Squeezing his eyes shut, Traver grimaced against a fresh threat of tears. A snowflake fluttered down through the air to alight on his cheek as he wondered dismally, “So, what are we going to do?”
“We go to sleep,” Henley’s voice sounded strangely calm. “Maybe we’ll dream a bit. Perhaps, if we’re lucky, they’ll even be good dreams.”
Traver nodded, thinking he could do that. It didn’t sound so bad. He just wished that it didn’t have to be so awfully cold. Shivering, he drew his cloak around himself as tightly as he could as another snowflake settled on his eyelashes. At his side, he heard Henley coughing, a weak and rasping gurgle.
As he drifted towards sleep, he wondered what his dreams would be about. A good game of cards and a tankard full of ale, now that would be nice. Add a comely woman, and that would be even better.
But when sleep finally took him, it wasn’t ale or cards that he dreamed about. For some strange reason, his dreams consisted of a woman named Ellen Larsen and three mischievous but beautiful boys. In his dreams he could see them, almost close enough to touch, but still so very far away. He wanted so much to go to them, to hold them, to tell those boys to never, ever take after their dad. But they faded away gently as the dream came to an end, and he never got the chance.
“Three feet of snow, or thereabouts,” Craig grumbled, gazing out on the miraculous change that had transformed the Shadowspears overnight. No longer black, the sharp peaks above him glistened a cold, deadly white. The men had scarcely enough blankets and cloaks for the summer months, and the touch of winter in the Shadowspears was like a harsh and bitter deathgrip.
The Force Commander had put the men to work as the blizzard broke over them, using their shields to pile the drifting snow up around their tents. At first, Craig had thought the idea insane, but it turned out to be another stroke of the man’s brilliance. Only eleven men had been lost during the night. It should have been much worse. The effort of the work had saved many, the hard labor warming their bodies as they struggled in the cold. The cover of snow around the tents had created a warm, insulating barrier. His own tent had been almost uncomfortably warm with twelve other men all packed inside. In the middle of a raging snowstorm, Craig had woken up three times during the night dripping wet with sweat.
But now the camp was struck. His men stood shivering, their sockless feet crusted with the ice that fell down into their boots. Craig staggered as he walked toward them, his own feet breaking through the treacherous surface, sinking down deep at every step through the top layers of snow. He jerked his foot up with a rain of ice and grunted in dismay to find that his boot hadn’t come up with it. Glaring down into the dim blue hole of the track he’d just made, Craig was forced to bend down and dig his hand around in the snow to retrieve his boot.
Behind him, Garret Proctor was staring out vacantly across the white canyon, his gray cloak plastered against his back by the wind. As Craig inverted his boot to dump the snow out of it, he risked a quick glance back up at the man. He was starting to grow worried again. Ever since yesterday, Proctor seemed in a continuous daze that never quite lifted. His narrow gray eyes had taken on a blank, unfocused expression, and sometimes Craig had to speak his name three times just to get his attention. The commander’s already flat voice now sounded utterly dead and drained, even when he was barking orders at his men.
“I don’t know how we’re going to get down off the mountain,” Craig muttered. He was hoping that if presented with a problem to solve, the man would wake up and come out of whatever dream he’d slipped into. But the commander didn’t seem aware that he had even spoken.
Proctor just looked at him. His hand was on the hilt of that wicked dagger again, absently stroking its pommel with his thumb.
“The path will have been sheltered in the night,” the commander spoke finally, his voice a half-whisper. “Get the men down to it, and you’ll find the way ahead clear. Leave behind the dead and the wounded.”
Craig stared up at him, appalled. “We can’t leave living men behind for the Enemy. You know what they’ll do to them!”
“Then don’t leave any living men behind.”
To Craig’s horror, Proctor withdrew his dagger from its sheath and pressed it into his hand, squeezing his limp fingers tightly around it. Craig gazed down at the misery knife, sickened by the cruel feel of its narrow hilt in his palm. When he looked back up again, the Force Commander was already trudging back toward his tent through the deep drifts of snow, staring off into the distance somewhere with that empty, leaden gaze.
