Rellen shifted in his chair. He remembered Endross’s graphic tale of Ahnwyn’s destruction, and the thought of it turned his stomach. “Do you believe in magic?” He paled as he looked to Garrett and Saul. “In all the stories I heard as a boy, plenty hinted at witchcraft, but I never thought of it as anything more than knavery. But now I see and hear things. I begin to wonder. Are our enemies warlocks? Can they slay us all without unsheathing their swords? Is what Ser Endross described even possible?”
Saul crossed his arms. “Call me a doubter. But a storm doesn’t mean sorcery.”
“Maybe there are such things as magic and wizards,” replied Garrett. “It makes no difference. We Grae have only our swords.”
The meeting lasted the rest of the day. The hours slogged, and Rellen sank ever lower in his chair. Men came to the door seeking his attention to the matters of Verod, of which he was now the steward, but save for the food bearers he sent them all away. As he, Garrett, and Saul wandered their ways through a thousand plans, the rain cracked the sky and the sun fell far below the horizon, but he was unaware.
After two flasks of lantern oil had burned and ten thousand words uttered, the meeting came to an end.
He rose from his chair, his bones creaking the same as tired planks of wood. He went to Andelusia, who had long ago stretched across two dusty chairs and fallen asleep, and he took her up in his arms.
“We decide tomorrow,” he whispered to Garrett and Saul.
“Tomorrow,” they agreed.
Halfway up the spiraling stairs leading to Verod’s tallest tower, Andelusia awoke. She felt light as air, and the glimmer of her gaze made him wish he were in Gryphon, carrying her to my room, and not up this cold corridor.
Up, up he took her through an old door and into the tower’s top chamber, a round, ten-windowed room he had claimed days ago. When he set her down upon the bed, she rubbed her eyes and murmured. “Is it finished? What did I miss?”
“Sleep.” He stroked her brow. “I’ll tell you everything tomorrow.”
Her eyelids, heavy and dark, began to fall. “Mmmm. Will it be war? If there is a fight, must you go?”
“Yes, love.”
“But you will come back to me, yes? Promise me.”
“Of course I will. I promise.”
He pushed a lock of fiery hair from her brow, expecting sleep to claim her, but in the wan candlelight, she peered up at him like a child marveling at the moon. “Rellen,” she said, “Do not go to war. Please. I want you to stay.”
“You know I must go. And soon.”
She sat up on her elbows. Her sleepiness fell away, her softness turned suddenly fierce. “I know no such thing. All this talk of you leaving and facing those killers, those storm-bringers; I cannot take it. Forget what I said earlier. I want you to stay here with me.”
“Here in Verod? But I’d be useless,” he countered.
“No, not useless. You can command the fight from the safety of the castle. You can still be the hero. Please. I will beg if I have to. I am not ashamed.”
He closed his eyes and shook his head. He heard his father’s voice in his head, Garrett and Marlos’s too. It crushes me, all this duty. I should have been born a farmer. All he wanted was to take Andelusia’s hand, slip from the castle under cover of darkness, and ride until the rain stopped and the morning sun shined. “I can’t.” He gulped hard when he said it. “I have to go. Our scouts are due from the east tonight. I have to meet them.”
He kissed her cheek and untangled his fingers from her hair. He rose to leave, but she snatched his collar and tugged him back. Her feelings came gushing out, a torrent fiercer than the rain. “No. No, this is wrong.” Her gaze went dark. “I never should have fooled myself. I never wanted you to go. I heard the stories of the men from the east, of the death in the south. Not even Garrett can protect you. Please, I take it all back. You do not have to do as your father commands. Stay here with me.”
“Ande, I...” His words felt like swords. “I have to go. We’ve talk tomorrow. I love you.”
He pulled away. She tried to kiss him, to draw him down to the warm place beside her, but he resisted. He shuddered, hating himself, and then left her lying cold and alone.
He heard her weeping as he crossed the room and shut the door, and he heard her call his name as the rain fluttered into the stairwell windows, wetting his cheeks the same as her tears did hers. He knew the damage his leaving did, and though he feared it, he commanded himself not to turn back.
