by Mark Anthony
The sound of bare feet padding against stone approached from behind her. Grace turned around, and despite the thick bands of fear around her heart, she smiled.
“Tira. What are you doing all the way up here?”
As usual the small girl wore only her thin ash gray shift, her arms and feet bare.
“I’m sorry we haven’t had much time to play these last few days,” Grace said, and she meant it. “But I’m tired of thinking about runes and fortresses. Let’s go have some supper, and then maybe we can find something new for your dolls to wear.”
Grace expected this to elicit a smile. Instead, while the right side of the girl’s face—the scarred half—was as impassive as ever, the left side bore a look of sadness.
Concern rose within Grace. She knelt and touched Tira’s thin shoulders. “What is it, sweetheart? Is something wrong?”
Tira reached out and laid her small hands on either side of Grace’s jaw in a gentle embrace. A warmth filled Grace, and she sighed. Then Tira lowered her arms, and warmth became a terrible chill. The girl took a step back, and slowly Grace stood.
“You’re leaving me,” she said.
A tear rolled down the side of Tira’s face. In a puff of steam it was gone.
Grace’s own cheeks were cold and wet. She was shaking. “I don’t want you to go.”
Tira gazed at her, then climbed atop the low wall that edged the battlement. The wind tugged at her thin gown.
“Please.” Grace was weeping openly now. She held out a trembling hand. “Please, don’t leave me.”
Tira reached out a chubby hand. The tips of her fingers brushed Grace’s.
“Mother,” she said.
Then she rose into the evening sky. She ascended swiftly, a spark of crimson light rising up to join the first stars of evening. For a moment she shone among them, like a tiny ruby. Then the light winked out, and she was gone.
Grace staggered, catching herself against the wall. She felt so horribly cold—a husk empty of life. She had known this day would come. However, that did nothing to lessen the bitterness of it. Why had Tira left her?
“She has done what she can here,” said a croaking voice behind her. “And she is needed elsewhere. This battle is up to you now, daughter.”
Grace turned around, wiping the tears from her eyes with a rough hand. “Is it really?” she said, her voice hoarse with grief. “What about Runebreaker? Isn’t he supposed to be the one who decides everything in the end?”
Grisla shrugged knobby shoulders. “And which Runebreaker do you mean?”
A breath escaped Grace. She didn’t know how to answer, and it didn’t matter. Her place was here, at this keep.
“Are you going to leave me, too?”
The hag let out a cackle. “I think not, daughter. One has to be somewhere when the end comes, and this seems as good a place as any for the likes of me.”
The aching in Grace’s heart didn’t ease, but all the same she felt her fear recede a fraction. At least she wasn’t alone. She still had Grisla and Kel, Tarus and Paladus, and the witches and the runespeakers and the Spiders. She still had Durge. For now at least.
Grace turned and gazed out over Shadowsdeep. True to its name, purple shadows filled the valley. “There’s no hope, is there? Despite the rune in my pocket, we don’t have a prayer of winning.” She turned back and faced Grisla.
The hag’s face was sad, but there was a glint in her one eye. It was the light of defiance. “Each year, though we wish it not, the sun moves south. Each year, winter catches the world in its cold grip, freezing all life and warmth out it. And no matter how we might rail against it, no matter how we plead or struggle or gnash our teeth, there is nothing we can do to stop winter from coming.” She pointed with a withered finger. “We stand before the very gates of winter now, daughter.”
Grace shivered inside her cloak. “You mean the gate out there, in Shadowsdeep?”
“No, daughter, I mean the gate in here.” Her finger moved, pointing at Grace’s heart. “The gate inside all of us.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Then think of it this way, daughter. You cannot stop winter from coming, but is not the coming of spring just as inevitable? Death follows life, and after death comes life again. To the world, to our hearts.” She jabbed her finger at Grace’s chest. “That’s what hope means. Not that you have a chance of winning, but that somehow, even after defeat, life goes on.”
Grisla turned and shambled away, her ragged outline merging with the twilight. Grace stood motionless for a time, gazing at the starry sky. Then she headed downstairs to wait for winter.