Proctor was right, yet again. When they finally found the road in the narrow gap of the pass, it was covered with just a thin sprinkling of snow over a slick layer of ice. The high walls of the canyon had protected it from the snowstorm, for the most part.
Craig had consummated his duty with the dagger. It had been tempting to delegate that order, hand the blade off to one of the men beneath him, as Proctor had handed the task to him. But it had to stop somewhere. So Craig had done the grim work himself. Choking on the sickness that gripped his gut, he’d worked his way through the tents of wounded, staring down into the eyes of men he knew well as he eased them out of life with the narrow edge of Proctor’s blade. A quick upthrust to the back of the neck, in the soft hollow just under the skull. A jerk, sometimes a shiver, and then their eyes grew quietly dark and dim, glazing to a distant stare.
He had left their remains behind in the ravine, dark and tattered shapes adrift in a calm white sea. Craig hadn’t looked back as he turned his horse around and rode away, the beast lunging forward through the snowdrifts.
Somehow, they were still ahead of the advancing Enemy. Craig could see where they were camped, just a few leagues behind in the twisting coils of the pass, their presence revealed by thin trails of curling smoke from their fires. The snowfall would have greatly hindered their progress. Unlike his own men, the Enemy was not traveling light; they dragged after them an extensive, sprawling supply train. The wheels of their wagons would find bitter purchase in the snow and ice. And their ranks consisted mostly of infantry on foot, while many of his own men were mounted on capable beasts. The rocks the Greystone soldiers had choked the road with yesterday would have to be cleared away before the Enemy column could hope to advance a narrow inch.
And Proctor’s mind had not been idle in the night. Somewhere in the dull haze the commander moved through, a tangled skein was unraveling.
At Craig’s command, a single fire arrow shot upward into the dark morning sky. Then there came a roaring thunder from high above on the cliffs behind them. Kicking his horse forward at a gallop, Craig tried not to think about the dead men who had stayed behind to precipitate the avalanche as a mountain’s weight of snow collapsed down to choke the pass behind him. He reined back sharply when he was sure he was clear, bringing his horse around to watch as the road behind him was utterly consumed by a writhing mountain of churning ice.
“Dig through that, you damned filth,” he spat vindictively, jabbing his heels into his horse’s sides.
Wolden was deserted.
At least, it appeared that way to Craig’s eyes as he rode at the head of the long, jumbled column snaking down off the spine of the foothills. Proctor was with him, riding at his side on his dark and rugged stallion. The commander’s eyes were narrowed and watering in the glaring brilliance of a sun that, in over fifteen years, his face had never once looked upon. The men trailing behind them rode squinting with their heads lowered to the ground, hunched forward in their saddles, their faces tightly drawn. The relative warmth of the afternoon did little to cheer their dispirited hearts; the men had seen too many horrors in too brief a time.
When they reached the outskirts of town, it became even clearer that Wolden was abandoned. Not so much as a chicken foraged in the snow in front of the scattered, ramshackle huts. It was a bizarre and haunting sight, rendered even more distressing by the lingering silence that glazed the place. The squeak of an ancient windmill stirred by a g
asped breath of air was the only sound that broke the stillness. To Craig’s right, a wooden gate squealed open on rusted hinges, pushed by a gust of wind.
“What’s this?” he breathed, glaring at the gate that had startled him. To Proctor he wondered, “Is this your doing?”
When he glanced sideways at his commander, Craig was shocked to find the man coldly smiling. The old soldier whispered, “Not mine.”
“Whose, then?”
Proctor’s strange smile became a fixed thing on his face, but he responded to Craig’s question with only silence.
Unnerved, Craig sat forward in his saddle, eyes darting from house to house. Ahead, the lane opened up as they approached the tall, crenellated town wall. He could see the town gate ahead standing wide open before them. And there was something else there, as well. A sign was posted beside the entrance.
Proctor dismounted and strode forward toward the gate. Craig followed him to the ground, drawing up beside him. He chanced a glance sideways at Proctor to find that his commander’s eyes had become suddenly, piercingly intent.