A week went by.
Andelusia stayed by his side.
The word from his scouts was that the flood at Gholesh had not abated, and so he prepared Verod as best he could for war. For it will come, he knew. Flood or no flood.
Under his guidance, the old castle became home to some two thousand hopeful Mormist warriors. Chambers were cleaned, furnaces fired, forges stoked, and provisions brought in from the Dales. Even as he resurrected Verod, so too did Tratec fill to its brim. Down the steep slopes below the old castle, the city swelled with six thousand newly-arrived mountain folk, some of them answering the summons of war, others seeking shelter and food. He tended to them all as if they were family. Though ill-trained and poorly armed, the hardy men of Mormist flocked to his banner. They see a chance for vengeance. And that is enough.
As Verod flourished, the northern enemy remained trapped behind the Gholesh, while the foe in the south advanced none.
With the advantage of time and the help of many, Rellen raised the fires beneath Verod and Tratec ever higher. He ordered blacksmiths to pound what little iron they had into spear tips, arrowheads, and short blades, and he made use of his father’s name to purchase a thousand sturdy horses from the Dales. Great stores of food were gathered: dried meats, flour, and excess from the Dales’ excellent harvest, all of it rationed to the burgeoning population. Tratec, once a quiet place for quiet people, was reborn.
Verod became formidable once more.
At noon of a breezeless, cloud-curtained day, Rellen halted in the middle of his labors. His skin glistened with sweat, his palms red and raw from pounding sharpened stakes into a hillside in Tratec’s eastern quarter. He heard the noise from afar, same as all the men around him. The Crossroad shook as if by thunder. Shouts from faraway workers blasted like hot wind between the trees. The men at his side looked to him with horror, thinking at first the enemy had somehow slipped behind the city.
Heart pounding, he dropped his shirt over his shoulders, strapped Lorsmir’s sword to his waist, and ran westward along the Crossroad. The thunder drew nearer. He strode into a cluster of men whose axes hung limply at their sides, and he walked to their forefront. “Friend or foe?” he asked them. Before even one of them could answer, a rider flew past along the road, waving an azure banner in the air. He recognized the lad at once.
Therian.
“Barrok is here! Barrok is here!” Therian cried out triumphantly, and the Mormist men began to cheer.
He stood in the center of the Crossroad, the wind washing over him. The din of forty thousand soldiers shook the earth like a mountainside quake, muting the thunder from the sky. He watched them turn the corner on the road below Verod, winding like a snake toward Tratec. First came many rows of horsemen, their swirling sapphire tabards catching in the breeze, their pennants a river streaming with the colors of all the northern houses of Grae. Each rider carried a lance twice a man’s height, and each horse was barded in silver mail. Next came a streaming host of swordsmen and archers. They were the bread and butter of castle Barrok, striding past the awestruck masses in freshly-polished mail and carrying a deadly assortment of swords, spears, axes, and longbows. They said Ahnwyn’s army was most fearsome, thought Rellen. But who can doubt this?
Lothe brings every bit of steel left in Graehelm.
The Barrok host marched into Tratec. Rellen and his fellow laborers stepped off the Crossroad to allow the vanguard to pass unhindered. He stood among the trees, heart soaring, as the mighty host marche
d by. He caught sight of the riders in the army’s rear. They were some twenty horsebound knights, a troupe whose raiment suggested royalty. Two of the riders carried banners of gold and azure, each embroidered with the royal crest of Nurė, while between them rode a wide-shouldered warrior with an iron helm tucked under his arm. Rellen saw the warrior’s broad sword, studded with pale jewels, and he remembered. Jacob’s cousin. Lord Lothe.
Lothe, lord of the river Tysmouth, master artisan of war, and decorated champion of Barrok, was known as the hardest soul in all of Grae. In his dark, war-wizened eyes, there resided no sorrow or joy, no sympathy or fear. Tratec’s onlookers cheered him, but Lothe sat atop his destrier, emotionless as stone, his gaze penetrating everything. Rellen looked up at Lothe, awestruck. He had seen the man once as a child, but never since. He came to Father’s tower. It was winter. He was just as stoic. We didn’t need him then, but now is different.
