by David Estes
Annise scanned the courtyard for Sir Metz and his all-female company. One of the women, Tarin’s cousin, Private Sheary, approached. “Requesting orders, Your Highness,” she said stiffly.
“Where is Captain Metz?”
“Under his orders, I am the company captain until he returns.”
Annise frowned. “You didn’t answer my question, private.”
“He’s on a mission to locate Lady Zelda.”
She shouldn’t have been surprised. The knight was as honorable as a judge and, ever since the news of the Brotherhood’s attack on Castle Hill, had felt responsible for Zelda’s predicament. “Fine. Secure the perimeter. And locate Lisbeth Lorne.”
Lisbeth
Her leg was shattered. Her heart was pierced by a blade. Half her face cut off, an ear missing. She could taste blood in her mouth, hear snarls in her ears. Atop the wall, she was a broken woman.
None of the injuries were her own, but she felt them all the same. At Darrin it had been different. The Knights hadn’t suffered a single injury, had swept over the surprised easterners like a scourge, decimating them. The sellswords had been ready, fresh, hardened warriors who, for the first time in their lives, had had something to call their own, worth defending. Though the Knights had still been too much for them, they’d been injured—several had even died.
She felt them all.
Lisbeth Lorne pushed to her feet, straining from the effort.
The cries faded. The pain too.
In the courtyard below, the battle was over. Enemy survivors were fleeing, ducking through a gate, which closed behind them. The Knights were chasing, as well as Sir Dietrich and his men.
Sir Dietrich, she thought, feeling something in her chest. It was an odd sensation, like butterfly wings fluttering inside her, or a warm summer wind passing between her ribs.
She pushed the feeling aside and focused.
She wished she hadn’t:
The bloodlust was back, surging like a thick vitriol, filling her throat and mouth with its bitterness. Despite all the death they’d wrought on this night, the Knights were not sated. Not until all their enemies’ souls had winked out, vanishing like wraiths in the dark sky.
I can’t control them. The thought was defeatist, but felt true. The desire to sink back to her knees intensified, weariness swarming over her.
“No,” she growled, surprised by the sound of her own voice. Strong. Determined. I am still alive. There must be a greater purpose for me, else I would not be here. She only had to find it.
Her feet left the stone wall, the earth relinquishing its powerful grip. She was wind; she was air. Various colored souls passed beneath her, while broad shadowed stretches indicated where the dead lay. Dietrich’s pulsing blue soul had stopped at the gate. He was one soul in two lines of them, and she knew they were using the battering ram once more.
The angry red souls were too impatient, clambering up the walls like spiders. The Sleeping Knights. My responsibility.
Toward them, she flew.
Zelda
Pain blossomed in her shoulder, where a spike had driven cleanly through, cleaving muscle, tendon, and bone. Despite herself, it drew tears from her eyes, obscuring her vision. Not only had Severon had the foresight to dig pits, but they were filled with wooden spears, honed to fine points. He anticipated my betrayal, or at least considered it a possibility. I was the fool, not him.
The pain in her shoulder was nothing next to the sinking feeling in her gut. She heard the beasts’ mournful cries, felt their pain in her chest, a weight pressing down upon her. They saved me and I led them into a trap.
A scream scraped from her lips as she tried to push herself up. “Arrrgh!” she growled as the wooden spike slid slightly but held her to the ground.
Strong arms grabbed her under the arms and pulled. There was a cracking sound. Spots of fire burst across her vision and then darkness, the world disappearing as she momentarily blacked out.
It returned in a rush as she was thrown to her knees, held steady by those same strong arms. Cold metal bit into her throat as blood leaked from the hole in her shoulder.
Sounds assaulted her ears:
The howls of the mamoothen, vanishing one by one by one. They’re killing them, slaughtering them like so many cattle.
The thud of something heavy against the wooden gate, rattling blows, each more powerful than the last.
The ring of steel against steel as a battle raged somewhere above—on the promenade walls perhaps.
