Chapter 6

Hawkvale, Thenol

Something flashed by Barreth Forlo's eye, making him blink and jerk back. He heard a hiss, then a thud as the object struck a blackwood tree behind him. He glanced over his shoulder, putting a hand to his face, and saw an arrow quivering in the tree's trunk. Slivers of bark fell to the ground.

Khot, he swore silently. That was meant for me. Another half an inch, and I'd be dead.

"Treason!" cried a voice to his left. "Betrayers! Foes in the—"

The shout choked off into a pained grunt. The man beside him crumpled, a feathered shaft in his heart. More arrows were flying, bodies were falling. All around, men and minotaurs went down… some dying, most dead. His men and minotaurs. It was a slaughter.

I am dreaming, some part of him thought. This is a battle I have already fought. It took place on the last march, to Hawkbluff. We were camped, waiting for the muster to attack. I survived then. I am in no danger now.

Thinking and believing were different things, however. The fear took over, the same terror that had driven him then—that he, like so many of his men, would end up buried in the accursed earth of Thenol. That he would not return home. That Essana, his wife, would still be waiting for him when the emperor's messengers brought her his broken sword, a traditional gift to wives whose mates were slain in battle.

His sword shrieked as he jerked it from its scabbard. The blade clipped another arrow, sending it spinning away as his heart lurched. Twice, he'd missed death by sheer luck.

He cast about, trying to see what was going on. His men were camped in a clearing, surrounded on all sides by trees. The distant shadows of mountains rose to the south. Above, the red moon shone, its glow lost to the fires that flickered among the orderly rows of tents. There was little order now, however. Men were running and shouting everywhere. Some of the tents had collapsed. On the camp's far side, a storm of golden embers rose into the sky. Bellows of rage and confusion filled the air.

There. His eyes focused on the trees, and in the fire-glow he saw what he was looking for: an archer crouching low, thinking he was out of sight. He was garbed and cloaked in black, little more than a shadow, and beneath his hood was a hideous mask, painted to look like a leering skull. His bow was small, made of horn and bone, and the arrow he pulled from his quiver was tipped with bone as well.

Thenolite, Forlo thought. Damn the slime.

He moved quickly, running not toward the man but slightly to the left, forcing his gaze away. It worked. The archer didn't move, convinced he was invisible in the shadows. He nocked the arrow and raised the bow, beginning to draw back the string—then stopped, crying out as Forlo suddenly turned toward him. Taken by surprise, the archer let fly, and his arrow flashed uselessly away into the night. He rose to flee, but Forlo was quicker, his sword lashing out in a precise, lethal arc. A fan of dark blood spattered the ferns, and the archer collapsed, the top of his head sheared off.

Forlo spun before the man hit the ground. "The trees!" he yelled. "Look to the trees!"

His men didn't need to be told twice. The humans and minotaurs of the Sixth Imperial Legion were well trained, and the initial disarray of the sneak attack was already wearing off. With a chorus of shouts, the soldiers charged the woods, swords and axes flashing. A handful died, killed by one last round of arrows. Then the air filled with a sound Forlo knew well, the hacking of steel into flesh that he recalled from scores of battles over more years than he wanted to count.

There was something different about the din of battle tonight, though: no clash of steel against steel, no cries from the Thenolites as the Sixth Legion tore through them. They died quietly, not fighting back. Indeed, the next archer Forlo found all but leaped onto his sword. The eyes beneath the man's skull-mask rolled white with madness before dulling forever.

Fanatics, Forlo thought, and spat on the body as it slid off his blade. Curse this country and the madmen who live in it.