Within two days of Lothe’s arrival, the unified forces of Barrok and Mormist were ready to march.
Rellen assumed control of some three hundred knights, a force that when added to four thousand Mormist foot soldiers became by far his largest command. The rest fell to Lothe, who drank no mead and who laughed none, but set about his strategies as if the invader would be the last foe he ever faced. Lothe’s plan, as dictated rather than discussed, was for the forces of Grae to march immediately to the Gholesh. Once the flood ended and the valley opened, Lothe meant to swarm upon the enemy and destroy him.
The day of leaving arrived too quickly. In the final hours before the army’s march, Rellen sat beside Andelusia as she gazed from her tower window. She is beautiful even when miserable, he thought as the wind drifted into the window and tousled her hair. I must be cursed to leave such a creature behind. The war will claim me, and I will never kiss her again.
The gloom in the skies beyond the window waned for a short while, and the sunlight caressed her face. In the rare light, he daydreamed she were graven of the same smooth white wood as all the houses of Gryphon.
“You are leaving me.” Her voice was cold.
“I must. I’m sorry. You can’t know how much this hurts.”
“And Saul. And Garrett. They are leaving too.”
“Yes.” He sank lower in his seat.
She faced him, and he felt smaller than before. “I want to be angry at you, but I cannot,” she told him. “I made this bargain knowing how it would end.”
“Ande...” His voice cracked when he said her name. “If I could, I’d take you so far from here that both of us would forget this misery. But this is my hour, my chance to do right. I can’t leave it waiting.”
Her expression did not change. “Then we had best get you ready.”
She rose, and he the same. She said nothing, but instead moved behind him to assist his dressing. She knotted the laces of his boots, fastened his greaves to his shins, and helped him clasp his cuirass to his chest. Next came his sword, which she slid into his belt, and his sigil-bearing bracer, which she fitted to his left wrist. He felt the coldness of her fingertips against his flesh. She looked impassive on the surface, calm as still water, but he knew her mind to be otherwise.
“Thank you.” He took her hand as the clouds returned and cast the room in grey shadows.
She slid her hand from his and tied the last knot of his tabard collar without meeting his gaze. “When you go, keep me here.” She touched his cuirass above his heart. “But keep your sword even closer. There is evil across the river, darkness in the minds of the enemy. I can feel it, though I know not how.”
His flesh felt chilled, and his hands trembled as though it were winter. In his heart, he felt the expanse she had purposely set between them. “Don’t hate me.” He lowered his head. “I didn’t mean for this to happen.”
“I do not hate you.” Her fingers trailed down his arm. “I never will.”
He kissed her then, seeking one last moment of affection. Though she kissed him back, he felt the rest of her body remain cold beneath his touch, her flesh like that of a statue, pale and beautiful and suspended in time. After separating, he slunk to the door and cast a final glance upon her. “I will return. We will be together again,” he promised.
“I know,” she said, though he doubted she believed it.
Beyond the walls of Verod, the forest was saturated with morning dew. All was green and silver, not grey and gloaming as it had been the last month. Sunlight penetrated the cloud curtain, illuminating every wet leaf, sparkling on the surface of every pool of rainwater. It seemed the morning light strove against the will of the clouds, diluting their darkness for a time. No happier for it, Rellen strode down the winding path to Tratec. Joining him were Garrett and Saul, who seemed just as quiet and grave. The three saddled their mounts and rode to the southern side of the Crossroad, where the rest of the Gryphon company nestled in a camp amongst the trees.
“Lo! Look who returns!” Bruced boomed at his arrival.
“Yes. Me.” He tried to put on a smile.
Bruced grinned and rolled his massive shoulders. “Everyone’s been asking where you ran off to, where the Grae son has gone. I told them your sword needed sharpening, that you meant to make a few children before battle. But here you are, sullen as boy after a whipping. What’s the matter? Did your fire-girl send you off without a kiss?”
“She kissed me. But that was all.”
“A shame.” Bruced whacked him on the shoulder. “Best put on your prettiest smile. The men are waiting.”
