The Gates of Winter

by Mark Anthony

  The next day they crossed the Fellgrim, with only one minor mishap when a horse fell through the ice and was quickly pulled back out. Both beast and rider were cold, wet, and scraped, but not seriously injured.

  Once across the river, they found themselves traveling through a forest. It reminded Grace of the forests of Colorado: light and open, with plenty of space to move between the trees, the ground covered with a carpet of soft needles. Here and there a small evergreen plant grew in clumps, covered with tiny orange-red berries and looking for all the world like kinnikinnick.

  However, this wasn’t Colorado. The silvery, leafless trees were valsindar, not aspen, and the needles of the sintaren trees were a feathery purple-green. All the same, they looked so much like ponderosa pine that, as they made camp that evening, Grace couldn’t resist walking up to one, pressing her nose to its sun-warmed bark, and inhaling deeply.

  “Ice cream,” she said in answer to the curious look Paladus gave her. “Where I come from, some pine trees smell like vanilla ice cream.”

  The Tarrasian commander wore a skeptical look. “And does that one smell like this vah’nilla?”

  She shook her head. “More like butterscotch.”

  Tira touched her nose to the tree and laughed.

  Paladus hesitated, then followed suit, moving close and sniffing the tree’s bark. He turned around, eyes wide. “It smells delicious.”

  Grace laughed. “So it does.”

  As the evening wore on, Grace noticed more than one man moving from sintaren tree to sintaren tree, stopping to smell each one. Despite what lay ahead of them she felt her spirits lifting. While this forest was empty of people, it did not give her the same sense of desolation as Embarr. It was sad, yes, but there was a contentedness to it as well. This land had learned to live alone.

  Just like you, Grace.

  The next day, as they set out, Durge told her this forest was called the Winter Wood. It stretched across the entire north of Falengarth, and once everything within its borders had been part of the kingdom of Malachor. Maybe that was why she felt less afraid here; maybe she had come home.

  Then they came upon the pylon, and the feeling of peace vanished.

  It was damaged; otherwise, they would surely have felt its insidious effects as they had before. As it was, a gloom seemed to descend over the forest, though the sky above the leafless branches of the valsindar was clear as a sapphire.

  It was Senrael who sensed it first. The crone warned Grace, who instructed the Spiders to scout things out—carefully. Aldeth returned minutes later; he had spotted the pylon in a clearing not far ahead. Tarus gave the commands, and the army veered to the east to give the relic a wide berth. Luckily, the bulk of the force was marching a quarter league back, and so never came near enough for concern.

  “I’m not sure what happened to the pylon,” Aldeth said. “I didn’t want to get too close to it, but it looked to me as if the stone was cracked.”

  Durge stroked his mustaches. “From years of cold and ice and wind, perhaps.”

  “Or more likely from this,” Samatha said as she approached, holding up a sword. The blade was broken off a few inches above the hilt, but it was enough to see that the sword had been forged of jet-black steel.

  Grace took the broken sword in a trembling hand. “Onyx Knights. They were the ones who broke the pylon.”

  Paladus looked at her. “Why?”

  The metal was cold against her bare skin, but she didn’t let go. “Kelephon means to betray the Pale King. He wants to gain the Imsari for himself.”

  “He must have spoken powerful runes to have allowed his knights to approach the pylon,” Master Graedin said. He shivered inside his gray robes. “I suppose they broke it to keep the Pale King from spying on their comings and goings.”

  “Which means Kelephon has unwittingly done us a favor,” Durge said. “For the Pale King will not see us either.”

  Either Durge’s theory was right, or luck and Tira’s magic continued to protect them, for over the next two days they encountered nothing more menacing than the silver-furred squirrels who made their home in the duskneedle trees, and who scolded them as they marched by.

  Then, as suddenly as if a curtain had been drawn aside, the trees of the Winter Wood gave way to a windswept plain at the foot of a range of rugged mountains. A pair of standing stones stood at the entrance to a high-walled valley. They rode between the stones, following a faint road up the defile. Then, as the eagles soared overhead, Grace at last laid eyes on their destination.

