He stabbed a glance over his shoulder at the king. “If she’s suffered any harm, you truly will wish it was my brother here wearing this cloak instead of me.”
Faukravar lowered his eyes, either too frightened or too repulsed to meet his gaze.
Darien’s breath caught as a small contingent of guards swarmed into the ballroom, Naia moving in their midst. After a moment, he released his held breath; the priestess’s white dress was rumpled, her veil disarrayed. But Naia moved with a stately grace as she seemed to almost flow toward him through the parted crowd of onlookers.
Then she saw him.
A look of abject dismay formed on her beautiful face as she took in his blood-splattered visage, saw the bodies of the fallen guards that impeded her path. The ashen face of the Black Prince, crownless, on his throne. Naia stopped in her tracks, her skin paling to a shade just darker than her snowy gown. Darien felt his heart sicken as Naia’s expression defeated him as surely as he had just defeated the king.
He slid the blood-stained cloak from his shoulders, shoving it back into his pack in a crumbled heap. He was emotionally exhausted, his head aching as he moved over to a bowl of water on the table. He dipped his hands into it and scrubbed them together violently, the water in the bowl turning a murky shade of red. He shook his hands dry then walked back to where he’d slung his baldric over the back of a chair. As he reached for it, he felt Naia’s hand on his arm.
“This morning I asked you to make a decision.”
It was the first time she had spoken since they had left the castle together. He drew the baldric on and lifted his pack over his shoulder. Without meeting her eyes, he told her, “In two days, I leave for Orien’s Finger with the king’s army. You won’t be accompanying me.”
She blinked, staring up at him with an injured look. “Why not?”
There were too many reasons to name; he chose the one that mattered most. “When you didn’t come back today, I feared something terrible had happened to you. In the past few months, I’ve lost everything I’ve ever cared for. You are the one thing I have left that matters to me at all. I don’t think I could stand it if I lost you, too.”
As he watched, a single tear rolled from her eyes, spilling down her cheek. Slowly, she raised her hand toward him, reaching up to stroke his face. Darien turned his head away from her touch, drawing back. Then, thinking better of it, he bent down and pressed a tender kiss against her forehead, trailing his hand down the sheer fabric of her veil.
Solemnly, he whispered, “Goodbye, Naia. Fly free.”
Darien moved out into the dim light of the hallway, shutting the door quietly behind him as he left.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Desperate Measures
THE PASS OF LOR-GAMORTH was obscured by swells of roiling fog that clung like a thick white blanket to the flanks of the Shadowspears. From his perch atop a ridge overlooking the rift of the pass, Traver could see nothing but the few men that shivered at his side, clustered together for warmth. The world more than ten paces away from him might as well have not even existed, gobbled up by the gray blanket of fog. Even the lights above in the clouds seemed to have faded, muted to an uncanny, wraith-like glow.
With a trembling hand, Traver raised his limp waterskin to his lips, tilting his head back. When nothing came out, he shook the tanned goat’s stomach next to his ear. But instead of the splashing sound of water he’d been expecting, he heard instead the sloshing of ice. Sighing, he tossed the waterskin down by his side and watched the warm breath that escaped his lungs form an almost perfectly round cloud in front of his face that drifted lazily away to be consumed by the mist.
At his side, he heard a man groan. Traver felt like groaning, too. His hands and feet ached from the cold, and it was all he could do to clutch his arms around himself and shiver into his cloak. He desperately wished for a pair of thick, fur-lined gloves, or at the very least a nice pair of wool socks, like the ones he used to own. Or a blanket. What he wouldn’t give for just one blanket. His cloak was just as cold as the rest of him, though he knew that the scant warmth it provided was the only thing that was even keeping him alive. He could feel Henley’s body shivering, pressed up against his side. The Valeman coughed, a wet and rasping noise that made Traver glance sideways at him in concern.
