the Hinterlands anyway? They’d only traveled a day north of Castle Hill and already the temperature had become colder than she’d ever experienced, which was saying something for someone who’d lived their entire life on this side of the Mournful Mountains.
The storm had moved in so fast they’d barely had time to erect their shelters before it was upon them. With the howling wind and sleet, a fire was impossible. Cold, half-frozen water, hard bread and tough meat made for unsatisfying dinner fare.
Annise longed for Tarin, not for his humor or heart, but for his heat. Frozen hell, I would love his warmth wrapped around me right now.
But longing and wishing was pointless. At least they were out of the wind, having dug a bunker deep into the snow to construct their thick tents. And they had plenty of warm, woolen blankets, which they wrapped themselves in.
In some ways, it was humorous, the four of them in one medium-sized tent. Archer and Annise occupied one half, while Sir Dietrich and Sir Jonius crammed into the other. Before her father’s death, she could never have envisioned such a scene.
Annise giggled.
“Ha ha,” Archer said. “I must’ve missed the part where any of this was funny.”
She giggled again as the wind howled.
Sir Jonius looked at her strangely. Sir Dietrich opened his mouth as if to speak, but then shut it, shaking his head. Perhaps he was remembering the beating she’d given him a day earlier.
Annise said, “I was just thinking how amusing it is that the four of us are here right now.”
Archer made a face. Sir Jonius raised an eyebrow. Sir Dietrich said, “My queen is in a queer mood.”
“We’re searching for the Sleeping Knights. Doesn’t that strike any of you as funny?”
No one replied. Annise groaned. Tarin would’ve gotten it. He understood her eccentricities like no one else ever had—including her Aunt Zelda. “Fine,” she huffed. “I shall wallow in self-pity like the rest of you. Good night.” She blew out the lantern, casting them all into complete darkness.
Arch said, “If I was still king, I’d have sent you lot on this mission while I stayed warm in Castle Hill.”
“I’ll let you have a chance to be king,” Annise said.
“Really?”
“You have to fight me for it. No weapons.”
Sir Jonius chuckled. “I’d like to see that.”
“Well you’re not going to,” Archer said. “She fights dirty. I won’t stoop to that level. Now if we jousted…”
“Forget it,” Annise said. “Horses are evil beasts intent on tossing me in the snow.”
Dietrich said, “If I were king, I would declare winter a long holiday. No work. No war. Just warm fires and food.”
“If you were king,” Annise said, “hell would freeze over…again.”
Archer finally laughed. Dietrich did not.
Sir Jonius said, “Sir Dietrich, I remember all too well being bested by you in the tourney. You are a fine swordsman, though I hear your hidden mark gains you quite an advantage.”
“Your point, Sir?” There was an edge to his voice; Annise knew from experience that the knight did not enjoy talking about his skinmark.
“I do not intend to offend. I’m merely curious as to your background. Why did you avoid serving the Dread King for so long?”
When Dietrich didn’t answer right away, Sir Jonius added, “In truth, I wish I could’ve hidden myself as well. Unfortunately, I had no choice but to serve King Gäric.”
Annise remembered the day she learned why Sir Jonius had been such an enigma to her for so long. How his wife had been sick for years. How only an elixir provided by her father’s potionmaster, Darkspell, had kept her alive. In exchange for the potion, Sir Jonius had been forced to carry out all manner of atrocities in the king’s name, a fact that continued to haunt him.
Sir Dietrich sighed. “Why is everyone so nosy?” Though he sounded exasperated, Annise could tell it wasn’t a refusal to answer the question. They waited. He said, “My father was a simple man, a stoneworker in Gearhärt. He’d been born there, and he always planned to die there. He didn’t give much credence to the wars and territorial pissings of kings and queens. He lived for my mother. For me.”
He paused, and Annise could hear him swallow in the dark. The patter of snow rustled against the tent. She wondered whether they’d need to awaken in the middle of the night to dig themselves out before it got too deep. She hoped not.
Dietrich continued. “When the war front began to intensify at Raider’s Pass, the Dread King himself rode through Gearhärt, stopping briefly before marching to the border. Now, his father, the Undefeated King, had always been supportive of Gearhärt’s role in the war—providing brick and mortar, weapons, and provisions to his soldiers. Your father, however, wanted men. He recruited in Gearhärt before continuing south. And by recruited, I mean forced every last man over the age of twelve to take up arms in defense of the kingdom.
“My father refused. Like I said, he was a simple man who didn’t like to be bullied, not even by a king. Your father, as you might expect, didn’t appreciate his ideals.”
“Frozen hell,” Sir Jonius said. “I remember him. I remember your father.”
“You should,” Dietrich growled. “You helped tie him up in the street, so his friends could see what happened to those who defied the king. I was only eight years old.”
Sir Jonius was silent for a moment. And then: “I’m sorry. I had no choice.”
“So you keep saying,” Dietrich said. “But there is always a choice. Your wife was dying, while my father was a strong, healthy man with many years left in his life. He was a good man. The best. Do you want to tell the queen and prince what their father did to my father?”
