The Last Rune 5: The Gates of Winter

by Mark Anthony

  “It's Mohg,” Grace said, only the cold wind snatched her breath away so that the words were barely a whisper.

  Graedin's cheerful expression vanished. “The Lord of Nightfall. Most dreaded of all the Old Gods, and above all in power, save perhaps for Olrig himself.”

  Tarus let out a low whistle. “He's not a terribly pleasant-looking fellow, is he?”

  Grace couldn't take her eyes from the crude but expressive figure outlined in stones on the side of the hill. Jagged teeth filled the open maw, and the single eye seemed to stare straight into her heart. It was at least a hundred feet high.

  “It's different than when we saw it last,” Durge said, a frown on his face. “Some of the stones have been changed. Do you see? He no longer holds men in his right hand. Instead there are only three large rocks on his palm. And all of the stones that make up the drawing are changed. They used to be white.”

  Durge was right. Grace remembered the gigantic figure as being outlined in white stones. However, now most of the stones were a rusty color.

  “Blood,” she said, and by their wide eyes the others had come to the same conclusion. “The stones have been painted with blood. Someone must have—”

  A distant cry sounded on the air, and Grace's words fell short. At first she thought it to be the call of a hawk again, but the sky was empty, and the sound was different—it was a cry of suffering. Or perhaps of hunger.

  “It's just the call of a beast, Your Majesty,” Master Graedin said, giving her a reassuring smile.

  “Yes, but what sort of beast?” Durge said, gazing around.

  Grace swallowed the lump in her throat. “Let's ride.”

  “Forgive me, Your Majesty,” Tarus said, “but the sun is close to setting. We need to make camp, and there is a spring in this vale. It seems an ideal place.”

  “No,” Grace said, her voice sharp. “We're not staying here. Not in the dark. We have to go—now.”

  The army marched on as shadows lengthened across the land. They crested another rise, then descended into a rocky valley. As they did, the sun vanished behind the wall of the ridge, casting the valley into premature gloom. The sigh of the wind through dry grass was the only sound.

  “Something is wrong,” Durge said in a low voice to Grace. “Night will fall soon. There should be birds singing, but I hear nothing at all.”

  This was one time Grace didn't think the Embarran was being overly gloomy. Something was wrong—she could feel it in the Weirding.

  As do we, sister, spoke Senrael's voice in her mind. Grace glanced over her shoulder; not far behind, the old woman rode with Lursa and the other witches. It as if the threads of the Weirding recoil in loathing.

  At that moment another cry pierced the air—shrill, trilling. Hateful.

  “Did you hear that?” Tarus said as they brought their nervous horses to a halt. “That is no normal beast.”

  Master Graedin glanced around. “Then what is it?”

  “You mean, what are they,” Aldeth said, casting back his silvery cloak as he stepped from a pool of shadow.

  Tarus lowered his sword. “May I suggest you not sneak up on us again—at least not if you don't want a sword in your gut.”

  The Spider glared up at him. “Don't sheathe that blade just yet, Knight of Calavan. You may yet need it.”

  Grace swallowed the scream rising in her throat. “What's out there, Aldeth?”

  “Feydrim, Your Majesty. I'm not sure how many, but they're coming up the ridge behind us.”

  Grace could see nothing in the gathering twilight, but another cry sounded, and it was echoed by several more, some farther, some nearer. In the saddle in front of her, Tira let out a whimper.

  “Why aren't they attacking?” Grace said, holding on to the girl.

  Aldeth shook his head. “I'm not sure. It's almost as if they're waiting for something.”

  “But for what?” Master Graedin said, face pale in the gloom.

  Even as he spoke, a light crested the ridge behind them, cold as moonlight. Only the moon would not rise for hours, and when it did it would be in the east, not the west.

  “Wraithlings,” Grace said.

  They gazed at each other for a moment, the whites of their eyes showing in the dimness. Then they were riding.

  “We must make for the summit,” Durge shouted over the pounding of hooves. “We cannot let them surround us in this lowland.”

  Tarus fell back, shouting orders. The army fell into precise formation as it marched double time across the valley floor and up the far ridge. Grace clung to the saddle as Shandis cantered up the rocky slope.