It was the third day since they had abandoned Greystone Keep to be swept under the crushing tide of the Enemy. Traver didn’t understand what they were even still doing in the pass; they could have been down from the mountains by now, out onto the relative warmth of the plains still so far below. But Garret Proctor had ordered them to do anything they could to slow the Enemy advance, so that was exactly what they were doing. Or trying to do. Traver wondered how much longer they could keep it up; they had already lost almost a quarter of their number, as much to the relentless cold as to the whispering, black-fletched shafts that fell out of the dark sky like whistling pelts of rain. Henley coughed again, and this time Traver could feel the Valeman’s whole body spasm against him.
The sound of a birdcall drifted out of the stillness of the pass, a low and hollow-sounding whooo-oo whooo-oo. The noise made Traver start, his hand going to the hilt of his sword. Around him, men were staggering to their feet, eyes darting as they scanned the haze of mist. Traver patted Henley on the back in a gesture of comfort as the Valeman pushed himself awkwardly to his feet with a tight grimace under his thick, red beard. Trudging forward, Traver moved to stand beside the others at the edge of the ridge, looking down at the swirling ocean of fog that obscured the pass.
After a few minutes of standing there shivering, he was almost starting to hope that maybe the birdcall had been a mistake. The appalling silence that choked the Shadowspears remained undisturbed, as complete as the eternal, unbroken night.
Then he heard it, softly at first, like the drone of a distant waterfall. As the sound gradually increased, he could make out the deliberate cadence of it. The noise swelled, became a rumbling quake as it drew closer in proximity. He knew that sound, had heard it many times before in the past three days. As the thundering cadence became almost deafening, Traver knew that he was hearing the sound of thousands of shod feet moving in unison to the slow time beat out by hundreds of quaking wardrums.
Beneath his feet, he could feel the very earth of the pass begin to tremble. Even the mist around him seemed to quiver as the booming roar echoed up from right below. The call of a horn brayed out above it all, swelling as it was answered by the throaty voices of many others. Below, he could see nothing but swirling mist. But he didn’t need to see them to know that the line of the Enemy vanguard was moving right beneath their feet, writhing like a dark and dangerous snake along the trail that sloped down through the pass.
Henley’s barked order spurred him into motion. Stooping down, he pressed his hands against a small boulder at the top of the pile by his side and shoved it forward with all his might. The rock’s sharp surface raked against his numb palms, but he felt no pain as the boulder rolled forward off the edge of the ridge, tumbling down into the line of advancing infantry.
The sounds of commotion and screams echoed above the clamor of Enemy drums as a rain of stone hailed downward all along the ridgeline. Bowstrings hummed, and a cloud of arrows parted the mist, arching into the pass. Warhorns droned as the cadence of the drums increased to a frenzied, boisterous peal. Volley after volley of arrows hissed over the edge of the ridge, lobbed from Greystone longbows.
Traver gritted his teeth as the numbness in his hands turned to a throbbing ache. But he kept moving, kept shoving stone after stone down the slope while the rest of his company labored at his side doing the same thing. Suddenly another noise crescendoed over the cries of death and panicked screams, drowning out even the clangor of the wardrums.
“Fall back!”
Traver ignored the order long enough to heave one last rock over the slope then turned and sprinted away just as a wave of black-armored warriors spilled over the ridge behind him. He leaned f
orward, arms pumping at his sides as he tried to catch up to the men fleeing ahead of him. Whispering death hissed by all around him as black-fletched arrows found their marks. In front of him, men were dropped in midstride, slumping forward with dark shafts bristling out of their backs. Traver grimaced, pushing his legs to carry him faster, sprinting for all he was worth.
It wasn’t fast enough.
A lance stabbed downward, grazing the side of his cheek. Grabbing for his sword, Traver staggered as the armored warhorse wheeled back around in front of him. He could see the shadow of a face beneath the grate of the horseman’s helm as the lance angled at his chest, the dark warrior kicking his mount forward to charge again. Traver glanced desperately around for a means of escape, but all he could see was the flooding tide of infantry behind him.