Without a word, the Force Commander tore the sign down from the wall and strode forward through Wolden’s gate. Craig set off after him through the gate and down a wide, snow-covered street. He had to hurry to keep up with him. Glancing around, Craig saw that Wolden was just as quiet and vacant as its outskirts. Not a soul stirred on the street. The doors of the shops and houses stood shut, many of them barred with beams of wood that looked to have been just slapped up and nailed haphazardly to the frames. Wolden had been emptied in hurry, and Craig knew that had to have taken some doing.
They turned at an intersection. There, Proctor came to a halt, eyes scanning the buildings that bordered the street. Craig glanced around, failing completely to see what the man was looking for. The street was completely empty except for a fine coating of ice powdered with snow. The only difference here he could even see was that many of the doors were standing open to the elements, not closed and barred up like the rest.
Proctor strode over to the first open doorway. Craig pressed ahead of him, just in case something went wrong, keeping one hand within easy reaching distance of his hilt. The door was standing slightly ajar, so Craig pushed it the rest of the way open with the toe of his boot as he moved into the dimly lit room.
Once inside, he stopped moving. He might have stopped breathing, as well. If he had, Craig probably wouldn’t have even realized it. He was too entranced by what he saw in that dark and dingy room to do anything else but stand and gape.
All across the entire floor were spread dozens of unstrung bows, arranged in overlapping bundles. What was more, there were also bunches of arrows stacked neatly up against the far wall, hundreds of them. He flinched as he felt Proctor’s hand grip his arm, the touch startling him. Inspired into motion, Craig knelt down and lifted a bow from the first pile by his feet, holding it up to inspect it. It was completely different from the longbows he was used to, a good two feet shorter, for one thing, with thin strips of horn facing on each end and at the angle of the recurve. The bow had a rustic look about it, though Craig could see that the workmanship was sound. In the dimness of the light, he almost missed the strange letters carved into the end of the bow.
It was a poem. Song of blood, song of heart. Turning the bow around, he saw that the poem continued on the other end. Fly true, true heart, die true.
Craig found the simple lines powerfully stirring. He started to set the bow back down atop the pile, but hesitated. Instead, he found himself drawing it close, feeling an odd surge of sentiment toward the elegant weapon with its poignant verse.
“Hornbows?” he heard himself mutter, feeling confused and overwhelmed.
Looking back over his shoulder at Proctor, Craig stared at him in eye-wide disbelief. Then he threw his head back and bellowed a whooping battlecry. He almost wanted to sweep the old soldier up in his arms and dance.
“Do you know what this means?”
The Force Commander nodded slightly, eyes once again staring fixedly ahead. Slowly, his lips moved, forming words strained with intensity. “We’ll hit them hard and break away fast. We will harry them all the way down the corridor.”
Chapter Thirty
To Threaten a Queen
KYEL’S LAST MEMORY of Rothscard had not been a pleasant one. The last time he had looked upon the walls of Emmery’s capital, it had been in the company of a pack of condemned convicts and their host of guards. Back then, the city of Rothscard had seemed loathsome and dark, a stinking swelter of dirty people living in trash and filth. But now, as he gazed down at the city spread below him in the shallow valley between two hills, Rothscard seemed altogether different than it had when he had been there before. Its stone looked pure and white, the towers of the palace graceful and soaring. Vibrant blue banners waved in the air from the tops of the turrets, and the rolling band of hills that embraced the city walls looked like immaculate, emerald gems.
Kyel was thoroughly exhausted as he spurred his horse downhill, the last few leagues seeming to be the longest of the whole journey. He had been on the road from Glen Farquist for eight bitter, grueling days. In that entire time, he had not slept once in a bed. The third night out, it had even snowed. He’d found himself slipping into almost the same pattern he remembered from his journey with Traver in the wagon along the Great Northern Road. He woke each morning with the first light of dawn, rode until noon, ate dinner in the saddle, then made camp for the night just as the sun was going down. But the days had been growing increasingly short. Kyel had wished for more travel time, so some days he had pressed on even after dark, in the wan light of the pale waning moon.