A rustle of blankets. Sir Jonius said, “He killed him. Stabbed him through the heart. Left him to bleed in the streets. Everyone else joined the army, marching south with the king and I. We defeated the easterners as they tried to battle through the pass. I was—” His voice caught, trembled, and then found the words. “I was thankful he hadn’t made me kill him—your father. I was thankful that he had done it himself. I didn’t think about who he was, or who he’d left behind, or whether he had a family, children…no, I never allowed myself to think about such things. I had to stay numb, or else I would never have been able to do the things I did.”
Dietrich said, “After the army moved on, having cleaned out the city of able-bodied men, my mother and I cut the ropes from my father, cleaned the blood off his face and clothes, and buried him. We piled stones he had cut with his own two hands atop his grave. I cried for a long time. But eventually I stopped. And I vowed never to work for the Dread King, even if it meant my own death. I never broke that promise.”
“And then you met Tarin,” Annise said, the pieces to an old puzzle finally coming together. She was surprised at how easily his name slipped off her tongue, like it had been resting there the whole time.
“Aye,” Dietrich said. “We faced each other at several tourneys. He even defeated my sword once, something no one had ever done. We became friends. He opened up to me about his…past…and I reciprocated. He wasn’t even bothered that I’d defeated him numerous times using my swordmark, and—”
“Wait,” Annise said, her temper sparking. “You’re saying he knew about your mark?”
“Oops,” Dietrich said, realizin
g his error.
Annise gritted her teeth. All those times she’d complained about Sir Dietrich to Tarin, how he wouldn’t tell her the truth…he’d known the whole time. And yet, she realized, he hadn’t lied. He’d only advised her to give the knight time to explain himself. Because he was a true friend. Is a true friend.
No, she couldn’t blame him for that.
“Go on,” she said. “How did you end up in Castle Hill working for my mother?”
“The tourney was a good excuse to be there, but our true purpose was far more cunning. Queen Sabria had been searching for Tarin Sheary for some time, eventually realizing he was the same person as the Armored Knight, who had gained quite a lot of fame. Through Zelda, she brought him into her inner circle, and he vouched for me. We became her secret guard, you might say.”
A loop was finally closed, explaining so much about the last few months, how they’d gotten to this point.
“Thank you,” Annise said. “For telling us. For helping my mother and Tarin. I’m sorry I’ve been so hard on you.”
“So you’ll stop throwing boots at me and rubbing snow in my face?” She could hear the smile in his tone.
Archer said, “Boots? Sounds just like something my sister would do. I told you, she fights dirty.”
Ignoring the quip, Annise said, “I can’t make any promises. But I’ll try. Now get some rest. We move at first light, storm or not.”
Surprisingly, the storm had moved on during the night, leaving behind an enormous white blanket in its wake.
Jonius had gone out twice while they slept to shovel snow away from their tent, piling it in huge drifts that now resembled castle ramparts—a miniature version of Castle Hill. Twice he’d told them to sleep, that this act was part of his penance for crimes of the past. Annise tried arguing with him, to no avail. He was a man in a pit, and he would need to climb out of it on his own.
There was no sign of dry wood, which meant no fire. They ate more cold meat and bread and used their armpits to melt enough snow to drink.
From there, the going was slow through the snow, which reached Annise’s waist, so they veered off toward the east, to where the Frozen Lake very much lived up to its name. Though it was also covered in snow, the drifts were mostly piled along the edges, the howling wind driving them into domed walls. On the frozen water, the snow reached only to their ankles, allowing them to travel much faster. The ice wouldn’t break—not in winter. The only negative was the lack of protection from the wind, which seemed to have teeth, biting through cloth and armor.
No one spoke, as their faces were covered by thick, triple-wrapped scarves.
A day passed, then another. They camped right on the ice, without fire, without any heat other than that of their own bodies inside their tent. It wasn’t enough. Annise could feel the ice settling into her bones, threatening to take her fingers, her toes.
They would need fire soon or they would all lose even more than that.
Still, they pressed on, trying to cross as much of the Frozen Lake as possible before being forced to angle westward, to a spot marked on an old map that none of them knew whether to trust. With each frozen, weary step, Annise wondered more and more whether she was leading them on a fool’s mission.
We have no other option, she reminded herself. War is coming, and we have no army. I have to give my people a chance to defend themselves. Risking my life, the life of my brother, and the lives of these two knights is the price of hope.
Still, doubt crept in, day by day, night by night.
Then, something changed.
“What is that?” Archer said, his voice muffled through his scarf. Annise looked at him; he was pointing into the distance. She followed his gaze. Something sparkled. Shifted. Flowed.
“Is that…” Her question trailed away, because it was impossible. This far north in the dead of winter, it was impossible.
And yet… “Water?” Dietrich said.
The moment he uttered the word, the ice beneath his feet began to crack.
Twenty-Four
The Northern Kingdom, Darrin
Tarin Sheary
Tarin froze mid step, dread coiling through his gut.