  By the time they reached the top of the ridge, the sun had slipped beneath the rim of the world, and purple twilight fell from the sky. Grace turned Shandis around and gazed into the shadowed valley. Dozens of yellow sparks wove back and forth. They looked like a swarm of fireflies, but Grace knew they were the glowing eyes of feydrim.

  “Look,” Aldeth said, his voice a hoarse whisper.

  The sea of yellow sparks parted as a ghostly light drifted over the valley floor. Grace could just make out the spindly figure moving in the center of the pale globe. On his horse, Durge clutched a hand to his chest, his face lined in pain.

  Grace started to reach toward him, but at that moment Sir Tarus spurred his charger forward. “Your Majesty, we have little time. What do you wish to do?”

  She opened her mouth, but no words came out. In that moment Grace realized what folly this was, pretending to be a queen. She was a doctor, not a military commander; she had no idea what to do.

  “How many are there?” she managed to croak.

  “There are at least thirty of the maltheru down there,” Commander Paladus said as he brought his elegant Tarrasian horse to a halt beside her.

  “Make that fifty,” said Samatha, stepping out of a nearby shadow. The Spider's silvery cloak shimmered as if it were woven of starlight. “And that's not all, either.”

  Aldeth stalked toward her. “What have you seen, Sam?”

  “It was Leris. He reports that another twenty feydrim approach from the north. And I hate to say it, but it sounds like they've got another wraithling with them.”

  Paladus clenched a fist. “We could fight fifty maltheru without loss of our own were it not for the siltheri. I have read the ancient accounts of the battles in the north. The touch of the Pale Ones means death, cold and swift.”

  Master Graedin trembled visibly aback his mule. “But why are they here at all, so far into the Dominions?”

  “It's not a large force,” Samatha said, stroking her pointed jaw. “My guess is they came south through the Fal Erenn, picking their way along the mountains.”

  “Your Majesty,” Durge said, moving Blackalock close to Shandis, “you must give us your commands. What would you have us do?”

  Either the pain in his chest had passed, or he was doing a good job of hiding it. Below, the pale lights moved closer, the yellow sparks close behind.

  “My lady,” Durge said, his brown eyes intent upon her. “Your orders.”

  A rushing sound filled Grace's head. She tried to speak, but words escaped her.

  “We must stand and fight,” Paladus said. “There is no way we can outpace them, not with half our force on foot, and we cannot hope they'll miss us in the dark. What say you, Your Majesty?”

  Grace held a hand to her forehead. It was so hard to think.

  Tarus whirled his horse around. “We're at the highest point of the ridge. That should give us some advantage. We'll place the foot soldiers with pikes in the center, the mounted on either flank, and the archers above. At all costs, we must protect the queen.” He looked to Grace. “You have only to say the word, Your Majesty, and it will be done.”

  She tried to speak the word, yes. They were military men; they knew what to do. However, even this one word seemed beyond her.

  Tarus's horse pranced nervously. “Your Majesty, there is no more time. Give us your assent so we may proceed.” />
  The lights, pale silver and yellow, began to weave up the near slope.

  “Surely the queen sees the reason of this plan,” Paladus said. “Her silence is her assent. Let it be so.”

  Tarus nodded. “Give the commands to your company, Paladus. I'll take the orders to the knights of the Dominions. We'll take up the positions as—”

  “No,” a commanding voice spoke. Grace's voice.

  Tarus and Paladus gaped as one.

  “Your Majesty?” Tarus said, confusion writ across his face.

  “I said no.” Fear crystallized into hard resolve. She was only a doctor, but this was just another sort of operation, and she knew with the certainty of a correct diagnosis that what Tarus and Paladus had decided to do was wrong.

  There was no way they could fight the wraithlings, not directly; even a single pale one was enough to lay waste to an entire host, and there were two of the things coming. Grace knew they had to find another tactic, and it was Paladus's own words that had shown it to her. Her mind raced, fitting the last pieces into place.

  “We won't stand here. Instead, we'll ride over the top of the ridge and down the other side.”