It was over as suddenly as it began, the sounds of killing fading away, leaving only the groans of the injured. Forlo turned and looked back over the camp. His men were already falling to duty, again without his prompting—aiding the wounded who could be saved and cutting the throats of those who couldn't. Others combed the brush around the camp, searching for archers still in hiding. Forlo nodded in approval, then made his way back to where he'd been standing when the attack began. He found a rag and wiped the blood from his sword, then stopped, staring at the first arrow the fanatics had shot, the one that had nearly hit him in the face. It had driven more than an inch deep into the blackwood, its point strengthened by unholy magic and twisted runes smoking along its length. They were already fading, and he could no longer read them.

Meant for me, he thought.

He was still regarding the arrow when a hulking figure loomed up beside him: a gray-furred minotaur with a double-bladed waraxe. Blood caked the blade, and matted the fur on his forearms.

"Grath," Forlo said. "What word?"

The minotaur shrugged, snorting in disgust. "We got them all," he said. "No prisoners, though. It was like they all wanted to die."

They did want to die, Forlo thought. It was bred into the Thenolites from birth as a part of their faith. To die hurting one's foes was a noble end, a sure way to earn their gods' favor in the afterlife. He shook his head at the thought. Surely that wasn't so. Even the minotaurs, whose god was not a friendly one, believed the Thenolite fanatics damned. They must be rotting in the Abyss, even now.

He glanced at the arrow again, burning with dark magic, green flames leaping up off it. He'd come so close to the same fate tonight… .

"Have the men build a pyre. We will burn our dead tonight," he commanded. "Stake the Thenolites' heads, and give their bodies to the dogs. And have whoever was supposed to be on watch tonight flogged. I won't stand for—"

He stopped, smelling something foul, like brimstone but more sour—and beneath it, was that the stink of roasting meat? He glanced around, puzzled. That was when the pain finally hit him. A burning blaze in his leg, in the meat of his left thigh, just below the buttock. It was as though someone had cut him open and forced nettles into the wound. Jolts like lightning pulsed from the wound with every beat of his heart.

With a yell, he collapsed. Then he saw: not all the Thenolite arrows had missed him. One had hit, though nowhere vital, and not deep. The fury of battle had blotted out the pain. The bone-tipped arrow was ablaze with green fire, like its mate in the tree, whatever Sargas-be-damned spells the fanatics had put on it taking hold.

Shot in the arse, he thought, as he had on that day… what a stupid way to die. He groaned, fumbling for the shaft. Gods, how it burned…

Grath saw it too, and swore. He knelt down, calling for a cleric, a mage, anyone… then, without thought for himself, he grabbed the arrow. The venomous flames enveloped his hand, charring the flesh, adding a new stink. Baring his pointed teeth, the minotaur planted a foot next to the wound and leaned back, pulling with all his might. The arrow fought him: it was alive, somehow, didn't want to come out.

They both screamed… .

Fog, fresh air, a gray glow in the east. Forlo gasped, the echo of a yelp ringing in his ears. His own voice. Where was he?

The pain in his leg had decreased to a dull, throbbing ache. He put a hand to his thigh, where the arrow had been in the dream. There was a knot-like scar there now, which the Mislaxans had told him would hurt whenever the weather turned wet. He remembered the rest of that night, how close the arrow's spell had come to killing him. The clerics had worked through much of the night to save his life. Elsewhere, he would find later, similar bands of assassins had killed three other marshals in the night.

But he had survived, and he'd cut off Bishop Ondelos's head. That should have been satisfaction enough—but the nightmares still came. He'd never had them before, not in all the years he'd fought for the League. Ever since he'd retired, though, they rode him hard. He lay back, safe in a rocky gorge near a row of old, cracked pillars, and shuddered. Would the nightmares continue for the rest of his life? Would he ever sleep soundly again?

"Dreaming again?"

He snorted, his head snapping up again, and saw the horned shadow nearby, crouched in the glow of his campfire's embers. Grath leaned forward, his face strangely gentle in the ruddy light.

He saved my life, Forlo thought. I would have died that night, if he hadn't called for help. That was the way with soldiers, though—they muddle through because of each other. He had beaten back death for Grath, as well.