With Garrett, Saul, and Bruced at his back, he prodded his mount forward. He passed through a shadowed copse of oaks, their leaves warm and trembling like warriors’ hands before battle. A clearing lay ahead, and as he drew nearer he heard the clamor on the copse’s far side. He knew who awaited him. They were the Gryphon company, Adarros’s men, and all the axe men, swordsmen, and hunters of Mormist who had come to Verod to join him against the invaders.
He emerged from the trees, and as he entered the clearing, the men looked to him and cheered.
“Look!” shouted a burly beast of a man. “Tis the Grae champion!”
“Aye!” crowed another. “The doom of the invaders!”
“Rellen Gryphon!” shouted still another. “There be gods after all!”
He halted near the heart of the clearing. He looked to the great circle of men surrounding him, seeing hope, fear, and a thousand emotions unspoken. The three hundred riders Lothe had lent him were garbed in steel and carried broadswords and lances, but the Mormist fighters were lightly clad. The mountain men wore leather hauberks and carried simple swords, daggers, and needle-sharp spears, all crafted recently in the foundries of Tratec. Most have never soldiered before, he thought. We’re motley, a piecemeal legion, carved more out of bravery than anything else.
“Not bad for a month’s work,” Bruced rumbled in his ear.
“Somewhere Lothe is laughing at me.”
“Doubtful.” Bruced grinned. “The man’s face would shatter if ever he smiled. Forget that sour old sod. I’d take your little army over his any day.”
“I might too, if we had forty thousand instead of four.”
An hour later, after many cheers and a few final preparations, his troops assembled to march. He formed them into ranks and led them back through the thicket, joining the main host of Barrok upon the Crossroad. An impressive sight, he reckoned. Us and them. All of Tratec turned out to see it. Women threw flowers from their rooftops while children darted through the trees, carrying wooden swords and shields in hands too small to hold the real thing. He might have beamed with pride, were he not worried about his enemy, and were Andelusia anywhere in sight. With the Gryphon company closest to his side, he and his small host settled in behind the streaming soldiers of Barrok. All those who had survived the fields of Mooreye were present, and all those who had joined later, including Adarros and Ser Endross. The only soul to be left behind was Dennov, now the governor of Tratec and the steward of Verod.
And then th
e lord of Barrok came to him.
Fair causing an earthquake atop his snorting black destrier, Lord Lothe galloped from the far front of the Barrok host and ground to a halt before him. The entire host paused, eyes and ears turned toward the meeting of their champions.
“Your father’s a man of high honor, and you his worthy son.” Lothe said his words gravely, but genuinely. “If only we were all as foresighted as Emun, then perhaps treacheries such as this might never catch us. But it’s come to battle, and I’d hear your advice in a matter not yet spoken of. You know more secrets of Mormist than I. So tell me, young Gryphon, where do you believe the fight will take place?”
I did not expect this.
Lothe asks no man’s opinion.
He drew in a breath and offered as wise an answer as he knew. “I agree with your plan. Verod is old and wrecked. The strongest cities have already fallen. If we flee, we forfeit everything. You ask what I believe. If I were lord, I’d do as you have already chosen. I’d strike at the enemy as they cross the river, and harry their backs if they retreat. If they lower their guard or dare to rest, I’d send the knights of Barrok plunging, and rip out their hearts until they scurry back to their pit.”
Lord Lothe looked to his army. Behind his iron helm his pupils seemed to smolder, burning with a flame unknowable. “So be it, young Gryphon. The knights I’ve given you are among my finest. Each has sworn to me they will follow you unto victory or death. If the battle should divide us, I trust you to use them wisely.”
“I shall,” he said humbly. “For Graehelm.”
“For Graehelm indeed.” Lothe wheeled his mount and rode back to the front.
It took three days to reach the Gholesh.
Marching eastward upon the Crossroad, they made excellent time, moving as though whips were behind their backs every step of the way. It felt harder for Rellen than most. So far from home, his mind turned to steel, his heart hardening. He forced himself to forget about Gryphon, about happiness, and he did his best to daydream seldom of Andelusia.
Down the Dark Path (Tyrants of the Dead Book 1) Page 26
