“You keep working, Larsen,” Henley told him, as if reading his thoughts. “You’ll be there someday.”
Traver directed his stare back down at the pass, his mood even worse now than it had been before. The wind seemed icier now, the rock at his back less forgiving. He shifted his weight against it, trying to find a more comfortable position. As he did, a flicker of movement below caught his eye.
“Henley!” he whispered, pointing as the Valeman beside him sat bolt upright. Below in the pass dark figures were moving. He had almost not recognized what he was seeing; the dark line of black-armored men looked very much like the flow of a thin mountain stream. They were moving in a southeasterly direction, away from the Spire of Orguleth toward the maiden’s sprawled outer leg.
He let his gaze trail up the thin stream of Enemy soldiers, and as he did he could feel his breath seize in his throat. To the north, the mist had parted, revealing a host of thousands of black plate-mailed bodies. Tens of thousands. Perhaps more.
“Mother of the gods,” he swore, eyes wide and heart pounding.
Beside him, he heard a rustle of cloth as Henley stood up. Then another sound broke the quiet of the night, the shrill whistle of an arrow flying right past his ear. Traver threw himself to the ground as Henley fell with him. Only, when Traver rolled over and pushed himself to his hands and knees, the Valeman didn’t rise. Squinting through the darkness, Traver saw the black shaft imbedded up to the fletching in Henley’s chest.
He bent over the man, rolling him the rest of the way over. The Valeman stared up at him, eyes tight with pain. Traver didn’t know what to do; all of the training they’d given him on how to field dress a wound suddenly seemed to slip from his mind. He reached out with his hand, fingering the shaft of the arrow, thinking that maybe he ought to pull it out. But another part of his mind was screaming at him, telling him to just leave the thing alone, let the man die, and get out of there. Below him, Henley’s lips were moving, but Traver couldn’t make out what he was trying to say. He leaned forward, pressing his ear against Henley’s face. He only caught a single word, but that was enough:
“Ride.”
Traver nodded. He left Henley where he lay, moving on his hands and knees back to where the others were. He woke Walser first, shaking the man until he opened his eyes. Traver clamped a hand down over his lips, pointing back down to the bottom of the pass and making the motion of an archer drawing a bowstring.
Walser sat up immediately, sword in hand. The sound of him jerking up awakened the bowman. Using gestures, Traver tried to make them understand about Henley. Then he motioned to himself, pointed at his horse, and gestured toward the top of the pass and Greystone Keep.
Walser nodded. The archer Lynley was nocking an arrow to his string.
Traver left them, staying as low to the ground as he could, creeping down the hill toward the nag of a horse they had given him. When he came up beside the animal, he thought better of it and went instead for Henley’s mount, which looked faster. He lifted his boot into the stirrup, pulling his body over the saddle and taking the reins into his hand. He started the horse forward down the ridge, but something made him pull up short. He jerked the reins to the right and kicked the horse forward again, carving out a narrow turn in the black meat of the maiden’s breast. The Valeman had saved his life; he couldn’t just leave him there to die.
“What are you doing?” Henley demanded in a gurgling voice as Traver lugged his huge body up into his arms, grasping him under the armpits. Groaning, he realized that he didn’t have the strength to get him onto the horse. Suddenly Walser was there at his side and, between the two of them, they got Henley up and over the back of the animal. Traver climbed up behind him, praying to the gods that he could get the Valeman back in time. The trip to Maidenclaw had taken most of the day. The ride back would take most of the night, and that was only if he didn’t run into Enemy scouts on the way down the mountain. But the man had only one chance, and Traver was determined to give it to him.
His heart was pounding as he sent the horse down the ridge at a gallop. He held on tightly to Henley’s body and let his mount pick out its own trail. The entire ride down the ridge he had no idea whether the man was dead or alive. He was too gripped in fear that bordered on panic to notice too much of anything, the thrill of it making his head spin until he was giddy. At the bottom, he tugged back on the reins, slowing the horse to a walk as he leaned forward to check on the Valeman. Henley was unconscious, but still alive.