"The night the Thenolites waylaid us in the Hawkvale," he said. "When I got shot."

Grath nodded, looking down at his hand. Forlo couldn't see in the dark, but he knew what he was looking at. The burning arrow had scarred him, too.

"It's all right," the minotaur said. "You're safe now. Soon, home."

Forlo nodded. "You're sure you've never had any dreams?"

"No." Grath made a sour face, looking like he meant to say more, then shook his head. "None."

Sighing, Forlo lay back again. "I wish I knew why I do."

"Don't look to me to explain how your mind works," the bull-man said, and snorted. "You humans are weird creatures. I've always said it, and now's the proof."

Forlo chuckled, then yawned. Sleep was coming back to him. He hoped it would be peaceful this time. "Thank you, my friend. For saving me."

"You were my commander."

It was all the answer Grath gave. All he had ever given. It was enough. Sighing, Forlo shut his eyes and drifted off again.

"I couldn't tell you this before," Grath said the next day, leagues from the ravine where they'd slept. He leaned on his shield, which was planted in the ground before him. Its face was emblazoned with the crimson and azure of the Sixth, with crossed axes over it in gold: a marshal's sigil. "But now that I'm in command, I'll say it. I think you're a damned fool."

Forlo nodded, accepting the rebuke. One made allowances with minotaurs—not least because the bull-men could break a human's neck with one hand. No minotaur would do what he'd done, give up his rank and command after all his years with the legion. Their whole civilization was built on the ideal of honorable combat. It was in their blood. Grath thought he was mad. So did half the humans in the Sixth, for that matter.

"You may be right," he said. "I might have agreed with you, before Thenol. But I've done enough. The emperor agreed, or he wouldn't have given me his leave."

They stared out together across a long, shallow valley that wound among the ridges of the League's northern provinces. Down below, gathered in orderly ranks, their red cloaks blowing in the wind, were the Sixth. The survivors of the Thenol Campaign. They had come north with him as a courtesy, to the borders of the fief of Coldhope, but now the time had come to part. They were needed to the east, in the hills of Okami. Bandits were raiding the towns there, taking advantage of the confusion of the interregnum to score some easy plunder. Duke Rekhaz had sent the Sixth to show the brigands that the League still took its laws seriously.

They had come as far as they could. It was time to part.

"You'll miss it soon enough," Grath said. "Your ears will start itching for the sound of war-horns. You know where we are if they do."

Forlo might have argued, might have told Grath of how heavy his heart grew when he thought of war. Instead, he turned and clasped his longtime second's arm. "Take care of the men," he said. "You'll make the Sixth even prouder than before."

The minotaur grinned and returned the gesture. Then he turned and called out across the vale. "Tamar khai!"

At his command, the soldiers raised their spears, the steel heads flashing white in the sunlight. A thickness settled in Forlo's throat. He felt a surge of regret that those spears were no longer his.

Eyes stinging, he drew his sword and lifted it in reply. The men and minotaurs of the Sixth cheered.

"I will see you again," said Grath, saluting. "Until then, fair winds at your back, my friend."

"And a full mug before you," Forlo replied: the old warrior's farewell. He returned the salute, then clasped the minotaur's arms. Both warriors' eyes were glistening when they separated again. Smiling sadly, Forlo turned his back on the Sixth and started down the ridge, toward home.

Coldhope was a large holding, though scarcely populated, which lay on the League's northern coast overlooking the Tiderun Straight. A hundred miles to the west stood proud Thera, the minotaurs' pleasure city. A hundred to the east was Faroen, a gray, rain-soaked town of little cheer. Coldhope itself boasted only a handful of villages among its farmlands, where peasants raised crops of barley and longroot, or tended herds of stubborn sheep and goats. It was a five-day walk from the fiefs edge to the main town and its keep, both of which shared the region's name.