The next morning dawned colder than any that had come before it. Frost turned swords, armor, and beards white, and the air bit at any flesh left exposed. Even inside the keep and barracks, pails of water had to be thawed over a fire before their contents could be drunk.
For the first hour after dawn, the sun hung red and angry in the eastern sky. Then, as it rose higher, it was swallowed by the great clouds of smoke that rose in the north, casting the world into the half-light of a premature dusk. A stench like the smell of hot iron wafted on the air. By noon, ash had begun to drift down from the sky like fine black snow.
Despite the cold, work on the keep continued. The engineers made their last few adjustments to the walls, creating an overhang of wooden spikes that would make scrambling over the top difficult for anyone who managed to climb so high. Massive timbers were cut and rolled into place along the wall. They could be covered with naphtha, ignited, and cast down on enemies below.
Grace pretended she was supervising the activities, but in truth she was simply trying to stay out of the way. There was nothing she could do to help—unless, of course, she could figure out how to invoke the keep’s defenses. She had lain awake all last night, cold in her cot without Tira to warm her, and she had gone over the ancient runelord’s words again and again, but without result. She was supposed to know what to do, only she didn’t. Winter would come, and there was nothing she could do to stop it.
“Hello there, Queenie,” said a loud voice behind her.
She had been standing outside the main keep, watching the men work on the wall. Now she turned and found herself gazing up at King Kel.
A grin parted his shaggy red beard. “If you don’t mind my saying, you look like you just swallowed a mouse.”
She laughed despite her dread. “I think it’s still crawling around in my stomach.” Her smile faded. “I think this day is getting darker, not lighter.”
Kel gave her a concerned look. “Don’t fret now, Your Majesty. We’ll send the Pale King running back through his gate with his tail between his legs, just you wait and see.”
“Do you really believe that, Kel?”
The cheerful light faded from his eyes, and his massive shoulders drooped. “No, I can’t say that I do. Much as that makes me sound like the doleful Embarran over there.”
Grace turned around. She hadn’t noticed before—his gray attire blended with the dreary air—but Durge stood on the far end of the wall, gazing into the distance. Grace didn’t know why—she didn’t have anything to ask of him—but for some reason she wanted to go to him.
“Excuse me,” she said to King Kel, who gave her a miffed look, then snorted and headed back to the keep.
When she reached the wall, Grace glanced around, hoping a nearby soldier might be able to give her a hand up. However, all of them seemed to be absorbed in their work, so she headed to one of the wooden ladders and pulled herself up. It wasn’t easy in her gown, but she made it to the top without getting too tangled up.
Once there, she had to grip the top of the ladder as a wave of dizziness crashed over her. The valley floor, over a hundred feet below, seemed to pull at her. She waited for the vertigo to pass, then edged her way carefully along the wall.
Durge seemed not to hear her approach. He stood as still as a statue, his gaze fixed on darkness to the north, his right hand pressed against his ch
est. Alarm flooded Grace. Did he know, then, what lay within his chest?
That’s impossible, Grace. There’s no way he could possibly know about the splinter of iron. You didn’t tell anyone about it except for Mirda, and she’s still in Calavere.
She reached into her pocket. Next to the rune of hope lay another object she had carried with her from Calavere: the vial of poison Mirda had given her.
Durge turned around. A look of pain etched his craggy face. She reached a hand toward him.
“What is it, Durge?”
“Something is coming,” he said. “I can feel it.”
The sound of a trumpet pierced the cold air, then she and Durge were moving. They didn’t bother with a ladder. He lowered her to the ground with strong arms, then leaped down behind her. He landed with a grunt, and his knees creaked as he rose, but he waved away Grace’s exclamations of concern.
“We must find Tarus and Paladus.”
They came upon the knight and the commander in front of the keep. Aldeth and Master Graedin were with them.
“What is it?” Grace said, getting the words out between gasps for breath.
“We managed to close it, Your Majesty,” Graedin said, his face pale. “Aldeth drove them back, and I spoke the runes before any of them could enter.”