Behind him, a fire arrow hissed upward from the maiden’s breast into the black, clouded sky. Kicking the horse forward again, Traver made for the canyon at the mouth of the pass as arrow after arrow arced into the sky above him, flaring briefly like shooting stars before vanishing into the night. Then the fiery shafts stopped abruptly. He didn’t want to look back. He knew that the bowman he’d left behind on the mountain ridge had carried enough arrows between his four quivers to light up the night for some length of time yet. The man hadn’t run out of shafts. He pressed his horse forward, gripping a hand around Henley’s waist.
A slow itching sensation was growing in his shoulder. He tried to ignore it, but the feeling was persistent and wouldn’t go away. And it was getting worse, becoming a burning ache. Traver reached up behind his back to scratch it. When his hand jarred the fletching of an arrow, he screamed, wincing from the pain that flared down his arm. A sudden cold sweat broke out on his brow as he groped delicately at the stiff feathers, trying to get a sense of the wound. When had that happened? And how was it even possible to get pierced by an arrow without even knowing it? His shoulder was throbbing now, sending pain shooting through his chest and down his arm. He gritted his teeth against it, urging the horse to a faster pace and clinging to Henley’s body.
He didn’t know how long he’d been riding when his flagging mount finally ascended the last, winding slope of the pass toward the keep. Above him, the gray walls of the fortress were like a shining beacon, pressing him forward with numbing urgency. Draped like a cadaver across the horse’s withers, Corban Henley was still alive. He was barely breathing, blood from his chest foaming out of his mouth in a red froth that collected in the coarse whiskers of his beard.
They were met at the stairs of the keep by a small group of soldiers who came running toward them down the stone steps. One of them grasped the reins of his mount as Traver slid off, while another held him up as his legs gave out from under him. He nodded at the man who clutched him with a hand passed under his arm, letting him know that he was all right. But the soldier did not release his grip on him. As he watched, Henley’s limp body was lowered almost delicately from the back of the horse.
“Lauchlin,” Traver gasped.
The word was met by a look of confusion in the face of the sentry who was helping him. But then realization slowly dawned in the man’s brown eyes. Turning, the soldier shouted up at the keep:
“We’ve got wounded!”
Traver didn’t even realize what was happening as the sentry lowered him to the ground beside Henley with the gentle but compelling pressure of his arms. He tried to struggle, getting angry. He didn’t have time to be sitting around when he had to warn the officers, had to tell them about the Enemy horde he had left behind at the hips of the maiden. But then a stab of shooting pain wrenched through his body as the arrow in him was jostled, and he couldn’t stop the cry that broke from his lips.
More hands were on him, laying him fully prone on his side in the rough dirt of the path. Traver’s vision swam as the world suddenly seemed to be fading in and out around him, the pain in his shoulder building to an almost intolerable ache. Then a hand was on his face, its pressure gentle yet firm at the same time, turning his head until he found himself staring upward into the mage’s green eyes.
“Easy,” Lauchlin whispered as Traver tried to draw back away from his touch.
He felt a tingling sensation in his shoulder, but there was absolutely no pain as Lauchlin drew the arrow out of h
im. Then he was awash in a numbing warmth that seemed to flow through every sinew of his body. A sensation of tranquil peace flooded into him along with the warmth, and Traver almost closed his eyes and let the calming waves sweep him away. But something nagged at him through the fog in his head, a pressing urgency in the back of his mind.
“The Enemy,” he gasped. “Tens of thousands...Maidenclaw ....”
As his lids slid closed over his eyes, Traver drifted off into the basking warmth of gentle sleep.
Kyel flinched as Garret Proctor’s fist smashed down on the oak table, jolting the entire massive piece of wood. But it was Sutton Royce who took up his argument for him, striding forward and raging into Darien’s face:
“You have no choice!”