For most of those days, Forlo saw hardly anybody, and spoke to no one. That suited him well enough. He had no dearth of thoughts to wear on him. He wondered what would become of Grath and the legion. Would someone rise in the Thenolite Church to take Ondelos's place? And could the League survive the struggles among Ambeoutin's would-be heirs? Who would rule, when the dust settled?

Each day, however, these troubles faded. The deeper into the fief he went, the more his thoughts turned to what lay ahead. Coldhope Keep beckoned. Ancestrally owned by his wife's family, the keep had been his home since the day he'd married. That had been fourteen years ago, but he'd only spent a few months within its walls, all told. Well, that would soon change. He would live off the taxes of his peons for the rest of his days—not a vast amount, but enough to dwarf the pittance the army paid him on his retirement. It would do.

The nightmares continued, every night a different battle echoing through his mind. He began to grow used to waking in the dark, cold with sweat, and that thought troubled him more than the dreams themselves. Would he ever again have peace from dusk to dawn?

On the last night, camped in a hillside hollow, a coney roasting over his fire, the dread came over him at last. It was a familiar feeling, one that had haunted him every time he returned home from battle. What if something had gone wrong in his absence? What if his home was gone?

It was totally irrational, of course. He'd been gone three years, true, but news traveled quickly within the League's armies. He would have heard if anything was amiss at Coldhope. In his heart, he knew all was surely well. Even so, that didn't stop Forlo's mind from roving. He imagined himself coming over the last rise to see the keep nothing more than a burnt-out shell, or emptied by plague, or burst asunder by dragonbreath. Perhaps the peasants had risen up and stormed the place, slaughtering all within. Or—and here was one he hadn't thought of before the disaster at Kristophan—maybe the rock on which it stood had crumbled, casting all into the sea.

With a snarl, he leaped up from the fireside, took two paces to the north—then stopped, trying to convince himself it was all right. Coldhope would be there in the morning. He hesitated for a long moment, torn between charging ahead or returning to his fire, then his wits returned and he turned back, laughing at himself. He would not come home at night, like a wolf or a thief.

Sleep came fitfully, haunted by steel and shouting. He woke in the dawn light more tired than when he'd laid his head down. Gathering the last scraps of the coney—hung from a tree to keep it from foxes—he wolfed the meat down and chased it with the dregs from his wineskin. The stuff was sour, burning all the way down. Soldier's grape was one thing he wouldn't miss about the legions. There were better vintages in Coldhope's cellars.

The road stretched on as it had for the past four days, over hills dotted with hazel and down through grassy dells where clear streams ran. Something had changed this morning, however: the sea was near. He could smell the tang of salt on the breeze as it blew in his face. Gulls wheeled overhead, blown inland and squalling as they fought their way back toward the sea. He imagined he could hear the distant rush of the waves, but it was still too far away. It was only his ears playing with him. He knew this part of the fief well, had crossed it many times. He knew how close Coldhope lay.

The images that had worried him the night before came back strong when he climbed Axeman's Tor, a gray, treeless hill that formed the last barrier before the road reached its destination. He focused on its peak, felt his pace slowing as it drew near. He half-feared what sight lay beyond, and the last few steps up the tor's shoulder were as hard as any he'd taken. Holding his breath, he clambered up over the stones…

Beyond, the ground dropped slowly down toward the water. The strait was narrow here, muddy from low tide. Beyond, dim and almost lost in the mist, was the dark line of the far shore, where the plains of the Tamire began. Closer, on this side of the channel, lay the village—thatch-roofed cottages of limestone in a haze of cookfire-smoke, jumbled about a small marketplace at the foot of another tor, where an armless statue of a minotaur stood crusted with bird dung. Docks reached out into the water, their long piles exposed, the fishing and trading vessels at moor there stranded until the tides rose again.