  Tarus's eyes went wide. “Your Majesty, we must not do such a thing. Higher ground is our only advantage.”

  Grace waved his words away. There was no time to explain. “Master Graedin,” she said, turning toward the young runespeaker, “how skilled are you and your brothers at speaking the runes of stone and light?”

  The hardness of her words seemed to snap him out of his fear. He sat up straight. “Those are two of our very best runes, Your Majesty. Speaking together, we can cast a bright light and command even a large stone.”

  “You're going to have to command more than one.” Grace turned to summon the others she needed, but twelve women clad in brown and gray already rode toward her.

  “We are here, sister,” Lursa said, resolve on her plain face. “What would you have us do?”

  “You must weave a spell,” Grace said. “A spell of illusion.” Words were too slow. She gathered up all of her thoughts and sent them humming along the strands of the Weirding.

  Senrael let out a cackle. “And a fine spell that will be, sister. But our coven must be complete in order to weave it. You must join us as Matron.”

  “I will.” She glanced at Tarus and Paladus. “Gather all the men and go a hundred yards down the other side of the ridge. You must get them all, mounted and foot, to stand in as tight a circle as possible.”

  “But that is no proper formation,” Paladus said, sputtering. “We'll be flanked in moments.”

  Tarus shook his head. “Your Majesty, I—”

  “You heard the queen,” Durge growled, maneuvering Blackalock between Grace and the two soldiers. “Carry out her orders. Now.”

  Tarus and Paladus stared at Durge, then at her, then at one another. For a terrified moment Grace thought they would defy her. Then both whirled their horses around and began barking orders.

  “Down the other side of the ridge!” Tarus shouted.

  “Keep close together!” came Paladus's stern voice. “I don't care if you have to stand on top of each other—let there be not space enough to slide the blade of a knife between you.”

  Grace wavered in the saddle, but a strong hand steadied her. “Durge,” she said, her voice thick with gratitude.

  “What are my orders, Your Majesty?”

  “Keep Tira safe.” She slipped from the saddle, took the small girl, and held her up toward Durge, who caught her in his arms.

  “I will guard her with my life,” Durge said.

  He placed Tira in the saddle before him and caught Shandis's reins, then Blackalock pounded down the far side of the ridge, Shandis following. Grace found herself atop the ridge with only twenty runespeakers and twelve witches, all of them on foot.

  “I must admit, this seems an interesting tactic, Your Majesty,” Oragien said, leaning on his staff. He surveyed the small band of men and women—some elderly like himself, others woefully young.

  “We're not going to fight them, All-master.” Grace drew in a breath. “At least, not with swords.”

  Snarls rose on the air, along with a metallic humming. Grace saw a gleam of light to the north, coming up the line of the ridge. They had mere moments.

  “Follow me, everyone,” she said, moving just over the top of the ridge to a bare patch of granite.

  “What are we to do, Your Majesty?” Graedin said, panting.

  Grace touched his shoulder with one hand and rested the other hand on Oragien's arm. Words flowed from her, along the threads of the Weirding. By their startled eyes, both runespeakers—young and old—heard her.

  “Instruct your brothers,” she said. They turned to murmur swift words to the other gray-robed men.

  What of us, sister? asked Lursa's voice in her mind.

  Weave with me, Grace said.

  She shut her eyes, and twelve glimmering threads entwined with her own. There was no time to explain what to do, and nor was there need. Grace began weaving the threads of the Weirding into a new pattern, and as if they were extensions of her own body, twelve pairs of shining hands followed suit.

  For a moment, the sense of closeness, of connection, was almost overwhelming. Grace had woven spells with Aryn and Lirith before, but never with an entire coven. An intoxicating warmth filled her. . . .

  The threads—they're slipping through my fingers! said the frightened voice of one of the younger witches, snapping Grace back to herself.

  Be strong, sisters, came Senrael's wise, rasping voice. The presence of the Pale King's servants befouls the Weirding and tangles its threads, but even the wraithlings are not so strong as the magic of life. The Weirding will remain true, if only you weave without fear.