She gripped his shoulders, hard. “Before who could enter?”
“The feydrim,” Aldeth said. A scratch on his cheek oozed blood. “Thousands of them. We should have seen them coming, but it was so dark from the smoke we couldn’t see.”
They weren’t making sense. Grace turned on the Spider. “You couldn’t see what?”
“The Rune Gate, Your Majesty. It’s opened.”
Durge gazed at Grace with solemn brown eyes. “The Pale King comes,” he said.
41.
Deirdre hung up the phone, praying to the Great Spirit she had just done the right thing.
It is, Deirdre. You made a promise—no more secrets.
The mysterious Seeker—the one who had been helping her—had said it was imperative no one learned of their arrival. But Deirdre couldn’t do this alone, and while she still didn’t know if she could trust Anders, she had to trust someone.
“He’s on his way,” she said, glancing at Vani and Beltan.
“This new partner of yours?” Vani said. She stood by the window, keeping watch on the night with gold eyes.
“Yes.” Deirdre forced herself to breathe. “Once Anders is here, you can tell us everything.”
Beltan pounded on the buttons of the television remote control. “By the Blood of the Bull, how do you make this thing work?”
Despite her fear, Deirdre smiled. She sat down on the couch next to Beltan and took the remote. “So you like television, eh?”
Beltan’s green eyes lit up. “I watched one of these at the hostel where we were staying while Vani searched this city for you. It shows the most amazing things.”
Deirdre switched on the TV, and Beltan leaned forward. He seemed to find everything that appeared on the screen fascinating, especially commercials. His mouth opened in horror when a woman spilled red wine on her carpet, then laughed when she used a spray cleaner to remove the stain.
“Is she a witch?” he said.
Deirdre laughed. “Not exactly.” She headed to the kitchen and returned with three bottles of Bass Ale. She gave one to Vani, then sat down next to Beltan again, putting the bottles on the coffee table. He had set down the remote; it looked like he had found an old rerun of CHiPs.
“So what are Ponch and Jon up to?”
Beltan took a swig of the beer. “A thief has just escaped them. But they can go very fast on their—what are they called?—motorcycles. I have a feeling they will soon catch him.”
“I have a feeling you’re right.”
Beltan took another sip from his bottle and sighed. “With TV and ale this good, why would a man ever do anything else?”
Deirdre grimaced. “A lot of them don’t.”
“Only we can’t just sit here,” Beltan said, his expression suddenly serious. He set down the empty bottle and switched off the TV. “We have to find Travis. Now.”
Before Deirdre could speak, Vani turned from the window.
“Someone’s coming.”
It was Anders. Deirdre recognized the broad shape of his silhouette. Seconds later came the knock at the door. She opened it, and Anders stepped in.
“All right, mate, what’s going on? You were all hush-hush and mysterious on the phone, and I—oh.”
As a neophyte agent, he shouldn’t have known anything about the Wilder and Beckett cases. However, the recognition was clear in his blue eyes.
“It’s them,” he said. “The ones from AU-3.”
Deirdre crossed her arms. “How do you know that?”
“I read your and Farr’s report.” He winked at her. “Well, parts of it, anyway. Most of the text in the copy I had access to was crossed out with black markers. Nakamura gave it to me. He said if I was going to be working with you, I should read it.”
Once again, Anders’s explanation sounded completely plausible.
Probably because it’s the truth, Deirdre. You said you were going to trust him. So trust him already.
“Before we go on, I need you to promise me one thing,” she said, locking her gaze with Anders’s blue eyes. “I need you to swear it on the Book.”
“Anything. You’re my partner.”
“You can’t tell anyone about this just yet. Not Nakamura, not anyone. Understood?”
“Sure, Deirdre, I swear. But do you really think you can avoid telling Nakamura?”
“No, I don’t. But I want to do it myself before we leave tomorrow.”
He cocked his head. “What do you mean, ‘before we leave’? Where are we going?”
Deirdre glanced over her shoulder at Beltan and Vani. “To Denver.”