Kyel looked away, lowering his eyes to Traver’s slumbering, peaceful features. The soldiers had carried him up the stairs and laid him out on Darien’s pallet; the mage had wanted to keep him close by. Corban Henley, as well. The Valeman was sprawled in Proctor’s own blankets, asleep, but amazingly alive. Kyel did not understand how the man could have lived with an arrow through his chest slung over the back of a horse for half a night of hard riding. Darien had explained to him earlier that if Traver had removed the arrow, Henley would not have survived. It was only because of Traver’s uncommon foresight that the arrow had been left in the wound, the shaft itself staunching the flow of blood enough to save the Valeman’s life. Kyel looked again at his sleeping friend, taking comfort in Traver’s peaceful obliviousness. At least someone was not affected by the argument going on in the room. Kyel sorely wished he could sleep through it, too.
Darien was standing with his back to him, shoulders shaking in rage, fists balled tightly against his sides as he growled at Royce, “What gives you the right—”
Proctor interrupted him. “He doesn’t have the right. But I do.”
Kyel had always thought that the Warden of Greystone Keep was an imposing man with an ominously daunting presence. But at the moment he looked positively dangerous. The side of his face twitched as he drew himself up and rounded on Darien, lashing out at him in scathing tones, “Whatever else you might be, while you remain at my keep you are subject to my authority.”
“You have no authority over me,” the Sentinel contradicted him coldly.
“You better believe I do.” Proctor’s eyes glowered dangerously. “If I decide right now to have you dragged down to the yard and thrashed, there’s not a damned thing you could do to stop me. Unless it’s your intention to abuse your precious Oath!”
Darien stood regarding him silently for a moment then turned, stalking in the direction of the stairs. “Come, Kyel.”
Kyel glanced down at Traver; he did not want to leave his friend. But Darien was standing at the opening of the steps, waiting for him expectantly. So he gathered his bow and shouldered his pack and quiver and went to take his place at his master’s side.
But before the mage had a chance to take one step, Devlin Craig called out to stop him. “Darien, we number less than a thousand men!”
Darien threw back his head, shoulders sagging. He turned back to fix Craig with a look of reproach. “And I am but one man. No one seems to understand that. Even if I did give up my Oath, what do you expect me to do against tens of thousands?” To Proctor, he added, “You need an army, not a mage. Whatever happened to those birds you sent to Auberdale?”
The Force Commander’s eyes narrowed even more than they already were. “The Black Prince sends his regards, but regrets that he has no men to spare us at this time.”
“You’re the only hope we have,” Craig implored him.
Darien looked down, dropping his gaze to the floor. “Then there is no hope.”
Kyel followed him as the Sentinel descended the winding steps to the bottom of the tower, Darien’s words still echoing in his ears. As he stepped through the enormous door of the keep and into the blustery dark morning, he had no idea what he should be feeling. His emotions were so jumbled and confused that he didn’t even know which one dominated. He thought, perhaps, it was fear. At least, he knew it ought to be.
He hesitated, thinking twice before asking, “Where are we going?”
Darien gestured with a nod of his head, off in the direction of the slopes below the keep. “The last place they’ll think to look for us: the node. Royce is a good tracker, but I should have a few hours of peace to sort this out.” He took a deep breath, visibly collecting himself before going on, “Round up some supplies. I’ll fetch the horses.”
Kyel sighed, wishing the man would have picked any place, any place in the whole world, but that.
Sutton Royce stood atop the battlements of Greystone’s tower, eyes silently following the two horses that slipped down the trail and then lit out across the dark, barren meadow at a gallop. The captain’s gaze stayed fixed on the black shadow of the Tarkendar until it finally disappeared over the slope of a hill behind the keep. Then he let his gaze drift heavenward. Above, thick clouds were drifting in an almost stately progression across the sky, heavy with rain and sagging languidly against the tall peaks of the Shadowspears.