His eyes flicked back to the bluffs and traveled up to the fortress perched on their highest point. It was hewn of white rock and surrounded by a thick crenellated wall: a tall five-pointed keep with copper roofs all green with age. Watchfires burned on the battlements, and a beacon shone white atop the tall, middle spire. Gold banners stirred listlessly on the feeble wind, and stained-glass windows sparkled in the sun. A long spur of rock extended out toward the water, like a finger pointing at the far shore. A balcony was carved into its top, surrounded by a low balustrade, with pots of bloodblossoms dotting the top. The Northwatch, it was called, one of the best vantages along the empire's north shore.

Forlo smiled: Coldhope Keep was whole.

Going down the tor was far easier than climbing it. He had new thoughts to occupy him as he went. He would go straight to the keep, try to get to the manor before the servants raised a stir. With the help of Voss, the chamberlain, he would find out where she was, then he would sneak up… .

Then he stopped, his mind emptying as he saw the figure on the castle wall, looking out at him. Tall, slender as a willow-wand even as she neared her fortieth summer, long black hair piled and pinned atop her head, and a gown of red and golden silk gathered about her. He was too far away still to make out her face, but he knew it anyway, knew the way the light danced in her ice-blue eyes, the knowing rise at the corners of her mouth. She never could hide her smiles.

So Barreth Forlo saw Essana, his wife, for the first time in three years.

The last mile was a blur he never remembered. Before he knew it he was through the gates, guards and footmen scattering out of Ms way. She waited on the wall, her smile blooming full as he took the stairs three at a time—then he stopped at the top, blood pounding in his ears. She stood ten feet from him, almost unchanged. There was a bit of gray in her hair now, and deeper crinkles around her laughing eyes, but she was every bit as beautiful as when he'd left on the long road to Thenol. Maybe more.

"Starlight," he breathed, his name for her. It was all he could manage.

A tear dropped from her lashes, and broke his heart. The scent of honeybloom hung about her, heady as Theran pipe-smoke. Below, the keep's servants and guards gathered, watching in respectful silence as lord and lady faced each other.

"You came back," she said.

Then he was on her, grabbing her in his arms and pressing her against his armored chest, his lips crushed against hers, laughter and tears all coming at once, and he didn't care about anything else in all of Krynn.

Forlo sat up, the world coming back to him. He was groggy, and tired, and his head hurt. But he was also in a real bed, with warm, bare skin pressed against his. He couldn't count how long since he'd felt either—unlike many soldiers, he didn't dally with camp followers.

The nightmares had come again. He'd hoped being back with her would make them go away. He lay there, memories of men on fire hanging before his eyes, and shivered in the cold. Something gnawed at him, down deep.

The room—his bedchamber, which he hadn't seen in years—was dark, lit only by the banked fire upon the hearth. Rich carpets, woven by artisans on the great looms of Rudil, covered the floor and a fresco of a clear, summer sky covered the ceiling. When the room was lit, it looked open, like a courtyard. There was a couch, chairs, a table, all made—like the broad, fur-heaped bed—of white ghostwood. The shutters were closed and the candles were doused. Bits of clothing and armor were scattered everywhere. He stared bemusedly at one of his pauldrons, dangling from a bedpost.

Forlo lay back, wiped his eyes, then turned over to look at the woman who slept at his side. He'd wondered, over the long journey back to Coldhope, how Essana might have changed. He knew he had—more scars on his body, less hair on his head, a beard he hadn't had before. To his surprise, she was almost exactly as she had been. Everything about her was familiar. He could spend hours admiring the curve of her naked back, glowing amber in the firelight. He'd done just that, in his youth. He reached over and brushed her long hair—unbound now, long and gleaming—from her shoulders. Then he kissed the place he'd uncovered.

"Mmmm," she said, shifted, then lay still again.