The four of them sat around the dinette table and talked until long past midnight. Deirdre listened in amazement and growing horror as Beltan and Vani told them everything that had happened on Eldh. There was much she didn’t understand, especially something about Travis returning to Castle City, only over a century in the past. But what chilled her most was the news that Duratek had somehow sent agents to the world Eldh.
“Crikey, it’s a war, isn’t it?” Anders said. “Duratek is getting ready to conquer Eldh.”
Beltan heaved broad shoulders in a sigh. “They’re not the only ones. We’ve learned the men of Duratek are in league with Mohg and the Pale King.”
“Who?” Anders said, confusion plain on his pitted face.
“I’m probably not the best one to explain it,” Beltan said, “but Falken’s not here, so I’ll do my best. One of the Old Gods, Mohg, is trying to get back to Eldh so he can break the First Rune and destroy the world. That way he can make the world anew in his own image. And his servant, the Pale King, is nearly free again. Grace is marching north to Gravenfist Keep with an army to try to stop him, but I don’t think even she believes there’s much hope of holding the Pale King back.” Beltan thumped a fist against the table. “That’s why we have to find Travis.”
Deirdre held a hand to her aching head. “Wait a minute, Beltan—what can Travis do to stop all of this from happening?”
“Everything,” Vani said. She rose, prowling around the table. “Travis has two of the Great Stones, which Mohg seeks, and which are the key to breaking the First Rune. What’s more, he is the Runebreaker spoken of in prophecy. It is his fate to be there at the end of the world.”
Anders gaped at her. “So you mean Travis Wilder is the one who’s going to break this rune thing and destroy the world? But how is that any better than this Mohg person doing it?”
Vani and Beltan answered only with silence.
Deirdre’s brain struggled to grasp all these esoteric names and words. It still didn’t make sense, but Beltan was right about one thing—they had to find Travis. Somehow he was the key to everything.
“I
think we could all use a little more ale,” Beltan said.
He stood and headed for the kitchen. Despite his turtleneck and blue jeans, Deirdre would never have mistaken him for just any Londoner. He moved his long, lean body with a predatory grace.
“Forgive my asking,” Anders said as Beltan sat back down. “But do you really need our help? You’ve got the transport device, and from what I read in the report you’re both pretty good at taking out Duratek agents. Why didn’t you just go to Denver to find Mr. Wilder yourself?”
“We tried.” Vani looked at Deirdre. “When we activated the gate artifact, we sought to open a doorway to Denver. However, something . . . happened.”
“What happened?”
The T’gol coiled a hand beneath her chin. “I am still not certain. It was as if there was some kind of . . . resistance. We were nearly lost in the Void. At the last moment, I envisioned a new destination—this city, London. I journeyed here once during my three years on Earth. The gate responded to my new command, and we found ourselves here.”
“So this gate thing can take you anywhere you can picture?” Anders said. “Bloody amazing. But why did you pick London?”
Deirdre gazed at Vani. “You knew the Seekers were here, didn’t you?”
Vani nodded. “I learned something of the Seekers in my time on Earth. You have tools at your disposal that could aid us in our search for Travis Wilder. It was my hope you would help us, Deirdre Falling Hawk, so I searched the city for you. It took me some days, but I found the location of the Seeker base. After that, it was a simple matter to follow you here.”
Anders raised up a hand. “All right, I’ll buy for a moment that wicked gods are helping Duratek to take over Eldh, and that Travis Wilder is the only one who can stop them. But how do you know Wilder is in Denver in the first place?”
“This is how.” Beltan reached for his coat—which he had thrown on the couch—pulled something out, and tossed it on the table. “We purchased this in a shop down the street.”
It was a copy of yesterday’s Denver Post. Deirdre picked it up in shaking hands. The headline was something about how the use of the illegal drug Electria had reached epidemic proportions, especially among young people, but Deirdre didn’t read the article. Instead her eyes moved to the small photograph of a man at the bottom of the front page. New evidence suggests fugitive still at large in Denver, read the caption.