Royce heard a soft rustling sound beside him as Garret Proctor shifted his weight. The commander’s left hand was resting on the stone pane of an embrasure, his right hand fingering the hilt of the wicked-looking knife at his side. As Royce’s eyes followed the path of the clouds, the Force Commander maintained a harsh scrutiny of the hill behind his fortress. Without looking up, he said in an ominous half-whisper:
“You know what you have to do.”
Royce clamped his eyes shut and bowed his head deeply.
Proctor’s voice continued, as cold and merciless as the mountains themselves. “Go for the slow kill; you’ll need to make certain the boy is touching him when he dies.”
Chapter Fifteen
Friends and Enemies
RAIN BEGAN TO FALL. It came on slowly at first, just a damp, tentative mist that clung to his face and collected in glistening beads of dew on the backs of Kyel’s hands. Then light droplets started falling from the clouds, coming down erratically from the sky all around them. The droplets grew heavier, fatter, until the clouds seemed to just open up and disgorge the weight of their water onto the dark and thirsty flanks of the Shadowspears. A great rumble of thunder rolled expansively in the distance, dampened only by the sheering whistle of the wind.
Eyes squinted against the raging gusts, Kyel didn’t even know they were approaching the node until he felt the barrier come crashing down around him, like a smothering blanket falling down over his head, stifling his perception of the magic field completely. The feeling was even worse this time. He hadn’t realized how much he had come to depend on that comforting sense until he had started exercising it. When it was gone, the void it left behind was alarming. Confused and miserable, he slouched low in the saddle and tried not to think about it. He soon found even that impossible. The thirst of his mind for the telltale pulse of the field was like a gnawing hunger that only grew stronger and would not subside despite his every effort to ignore it.
Ahead of him through the driving rain, he could see the shadow of the black horse pull up as its rider dismounted. Kyel lowered himself from the back of his own horse and walked stooped-over toward where Darien was unloading the bundle he had tied behind his saddle before they had left the keep. Kyel offered to help him, and soon even the absence of the magic field was forgotten. At the mage’s direction, he found himself pounding stakes into the ground with the blunt end of a rock as Darien unrolled a large square of oiled cloth. In short order, they had a lean-to constructed against the protective face of the rock wall, a small fire glowing beneath it. But though all he wished was to throw himself down beside the comfort of the fire and warm his shivering body, Kyel didn’t get the chance. At the mage’s direction, he found himself set to work preparing breakfast as Darien just sat there, looking silently on.
It was not much of a meal; Darien had given him only scant time to gather prov
isions before ushering him out of the keep. He’d had just enough time to grab a few small bags from the stores under the fortress. Kyel hadn’t even bothered to look to see what was inside them. So he found himself cooking up a meal of half-rotten turnips and a few strips of salted beef that looked as if the rats had been at it first. When he served up the sick mixture, Darien brought the food up to his lips and ate it without complaint, yet also without a word of gratitude.
That bothered Kyel. Ever since he had allowed Darien to place that terrible mark upon his wrist, he found that their relationship had radically, inalterably changed. It was not as if they had ever really been friends; Kyel had always deferred to the mage. But before, Darien had expected no such treatment from him. Kyel remembered his first conversation with the man, when he had told him simply, my friends call me Darien. That one statement had done so much at the time to lower his defenses, to draw him in. But Kyel was starting to get the growing impression that Darien was trying to distance him again.
He understood why. Darien had warned him that he would not go easy on him. At the time, the statement hadn’t bothered Kyel so very much; he had anticipated the training would be difficult. But Darien was the only man at Greystone Keep that Kyel felt he could in any way identify with. Traver had his other friends and, besides, they’d never really had much in common in the first place. The other recruits had always held him at a distance, treating him with a kind of wary respect because of his implausible progress with the bow. After his few conversations with Darien, Kyel had just begun to think he’d found someone he could relate to, even confide in. Someone who seemed to understand him. But now, it seemed he’d lost that new-found friendship just as soon as it had begun. Darien no longer treated him as an equal.
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