  “It doesn’t look like much,” she said.

  Seated on his mule, All-master Oragien smiled at her. “Gravenfist Keep is nearly a thousand years old, Your Majesty. We should be glad it’s standing at all.”

  While the main force of the army snaked its way slowly up the valley, Grace rode ahead with the ones who had become her most trusted companions: Durge and Tarus, Aldeth and Samatha, Commander Paladus, Master Graedin and All-master Oragien, and the witches Senrael and Lursa. With them beside her, Grace felt she could face anything.

  Well, almost anything.

  “We are so incredibly doomed,” she murmured as they brought their horses to a halt, then winced, glancing at the others. “Sorry. I meant to just think that.”

  “Don’t apologize, Your Majesty,” Tarus said, a pained look on his face. “I think you may be right.”

  They dismounted and picked their way across the stony ground toward the keep. Tira ran alongside them, flitting from rock to rock on bare feet.

  Gravenfist sat at the highest point of the valley, where the cliff walls drew down until they were little more than a hundred paces apart. Grace was no military genius, but she could see this was a highly defensible spot. The cliffs were sheer and unscalable, and the narrow valley would squeeze an attacking force like a stony hand; no doubt that was how the keep had gotten its name. Even a small force such as her own could hold this fortress indefinitely if it was in good repair.

  It wasn’t. Given the looks of it, the curtain wall that stretched between the two cliffs had once been about thirty feet high. Now in most places it was no more than ten. The wall was cracked and rusty with lichen, heaps of fallen stones piled at its base.

  The main keep, which stood behind the wall, was in little better shape. There was a large, square tower from which low barracks reached out to either side, then angled back around to form a courtyard. The barracks looked large enough to house a thousand soldiers, but they were largely roofless, and their doors and shutters had long ago rotted to splinters. The tower, which stood five stories high, appeared solid enough, though its parapets were crumbling like the wall, and no doubt it was as roofless as the barracks.

  Grace gazed at the keep, but the tower’s narrow windows only stared back at her like bleary eyes. This place had been slumbering for seven hundred years. How could she hope to wake it to war?

  “Don’t worry, Your Majesty,” Durge said. “It’s nothing a little elbow grease won’t fix.”

  Grace didn’t think there were that many elbows in the world. Besides, even if they could prevent the fortress from falling down, there certainly wasn’t time to build the wall back up to its full height. A thirty-foot barrier might be defended. But one that stood ten feet? The Pale King’s minions would scale it in seconds. Grace started to tell the others it was hopeless, that they might as well turn around and march back to Calavere.

  “Your Majesty!” Master Graedin called out. “I believe you should come look at this.” The young runespeaker had scrambled up a pile of stones and now stood atop one of the lowest points along the wall.

  The rest of them hurried to the wall, and Aldeth and Samatha nimbly ascended it. There was plenty of room for them to stand alongside Graedin; the wall was a good ten feet thick.

  “Oh,” Aldeth said.

  Samatha laughed, her gray eyes shining. “Well this changes everything.”

  “I told you so,” Graedin said.

  All of this suspense w
as quickly making Grace cross. “Durge, since no one sees fit to tell me what they’re seeing, I’ll have to look for myself. Help me up there.”

  Durge knelt and made a stirrup of his hands, boosting Grace up. Aldeth and Samatha caught her, pulling her to the top of the wall. She swayed as the wind struck her.

  “Careful, Your Majesty,” Master Graedin said, steadying her. “You don’t wish to fall that way.”

  “No,” Grace said softly. “I don’t suppose I do.”

  She had imagined the valley sloped away from the keep on the other side, just as it did on this side. It didn’t. Instead, the keep stood at the top of a nearly vertical escarpment. While from the way they had come the wall looked to be no more than ten feet high, on this side it plunged down a hundred feet to the valley floor below, sloping out slightly as it went.