Turning back to the charging warhorse, he brought his sword up and swept it back over his shoulder. He stepped sideways, bringing his blade down with every grain of strength he possessed.
His arms shuddered from the impact as his sword sheered through the armor on the destrier’s neck. The animal went down, tumbling. One of its shod hooves clipped him in the leg and he fell with it, losing his grip on his sword. The blade flew from his grasp, spinning away as Traver was thrown to his stomach in the dirt.
He started to get up, but for some reason his legs wouldn’t work. He struggled, desperately raking at the black earth with his hands, but his lower half simply wouldn’t budge. With a frustrated scream, he wrenched his head back far enough to see the twisted form of the dead horse collapsed across his legs.
It was hopeless.
He could hear the thundering storm bearing down on him. He did the only thing he could think of and squirmed up against the belly of the dead horse, tucking his head into the gap between the animal’s spread forelegs. Closing his eyes, he prayed to his sweet Lady Luck as the storm broke over him.
“We can’t take another day of this,” Craig warned Proctor, surveying the tattered campsite nestled in the cleft of a ravine. There were no fires, just a few scattered tents, and nothing but scores of men huddled together in tight clusters, shivering against the icy chill of the raging wind.
The Force Commander nodded, his cold blue eyes looking out at the campsite and seeing none of it. Instead, his stare was loosely focused on something in the air right in front of him. There was nothing there; there never was. Ever since they had abandoned Greystone Keep, his gaze was drawn often to something that Craig simply couldn’t see. His eyes would wander, sometimes for hours on end, tracing the empty air in front of his face.
Craig was starting to become concerned. The man was growing too distant, too detached. His commands were still as sound as always, but they were becoming more desperate by the hour. Over a hundred good men had been lost today, their broken bodies lying unburied and unmourned on the dark slopes above the pass. He didn’t blame Proctor; the deadly game of cat and mouse they had been playing was growing increasingly more dangerous as the Enemy became accustomed to their tactics.
So many dead. So many good men fallen, never to return to the fight. Corban Henley, for one, was an unsettling loss. And Traver Larsen. The evening count had yielded depressing numbers. Out of the men that had fled with them from the keep, less than seven hundred remained, and some of those were gravely injured. Craig still had no idea what Proctor’s undisclosed objective was. He could only hope it was really worth the wasted lives. Not for the first time, he had bitter doubts. He was starting to fear for the man’s sanity.
“We go down tomorrow,” Proctor abruptly announced.
The sound of his voice came as a surprise, almost as much as the content of his words. If it was a response to what Craig had said to him minutes before, then it was long overdue. His eyes were yet staring vacantly out into nothing, still scouring the empty air in front of him as if it were the map they had abandoned back in the tower of the keep.
Craig blinked. Of course. He gazed at the stoic visage of his commanding officer in rapt disbelief, feeling suddenly, amazingly overcome. A look of wonder dawned gradually across Devlin Craig’s face as he realized the meaning behind the man’s detached and wandering stare. Proctor’s eyes were still moving, but it was more than just the empty air that he was studying so assiduously.
The Force Commander was examining his map. Ever since Craig had known him, he could remember watching Proctor pour over that enormous chart, hour after hour, stroking his genius to devise the strategies that had held the Pass of Lor-Gamorth for over fifteen years during the cruelest and most dire times since the fall of Caladorn. Craig had once thought that the man must have it memorized, for all the long hours he had stood in front of it.