Here, at least, it seemed that winter’s snows had not yet arrived. The valley was verdant green, and he could even see a few timid blossoms winking out from between bent blades of grass. Kyel thought he recognized one of them, a cold-weather bulb Amelia liked, though for all the world he couldn’t remember the flower’s name. It was strange being so close to home, and yet also so terribly far away.
He could see it now, the Great Northern Road that had begun his journey, winding down from the city towards the south. All he needed to do was turn his horse down that road and, in just a few days, he could be home. Coventry would be preparing for the celebration of Middenmass, and Amelia would be spending her days baking, filling their small log home with the smell of pastries and sweet winter breads. And then on the eve of Middenmass, they would all go down together to the town and stroll through the lit streets, joining in the singing and merriment while delivering Amelia’s baked goods to the homes of their friends.
Middenmass was in five days’ time, the eve before Winter Solstice. He knew where he would be that night, and it was no place remotely close to the warm comforts of home. Once he had Romana’s army behind him, he would be traveling northward with it. The eve of Middenmass would be spent on the cold flanks of Orien’s Finger, not wandering through the lit streets of Coventry.
Seeing the walls of the city before it, his chestnut took the last stretch of the road at an eager lope, passing scattered groups of travelers that were spaced out in front of them. Kyel let the horse have its head, clinging to its back with the grip of his legs as he enjoyed the feel of the gelding’s smooth gait. He waited until they were almost to the high stone walls themselves before he slowed the horse, easing his mount back to a trot and then drawing up altogether as they reached the end of the road.
Rothscard’s East Gate was a tall, broad arch cut into the wall between twin fortified guard towers. An enormous raised portcullis hung from the top of the arch on the far side of the thick walls, which were easily thirty feet wide at the base. Clucking to his horse, Kyel guided the animal forward at a walk, directing it toward the middle of the passage between the guard towers. On either side of the gate were gathered packs of Rothscard Bluecloaks who seemed to be doing little of anything besides staring dully at the clusters of people moving through the gate.
As he rode towar
d them, he heard one of them exclaim, “Isn’t that a mage’s cloak?”
To his chagrin, Kyel found himself the sudden focus of attention. The guards were staring at him with wide eyes, necks craned at the sight of his black cloak. Kyel was almost reminded of the scene in Wolden, when the people there had made such a commotion over Darien’s appearance. He hoped it wouldn’t be like Wolden; the mayor there had mistaken the mage for his brother. Kyel didn’t want that sort of trouble.
“Hold up there!” came a shout.
Heaving a sigh, Kyel pulled back on the reins and stared at the oncoming rush of guards with beleaguered weariness in his eyes. He shouldn’t have worn the cloak. He should have taken it off, wadded it up, and thrown it away. Now, it was simply too late.
“That’s the bloody Silver Star!” a man gasped, coming around behind him.
Finding himself ringed by more than a dozen Bluecloaks, Kyel sat back in his saddle and raised his face to the sky. Why couldn’t anything ever be easy? Why did every task Darien gave him always have to be so difficult? The gift of the cloak was going to turn out to be another one of the mage’s damndable lessons; he could feel it. Just like the vortex, or the Temple of Om.
A guard reached up and, taking his horse’s reins in his hand, said, “Excuse us, Great Master, but we’re going to have to ask you to hold up for a minute.”
“All right,” Kyel heard himself mutter, frowning as he realized what the man had just dubbed him. They took him for a Master, which he supposed was an easy mistake to make. He had never understood why acolytes of Aerysius were allowed the same cloak as full Masters always wore; it seemed it would have great potential for confusion.
A guard by his stirrup turned to another man beside him, saying, “Neville, go fetch the captain. Run along, now, lad!”
“What’s the problem?” Kyel asked, watching the young Bluecloak run off, disappearing in the turmoil of the crowd moving around them through the gate. He already knew exactly what the problem was, but wanted the satisfaction of hearing someone say it.
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