Annise. Inexplicably, impossibly, he knew she was in mortal danger.
Fay, always by his side, always supporting, stopped too. “Tarin?” she said.
He didn’t see her, didn’t hear her, as he whirled around, scanning the flat, empty expanse separating the castle of Darrin from both the Mournful Mountains and the Razor, half-expecting to find Annise standing there, surrounded by enemies.
Wind whipped across the barren snowfields. The snow had been falling continuously since it started, garbing Darrin in a thick, white coat. Hundreds of soldiers were working hard, as they had been for several days, digging pits, lining them with spikes, covering them with flimsy branches and snow, smoothing them out. Others built walls at odd angles, wrapping them with coils of spiked metal wire. Those not digging or building drilled with Sir Jonathan nearby. None of it was done to Tarin’s standards, the way it would have been if he had a platoon of seasoned soldiers. But it would have to be enough. It had to be.
But that was the last thing on Tarin’s mind at this moment, the fear lingering, clinging to him like a thick fog.
“Tarin?” Fay said again. “What is it? What’s wrong?”
Tarin didn’t look at her, chewing his bottom lip as he tried to decide how to explain the unexplainable. She’ll think me paranoid, he thought.
And maybe I am…
No, a voice hissed from the deepest, darkest recesses of his mind.
Tarin cringed. For the last few days he’d avoided that voice, that thing inside him, by moving, working from dawn till dusk, throwing himself into each task with a furious fervor none of his men could come close to matching. He barely stopped to sleep, eat and relieve himself, and even when he did, he kept his mind focused on anything and everything but the monster in his core.
But now…
What do you mean, no? Tarin thought back. He was distantly aware of Fay grabbing his arm and trying to force him to look at her, but he shrugged her off, focusing, focusing, focusing—
I mean you’re not going mad. I mean Annise is in danger.
Shut your filthy mouth, Tarin snapped back. You don’t know that—you can’t.
You are connected to her now. A part of me is in her. In Castle Hill, on the battlefield…your blood mixed with hers…
What? No. What have I done? he thought, feeling ill in the core of his being. Could his curse truly be spread so easily? Would her blood turn black? Would fire and bloodlust war inside her heart?
He’d left to protect her, but that meant that he couldn’t protect her from any other dangers. Which was worse? It was an impossible decision, but he’d made the only choice he thought he had at the time. But if he’d left a part of the monster inside of her…
If anything happened to the one person that mattered the most to him in this world, Tarin knew he couldn’t live with himself.
If you hurt her… he thought, leaving the threat unfinished.
The monster had the nerve to laugh, boiling Tarin’s blood in the process. Your anger is misplaced. She isn’t like us. I can’t change her the way I can you. I can only feel what she feels. This is my gift to you.
Which brought everything full circle, to that feeling of dread, the danger she was in. “I have to go,” Tarin said. “I have to find her.”
Fay grabbed his face, on both sides, forcing him to look at her. “I don’t know what war you are fighting in your own head, but you must focus. You are here. You are the Lord Commander. These men need you. Everything falls apart without you.”
Tarin felt like everything was falling apart anyway, like chunks of him were being ripped off by birds. He couldn’t get his breath, couldn’t find the air, his chest sucked in, gasping, gasping…
Fay hit him, hard, and the monster responded, snarling from the back of his throat.
“Bett
er,” Fay said. “You’ll need that anger when you face your enemies.”
Tarin threw his shovel down. The last pit was finished. Several men skittered past him, sliding ladders into the hole, dropping sharpened wooden poles that would be shoved into the ground, business end facing up. Others hauled thin branches to thread across the gap, which would then be covered with snow. They were crude traps, Tarin knew, but anything to slow the enemy down was worth the time and effort.
From there Tarin strode to the wall builders, crouching to lift a large tree trunk stripped of branches and bark. Other, similar trees were being lifted and carried by teams of half a dozen men. Tarin grunted, relishing the burn in his legs, the slight ache in his back, the flex of his biceps and chest. His anger had burned out long ago, but still he toiled alongside his men, even as the shadows lengthened and the sun dipped precariously toward the top of the Razor.
Balancing the tree on his massive shoulder while he waited his turn, Tarin considered their chances. If the easterners came with less than half a thousand, thinking their enemy was weak and ill-prepared, perhaps they could put up a fight. But if their enemy brought a force greater than that…
He didn’t want to think about it. All he could do was prepare them the best he could, both physically and mentally. He needed them to believe they could seize victory, even if everything else pointed to the opposite. And he needed them to be able to stuff their fear and doubt into a place where they wouldn’t see it.
Maybe you should do the same, he thought, slinging his trunk down onto the half-finished barrier of wood and mud and mortar. Annise is fine. He clung to that belief, because he would know if she was dead, wouldn’t he? If what the monster inside him said was true—and he believed it was, for the monster had never lied to him—then he would know without a shadow of a doubt the moment she passed from this world and into whatever came next.