Starlight. He'd first met her when he was a young officer in the Sixth, twenty years ago. Half his life. He'd been in Kristophan, enjoying the city after a hard-fought campaign against hobgoblins in the eastern marches. She'd come to the city with her father, Lord Varyan, Baron of Coldhope. He'd stolen a dance with her at the Festival of Masks, half-drunk on Hulder-wine. At dawn they'd kissed in front of a lute-shop, and from then on he'd known he would marry her. The Baron had disapproved, but they'd kept their tryst, and after a year of wooing he wore Lord Varyan down and won Essana's hand. Two years later, the Baron had died of a burst heart, and she inherited his lands.

Gods, what a long time ago—during the Godless Night, beneath the pale moon. They'd made a home here, in the keep, and had tried to have a family. Despite their best efforts, though, they couldn't sire any children. Then the war had come, and he had left to fight in Thenol. It seemed he'd been away a thousand years, and at the same time it was as if he'd never left their bed.

An ache in his bladder snapped him out of his reverie. Wincing, he bent over to kiss her again, then swung his legs out of bed. The evening air was freezing and the floor was made of ice. He shivered as he dragged a robe over his naked body. She'd had the servants bring a bottle of Hulder-wine for them to share, and they'd drank and made love until they'd fallen asleep. Hours.

When he came out of his robe again, she had rolled over to lie in the middle of the bed. He sighed at the sight—she'd grown accustomed to sleeping alone—then went to the door and out, down the curving stair to the keep's great hall. It was empty, hung with swords and shields and tapestries depicting Lord Varyan and the barons before him. Another fire burned low at the near wall, in a hearth whose gray mantel was carved to resemble two intertwined dragons. He walked past the great feasting-table, a board long enough to seat forty men, then down a narrow flight of steps to the kitchens. A few servants were there, washing pots and gossiping. They fell silent, bowing as he entered.

He waved them away when they offered to help. Even when he wasn't in the field, Forlo liked to cook for himself. He put a skillet over the fire and got to work on a dish of peppers, mushrooms, and duck eggs. There was half a kettle of tarbean tea left, too, so he poured himself a mug, then took it, the skillet, and a spoon back up to the great hall, and out yet another door to the Northwatch. It was twilight. The rose of sunset faded to violet and the moons were low over the eastern horizon, hiding behind rags of cloud. The waters were rising again, and surf beat against the rocks below, sending plumes of spray into the air. Reorx, the red planet the dwarves revered, hung low before him. Beneath, on the far shore, glowed the lights of Malton, one of the League's colonies, where traders brought furs, oil, and good horses from the tribes of the plains.

He didn't know how long he leaned against the balustrade, staring at nothing while he ate. When he heard her stealing up behind him, though, both eggs and tea were gone and the sky was dark. He pretended not to hear her and started when she slid her arms around him. She laughed, laying her head upon his back. They stood like that for a while.

"I woke and you were gone," she murmured. "I thought you'd left again, till I saw your armor."

He turned, embracing her. "I'm not going anywhere, Starlight. I'm done—released from service."

"Done?" she asked. "With the troubles in the capital, they still let you go?"

"Well, Rekhaz didn't like it, but he couldn't do anything." He kissed her hair. "It's over. No more war for me."

She pulled back, her eyes narrowing as she looked up at him. "What will you do?"

"Love you," he said, shrugging. "Live here. Help you run the fief. Hunt, sail, deal with any problems that might happen. I thought we might try for children again."

Essana bowed her head. "I'd feared you'd say that," she said. "It won't happen, Barreth. My womb—"

"We'll get a healer to help. The Mislaxans have their power back now," Forlo said. He touched her chin, raised it so she looked at him. The look in her eyes made him crumble a little: hope and fear at war. "I don't expect anything, Starlight. But we can try. All right?"

She held his gaze for a long moment, then laughed, blotting tears from her eyes. "I'm sorry. None of this seems real. When I saw you come over the tor, I thought I'd gone mad. I'm still not sure what's happening."

"I know," he said. "Come on. Let's go inside. I'll make you something to eat."

He put his arm around her shoulders; she slid hers around his waist. "I'd like that," she said, smiling as they walked back into the keep.