  Grace wove with renewed swiftness and certainty, and she felt the other witches do the same. Then a tone like a bell sounded in her mind. The new pattern shone on the air, shimmering and perfect. Grace opened her eyes.

  Twenty yards away, the first of the feydrim were just cresting the ridge, prowling over the stones on spindly limbs. The twisted creatures hissed, their yellow eyes flashing, as they caught sight of their prey. Grace risked a glance over her shoulder. A hundred yards down the slope, where the army had gathered moments ago, there now stood a dense grove of trees, bare branches gleaming in the half-light.

  Our spell of illusion is complete! Lursa wove the words over the Weirding. The creatures do not see the army.

  But they see us, Grace wove. Keep back.

  She drew Fellring in one hand, then stooped and grabbed two pebbles from the ground with the other. With a thought, she wove one last illusion. The pebbles on her hand began to glow—one fiery red and one silver as the fading twilight. Grace moved in front of the witches and runespeakers and held the two glowing stones before her.

  The feydrim hissed with glee and started to lunge for her. Grace beat back the first wave with a swing of Fellring, but more of them came behind. The rest of the creatures had reached the top of the ridge. Carefully this time, avoiding her sword, the feydrim began to close in—

  —then squealed and fell back, cowering and pissing on the ground. A pair of ghostly lights crested the summit and drifted toward Grace. Spindly figures moved within the lights, gazing at the stones on Grace's hand with lidless eyes, reaching out with slender fingers.

  “That's right, you bastards,” Grace said through clenched teeth. “Come get your precious Stones. That's what you think they are, don't you? The two Great Stones your master seeks. But I've got another kind of stone in store for you.”

  The metallic hum rose to a whine, and the scent of lightning filled Grace's nostrils. All instincts told her to throw down the stones, to turn and run. However, she could still sense the twelve threads that were entwined with her own, lending hers strength. The wraithlings drifted past the sniveling feydrim, heading straight for Grace.

  “Now,” she whispered.

  Twenty male voices c
hanted a single word, blending together in deep and perfect harmony. “Sar!”

  Grace felt the rush of magic as a gust of wind. There was a sound like thunder, and a crack ten feet long and five wide opened in the granite beneath the two wraithlings. Focused as they were on the pebbles in Grace's hand, the beings did not see what was happening until too late. The stone vanished beneath their feet, and like a great maw the crack swallowed the Pale Ones. Two high-pitched shrieks pierced the air—then were cut short as the runespeakers ceased their chant. With a grinding noise, the crack snapped shut.

  Snarls and grunts of confusion rose from the feydrim. They milled about, pawing at the ground. Then their hungry eyes fell upon Grace and the others. Now that the Pale Ones they feared were gone, their hunger ruled them again.

  Grace threw down the pebbles—dull and lifeless now. “Now, Oragien!”

  “Lir!” the runespeakers chanted, and a half dozen spheres of light burst into being behind the feydrim. The spheres were large and silvery—just like the orbs of lights in which the wraithlings always came.

  The runespeakers continued their chant, and the spheres of light drifted closer. Fresh squeals of terror rose from the feydrim. The creatures scrambled away from the lights, coursing on all fours down the hill, running past Grace and the witches. Still the lights followed, driving them on, though Grace saw that the spheres were starting to flicker.

  “Don't stop!” she called to the runespeakers, and despite their haggard faces they kept up their harmony, chanting the rune of light.

  The shining spheres drove the terrified feydrim on, down the slope and past the grove of trees. Grace waited until the last of the creatures had passed the grove, then she gave the signal. The runespeakers ceased their chant at the same time the witches plucked apart the threads of the spell they had woven. The illusion unraveled, and the trees vanished, replaced by an army of nearly five hundred men.

  Grace was so tired, she had no more strength to shout. Instead, she sent a single word spinning along the Weirding, hoping it would be enough. Attack!

  With the call of trumpets, the army rushed forward, attacking the fleeing feydrim from behind. Scattered and terrified as they were, the creatures had no chance. Warhorses pounded over them, trampling them into the ground. Others fell with arrows in their humped backs, and more squealed on the ends of pikes.