  It looked as if the wall had at one time been perfectly smooth, but in many places the facing stones had cracked and crumbled. There were enough handholds that a skilled climber—or a nimble creature, like one of the feydrim—would be able to scale the wall, but it would be slow going, and an archer could easily shoot anything that tried to climb up. Nor would ladders do much good. Such a tall ladder could be pushed away from the wall before even the fastest climber might ascend it.

  “What do you see up there, Your Majesty?” Durge called out to her.

  “Hope,” she called back. “I see hope.”

  The restoration of Gravenfist Keep began that day. The first order of business was to clear away hundreds of years of debris from the keep’s courtyard and to make a place to set up a temporary camp. As Commander Paladus and Sir Vedarr gave the orders, Grace toured the keep with Durge, Tarus, and Oragien so that they could come up with a plan. There was no way to know how much time they had until the Rune Gate opened; they had to be sure they completed the most important repairs first.

  All agreed the wall would be their first priority. There was no need to build it back any higher, but they had to remove the loose stones, square off the top, and add crenellations so that archers could safely stand atop the wall and take aim at any who tried to scale it. Durge also suggested adding a few machicolations, so that fiery naphtha—of which they had many barrels—could be rained down upon the enemy.

  The next task would be to clear out the barracks and repair the roofs. On closer inspection, it was not going to be as terrible a task as Grace had feared. The roof beams had rotted away, but there were plenty of trees close at hand to fashion more. Most of the original slate shingles lay scattered on the ground, and more could easily be mined from the walls of the valley, which were made up of the stuff.

  The main keep was also in better shape than Grace would have thought possible. Its roof remained, though with countless holes, as did each of the five floors within, a fact that astounded both Grace and Durge, since they were made of wood. Then All-master Oragien pointed out the symbols that had been etched into the thick beams hewn of sintaren trees.

  “Every part of this keep—every stone and every beam—has been bound with runes of power,” the old runespeaker said. “Great magic yet abides here.”

  So Falken had said, but how could they awaken that magic to help them? Grace fingered the bound rune in her pocket. If it was really a key, then where was the keyhole it fit? So far she had seen nothing, but surely they would find it as they cleaned out the keep.

  By evening, the keep’s courtyard had been cleared, and in the barracks the men had swept away a foot of dirt to find solid stone floors beneath. They used the canvas from the tents to fashion temporary roofs, while a corral for the horses had been built outside the keep from freshly felled duskneedle trees.

  That night, as stars shone in the sky, they gathered around a great bonfire, and the last casks of wine—which had been saved for just this occasion—were all tapped so that every man and woman could have a cup or two. Some of the men had brought drums and flutes, and they played boisterous music, while others stomped and clapped their hands and a bold few broke into a wild dance.

  Grace sat on a log bench on the edge of the firelight, content to watch rather than join in, while Tira slept soundly in her arms. A great whoop rose from the men when a number of the women—the Spiders Samatha and Karthi, and most of the younger witches—picked up the hems of their skirts and joined in the dance. Lursa laughed, her cheeks bright from the fire and exertion, as one of the Calavaner knights whirled her around in strong arms. Grace couldn’t help laughing herself. The Witches and the Warriors were supposed to be enemies, but she would never have known it looking at the dancers.

  “Do you think it’s a good idea to light so large a bonfire, Your Majesty?” said a gloomy voice beside her.

  Grace didn’t know when Durge had sat down on the log; his charcoal gray tunic blended with the gloom.

  “The night’s cold,” she said. “The fire keeps them warm.”

  “And the dancing?”

  She smiled. “That too. Among other things.”

  All of the ladies had found a partner in the dance. Lursa was still laughing, her plain face made pretty with mirth, and the knight’s eyes were bright with a light that came not just from the fire. Senrael stood not far off, glaring at the couple. Lursa was going to have to be careful if she wanted to remain the coven’s Maiden. Then again, there were a few younger witches in the coven who would do just fine. Grace hoped Lursa did what she wanted.