And so he did. Craig thought he could almost see it, almost visualize himself the faded lines and tattered script hovering like a ghostly reflection before the commander’s face, so vivid it was rendered almost tangible. He watched Proctor’s eyes roving over the unseen chart, no longer appearing disturbingly vacant, but rather intently focused on the intricate weaves of tangled thought.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
The Field of Tol-Ranier
THE FIRST PALE STREAKS of dawn were just beginning to gray the horizon to the east as Darien gazed down upon the ancient battle site known as the Field of Tol-Ranier. There, the camp of the king’s Northern Army lay spread out before him in orderly rows of black tents, standing out against the glistening white sheen of winter’s first snowfall. The sight of the encampment bothered him. It had been two days since he had ordered Faukravar to prepare his army for the march, and yet it seemed that no measures had been taken to arrange for such an expedition. As Darien considered the silent encampment below, a slowly cooling anger filled him. It was still very early. Yet, there should have been more movement than he could see among the tents. Soldiers should have been about stoking cook fires, honing their weapons, and preparing for the routines of the day. But instead, the encampment of Faukravar’s army looked nearly deserted, just a token few men left behind to give the suggestion that there might be more.
He kicked the heels of his boots into the black Tarkendar’s sides, sending the horse forward down the hill at a springing trot. The gelding swayed gracefully in its gait, neck arched and tail carried high. Darien reached down, feeling at his side for the comfort of the sword affixed to his saddle. He wrapped his fingers around it, the leather laced around the hilt cold and soothing to his skin. He was glad he had lingered in the city as long as he had, shadowing Naia until she had finally slipped out last night in the falling snow, not knowing that her departure was remarked by a silent observer looking down from the heights of the city walls. Darien had been afraid Faukravar would try to move against her again, but now he knew why the man hadn’t. The Black Prince had been making other, more sinister, plans.
The camp ahead was a trap; he could sense it. A trap rigged to spring if he stepped his foot into it. But even with that knowledge, Darien felt no fear. There was little they could do, if he was prepared. And so he was. He had spent a lot of time in thought over the last two days, summoning the strength he would need to face what awaited him in the days ahead. Laying new plans, altering old ones. Taking what he knew from his training and adapting it to new, more deadly, applications. Naia’s departure had helped, more than the priestess could ever know. She had taken with her his heart, leaving him with only an open, festering wound in its place. Which was good; the emptiness that now filled him knew no compassion. Without compassion, there could be no pain, no mercy, no remorse. With those feelings set aside, he was free to transform into what it was necessary that he become: a weapon melded together with purpose. Tempered by Arden’s fire, quenched by Naia’s love. Forged on the anvil of Proctor’s cruel cunning, dedicated in the font of Meiran’s spilt blood.
There was nothing they could do to touch him. For the first time ever, he was truly Unbound.
The few men left behind in the encampment looked up as he rode through their midst. There was no surprise on their f
aces, no shock at the sight of his cloak. But there was fear. He could almost smell it as he rode past them, a sickening rank odor that disgusted him. He rode through the midst of the camp, past the long lines of tents and doused fires, through to the other side. All the while, he was followed by the nauseating stench of their fear. It plagued him utterly; he couldn’t ignore it, couldn’t make it go away. It infected him.
Reaching out from within, Darien sampled a taste of the magic field. It was a delicate, throbbing pulse that flowed through him, following the contours of the surrounding landscape. It moved in a general north-westerly direction, pointing like the arrow of a compass directly toward Orien’s Vortex. The rhythm of the field was peaceful, like a slow and stately dance. He kept his mind open to it as he directed the gelding up the slope of a snow-covered hill, his horse’s hooves making crunching noises in the loose white powder. At the hill’s summit, he drew back on the reins as the gelding sidestepped with a nervous snort.
At the base of the slope in front of him was Faukravar’s army. The soldiers were formed into divisions, with light cavalry in the front flanked by ranks of infantry, perhaps twelve thousand strong. Archers stood ready, bows raised skyward with arrows already nocked. And behind him, Darien could hear the empty encampment stirring.
The trap had sprung.
Glancing behind, he saw soldiers pouring out of the tents, hundreds of them converging toward him, running through the snow with weapons drawn. At the same time, the archers in front of him released their bowstrings, hurling a massive volley of arrows that seemed to choke the very sky. Darien watched the cloud of shafts arc upward, waited until they curved overhead and began their plunging descent. Smiling grimly, Darien drew deeply on the currents of the magic field.
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