And a snakelike voice, hissing in her ear. “If I die, you die.”
Severon.
She wanted to turn, to spit in his face, to throw her own body upon his blade if her death meant he’d lose his only bargaining chip. But she couldn’t, could barely force her own breaths between her lips, each expansion and contraction of her lungs sending shards of agony through her body.
Zelda was facing away from the gate, toward the mamoothen, forced to watch as a sellsword shoved a large spear through each of their brains, one by one. There were five, maybe six, left. Including Chantilly. They’re saving her for last, she realized, astounded at the evil of these men.
A raucous clangor rang out behind her as the gate burst open.
“Stop!” Severon shouted. “Stop, or Lady Zelda dies.”
“Halt.” Annise’s voice. Strong. Unwavering. She has become the woman I always knew she could, Zelda thought with a swell of pride that sent fresh pain to her shoulder.
She tried to speak to her niece, but her voice didn’t seem to work. Don’t listen to him, Annise. Let me go. You must let me go to save the kingdom. I am a willing sacrifice.
“What do you want, Severon?”
The man had the audacity to laugh, his knife separating slightly from Zelda’s skin. “To walk away alive with my survivors. This doesn’t have to end with more bloodshed.”
Oh, but it must, Zelda thought, spotting something nearby. Something she could use. The same spike that had impaled her, having broken off when Severon wrenched her from its grasp.
Summoning the little energy she had remaining, Zelda prepared to throw herself toward it.
Annise
Though she was trembling inside—not Zelda, please, she is the only family Archer and I have left—Annise kept her voice steady. “You stole my castle, killed my soldiers, and tried to usurp my throne, and you want to just walk away?”
Everything was frozen, the battle between the sellswords and the Sleeping Knights having paused atop the wall. She was surprised the Knights had obeyed her; lately it seemed they only obeyed Lisbeth Lorne, who she’d spotted flying—flying!—across the courtyard. Out of the corner of her eye, she watched as the soulmarked girl landed softly on the ramparts.
“Good. Then we have an understanding,” Severon said. “Unless, of course, you’d like to watch as I remove your aunt’s head from her shoulders.”
“I will kill you myself,” Archer said, taking a step forward.
Annise moved to stop him with a hand on his arm, but Sir Jonius did so first. She swallowed, trying to hide her nerves. Not because she feared her own ability, but because she knew sellswords were unpredictable, and Severon more than most. There was no doubt this man would perform such a horrifying act without blinking. But this was not the time to let righteous passion force his hand. Archer looked at her, anger and determination flashing in his eyes, but she shook her head. She turned back to face the sellsword. “You would die a moment later.”
“And yet Lady Zelda would still be short a head.” He smiled, the half-mad smile of a man who had nothing left to lose.
Annise was about to respond in kind, but Severon spoke first, his eyes darting to the top of the wall. “If any more of my men die, Zelda dies too.”
Annise followed his gaze to where one of the Knights had disarmed a sellsword, holding him up with one hand. The ancient warrior’s eyes were dark and intense, his other arm retracted, preparing to plunge his sword into the man’s heart.
> “Sir. I command you to cease and desist,” she said.
The Knight’s head turned toward her slowly, his lips parting. “I obey the will of the north and the north alone. These men have threatened the kingdom, and they must die.”
His grip tightened on the hilt as he brought his blade forward.
Lisbeth
Lisbeth strained against the Knight’s will, halting his sword’s progress, his red soul brightening in surprise as he twisted his head to face her. He continued to hold the sellsword aloft in one hand. The man’s soul was as black as a shadow, almost as if he was dead already, and she knew he deserved to die.
But not at the cost of Annise’s aunt. No, Lisbeth said in the Knight’s head, trying to burrow down into his soul, which seemed to descend deeper and deeper, a pit with no bottom.
Something struck her, a truth, the reason the magic of her mark seemed powerless against the ancient warriors.