  Durge looked back over his shoulder, into the darkness. “The Rune Gate lies but three leagues from here as the raven flies, on the other side of Shadowsdeep. His spies will see the fire. The Pale King will know we’ve come.”

  “Good,” Grace said, surprised to realize she meant it. “I want him to know I’m here. I want him to be afraid.” She gripped the hilt of Fellring, belted as always at her hip. “Maybe he’ll think twice before he forces the Rune Gate open again.”

  Durge shook his head. “He will come. Once the last rune sealing it breaks, the Rune Gate will open, and all the hordes of the Pale King will be upon us.”

  “That’s one thing I don’t understand,” said a clear tenor, and they looked up to see Master Graedin approaching, along with All-master Oragien. “How is it we’ve already encountered feydrim and wraithlings if the Rune Gate is still shut?”

  Grace had actually been thinking about that one for a while. They knew the Pale King had managed to get a few wraithlings to Earth, using Gelthisar to send them through the crack between the worlds—the gap Travis had inadvertently created when he traveled back in time to Castle City and met Jack Graystone. However, Grace doubted the Stone of Ice had allowed Berash to get his minions through the Rune Gate, and they couldn’t sail the Winter Sea. The fairy ship had navigated the roiling, icy waters around the northern shores of Imbrifale, but Grace doubted any mundane ship could manage that feat. That meant the Pale King’s slaves must have come through the mountains.

  She looked up at Graedin. “Falken told me that the Ironfang Mountains, which border Imbrifale, were woven with perilous illusions by witches long ago.”

  “That’s so,” Oragien said. “What’s more, the Runelords of old spoke the rune Fal over and over, raising the Fal Threndur to great heights and filling them with treacherous chasms. They make a strong prison around Imbrifale.”

  Grace snapped her fingers. “Right, but no matter how strong it is, no prison is perfect. Say the odds of getting through the Ironfang Mountains, with all their chasms and illusions, were one in a hundred. If the Pale King threw a thousand feydrim at the mountains, then ten would make it through. That could explain the creatures we’ve seen.”

  “But we’ve seen hundreds of feydrim over the course of the last year,” Durge said.

  Despite her proximity to the bonfire, a chill gripped Grace. She was a scientist; she knew numbers couldn’t lie, and her mind couldn’t help doing the math.

  “That would mean there are thousands of feydrim within Imbrifale,” Graedin said, looking ill.

  Grace shook her head. �
�No, tens of thousands.”

  “You cannot know that for certain, Your Majesty,” Oragien said, though his troubled eyes belied his reassuring tone.

  However, he was right. They didn’t know for certain how great the Pale King’s army was. Maybe the odds of getting through the Fal Threndur were not so high as she thought, which meant the Pale King’s forces would number far less. She started to speak these ideas, but her words were lost as the bright call of a horn echoed off the cliffs. The music and dancing ceased, and warriors went scrambling for their swords.

  Before Grace could move, Samatha was there. “A band of knights in black armor ride up the valley,” the Spider said. “There are about thirty of them—at least that we can see in the darkness.”

  Master Graedin shot Grace a frightened look. “Maybe it’s just a small band then. A patrol like we saw in Embarr.”

  Or maybe it’s the vanguard for a larger force, Grace thought. Maybe Kelephon has found you after all.

  “What should we do?” she said, looking at Durge.

  “We cannot hope to hide from them, Your Majesty. Our fire will have given us away. They know we’re here.”

  “Then I’ll talk to them.”

  “You might want to fight first and talk later, Your Majesty,” Samatha said, hand on the dagger tucked into her belt.

  Despite her fear, Grace gave the Spider a sharp smile. “I find people are much harder to talk to you when their heads aren’t attached to their bodies. And I need to find out what these knights are up to.” She stood and handed Tira to Master Graedin. “Keep watch over her.”

  Tira sleepily coiled her arms around his neck. The young runespeaker nodded.

  Grace moved swiftly through the camp, Durge, Samatha, and Oragien beside her.

  “All-master,” she said to Oragien, gently but firmly, “you should stay behind.”