Because they’re old, she thought, suddenly making sense of the senseless. Their souls had seen more, entire lifetimes of nothingness spent in hibernation in the frozen Hinterlands. She had to wade through all of that empty blackness to cut to the core of them, where their greatest truths lay hidden, covered by centuries of dust.
She burrowed deeper, remembering when an entire Garzi army threatened her on a snowy hillside what seemed like a lifetime ago. Though she still felt awful about what she’d done then, she had done it. She’d brought them to their knees, touched all their souls at once. Concentrating, she tried to recreate that power, felt it coursing through her like a wash of flames, her forehead on fire. She pushed farther into the Knight’s soul, seeking the core, the bottom of that pit of darkness and time.
She thought she saw a light, winking in the blackness.
I can do this.
The Knight pushed back, spikes of pain pricking at her body from all sides, and Lisbeth realized it wasn’t just this Knight she was facing, but all of them. It was like poking a beehive with a stick, angering the entire colony rather than just the single bee you happened to hit. Their collective voices roared in her head, drowning out everything else, driving Lisbeth to her knees once more. Hidden somewhere amongst the cacophony was the Knight’s intention, working its way from his brain to his shoulder to his arm to his hand to his fingers, which began to open.
He’s going to drop the sellsword from the wall, Lisbeth realized, a beat too late.
The dark soul fell like a dropped stone, his scream as bright as the sun.
Zelda
When the man screamed, Zelda lunged for the spike, feeling Severon’s blade slash across her, slicing open her skin. Warm blood ran down her neck as she curled her fingers around the spike. If Severon didn’t kill her first, she would end her life herself.
Sunlight reflected off something metal atop the wall, staying Zelda’s hand momentarily as she tried to discern its source.
And then Severon was upon her, his knees punching the remaining breath from her lungs, his lips an angry snarl, his scarred face twisted with rage. He raised his blade for the killing stroke…
She saw the source of the light. A familiar knight in shining armor, deftly leaping from the wall, the path of his arc drawing a definitive line toward her. She tried to roll, but couldn’t, Severon’s weight too much, even as his arm slashed downward.
WHOOMP!
The blade whistled past as Sir Christoff Metz slammed into the sellsword leader, knocking him askew. Zelda got a foot in the face, filling her vision with stars, which twinkled, slowly faded, and then vanished into darkness.
She could feel the blood leaving her body, pooling beneath her. She felt warm, as if wrapped in a cocoon. This was good. This was right. Annise had won back her kingdom.
Rule with honor. Save the kingdom.
Her thoughts slipped away from her like the fleeting tails of comets disappearing into oblivion.
Christoff
After the one atop the wall, the archer who’d had the high ground and the element of surprise on his side—he’d swung sharply to the side, the arrow zinging past his ear, before grabbing the man’s bow and pulling him off the wall—Christoff had had to defeat three more sellswords in order to sneak along the wall to gain position behind where Severon held Zelda at knifepoint. He’d planned to clamber quietly down the wall and surreptitiously make his approach, but everything had moved so fast that simply wasn’t in the cards.
As a last resort, he’d thrown himself from the wall, judging the distance as best he could. If he’d over or underestimated, he would’ve broken his legs. Instead, he’d probably broken Severon’s, while the sellsword leader had broken Christoff’s fall.
Now, Christoff clambered to his feet and pointed his sword at the man’s throat. He was groaning, writhing on the ground, clutching his own legs. The remaining Knights and soldiers had swarmed the rest of the sellswords, killing or capturing them. The one who’d been methodically murdering the mamoothen herd swiftly dropped his spear and surrendered. Christoff wasn’t sure whether any of the regal beasts had survived, but he hoped so.
“Kill me,” Severon said. When Christoff hesitated, the man screamed, “Do it!”
Something about this pathetic man’s end made Christoff uncomfortable. How far would a man have to fall to wish for death? He’d lost his own brother, and yet he’d never considered suicide, nor asking someone to kill him.
He shook his head. “Your life is not in my hands. Not anymore.”
He stepped aside for Queen Annise Gäric.
Annise
Annise held her Evenstar in one hand, the spiked ball hanging loosely from its chain. “You threatened my family, my kingdom,” she said, feeling cold inside at how close it had been. Nearby, one of her healers was tending to Aunt Zelda, having already determined the loss of blood was grievous, but that it could be stemmed. Archer supervised closely, helping to put pressure on her wounds. With rest, she would live. Thank the frozen gods of the north, Annise thought. And thank Sir Christoff Metz.
Severon spat blood, still clutching his knee. “I did what I had to do to get what I was owed. My entire life I’ve fought for lords and ladies, kings and queens. People like you and your aunt, your uncle and cousins, your father and mother.”
“Don’t speak of my family. You know nothing. You’ve fought for yourself. For gold. You are a worm beneath my trod.”
He laughed, his teeth stained with blood. “Then be sure to wipe my slime from your throne before you sit in it.”
“For your crimes against the kingdom, namely treason of the highest order, I, Queen Annise Gäric, first of my name, sentence you to death, to be carried out immediately and swiftly.”
Madness consuming him, Severon laughed the entire time, until one mighty swing of her Evenstar silenced him with a crunch.
She threw down the weapon and turned away, wondering whether this broken world could ever be truly fixed.
Not as long as evil men like Severon are alive, she thought.
Someone stood in her path and she tried to push past him, but thick, long arms circled her, pulling her into an embrace. She looked up into Tarin’s eyes, which were his and only his, rich pools of warmth, fierce but compassionate.
For the first time since she’d known him, the monster lurking inside him had been absent during a battle. She wondered what it meant.
“It’s over,” Tarin said, leaning down and kissing her forehead.
Her gaze slipped past him to where Lisbeth Lorne stood watching from atop the wall. Annise recalled how her blue eye had burst to life, how she’d stayed the Knight’s hand. And then, how he’d defied her, dropping the sellsword from the wall. If not for Sir Metz’s swift actions, it would’ve sealed Zelda’s fate.
Lisbeth’s milky unseeing eyes fell to her feet, as if unable to meet Annise’s stare for a second longer. She turned away.
I’ll need to talk to her later, she thought. Something told her their troubles were far from over.
Eleven
The
Southern Empire, Citadel
Roan Loren
Though Lady Windy had suggested Roan get some sleep before they spoke again, his thoughts wouldn’t allow rest.
Bear Blackboots was here, just like I thought. The truth had him buzzing, like he’d drunk too much of Windy’s tea. Maybe there’s still hope for the Four Kingdoms. Maybe Bane is wrong about everything.
He had to believe it, otherwise everything he’d done so far was for naught, his life forfeit.
“You should be sleeping,” Windy said, startling him. Lost in his thoughts, Roan hadn’t even noticed her enter.
Roan propped his head up on one hand. “What does it mean?” he asked.
Windy cocked her head to the side in that birdlike manner of hers. She didn’t smile, and Roan could sense a fear in her he hadn’t felt before. “You mean…Horde?”
Yes. Roan nodded. “At first I thought Horde was us. You know, the armies of the Four Kingdoms. Killing each other. Destroying everything.”
“That makes sense.”
Roan shook his head. “Now I don’t know. It felt…darker than that.”
“War is dark.”
“You’ve never read about Horde in any of your books?”
Windy laughed. “Scholarship isn’t about being given answers in books, it’s about discovering them for yourself.”
“So you’re saying you don’t know.” It was a lighthearted jab, but Roan couldn’t help himself.
“No, Roan Loren, Peacemaker of prophecy and legend. I don’t know. But I suspect the answer, along with many others, lies in Teragon.”
“Then we must go there.”
“Yes, and we must go with you.”
“We?”
“Yela and I. Most believe peace is the work of kings and their armies, but it is scholars who can change the world.”
Roan considered that. Considered something else, longing to ask the question but fearing the answer. Is Bane right about me? Are we part of the same fate? Am I the light to his dark? Do I need to work with him to achieve peace?
