Chapter 13

Hawkbluff, Thenol

"Khot!" Grath swore again, more fiercely this time than before.

Looking out across the lifeless, muddy field spread out at the foot of Hawkbluff, beneath the grinning skulls and demons of Hith's great temple, Forlo felt his soul go cold. The men of the Sixth were arrayed all around him. Peering through the gray rain-curtains, he saw the banners of the Third Legion as well, green and gold; the Fifth, white and orange; and the Ninth, black and violet. Thousands of men awaited the order to attack the ragged force of Thenolite soldiers and fanatics who waited before them. Waiting for the horns to sound.

But others were waiting, too. He knew the bones he'd accidentally unearthed from the muck weren't just there by chance. The Thenolites had buried them there, and many more like them, skeletons and rotting corpses, concealed in water and soft earth, awaiting the necromantic spell that would awake them. An ambush so clever and ruthless that the tactician in Forlo's mind—the cold part of him that had pushed the League this close to victory—couldn't help but shake his head in admiration.

"Say nothing," he murmured. "If the men find out, they'll panic—I don't care how much training they have."

Grath nodded, keeping his face studiously blank, giving nothing away. "What, then?"

Forlo thought, wiping water from his face. "Send word to the officers. Have them tell their clerics, and no one else. They must be ready, and spread out among the troops. When Ondelos awakens his army, they must act quickly. Understood?"

"Aye," the minotaur said. "I'll make sure it's kept."

"You'd better."

Grath flashed a sharp-toothed grin. "This is pretty bad, eh?"

Forlo laughed, but the cold lump of horror stayed where it was, lodged in his gut. When Grath was gone, he turned back to gaze toward the Hawkbluff, and the army at its foot. Atop the hummock, Bishop Ondelos had not moved. But now, despite the rain and the distance, Forlo was sure he could see a smile on the Bishop's face.

It took too long for Forlo's orders to be carried out. Any moment, he expected someone to figure out what was going on: either his men would realize the Thenolite dead were lurking underfoot, waiting to feast on their flesh, or Ondelos would understand why he was delaying, and order the attack before the clerics were in place. He made a show of studying the opposition, all the while watching as men and minotaurs with purple priest's sashes over their armor filed silently among his troops. The rain drowned out the cries of the fanatics, and the murmur and rattle of the League's soldiers. He tried not to think of the hungry, moldering things beneath him—thousands strong, he was sure, ready to dig their way out of the sludge and to kill every living thing they found.

Wait, he told himself, keeping his hand on his sword but refusing to draw it. Wait a bit longer… .

When Grath returned, his face was troubled. "We need to do something now," he murmured, his yellow eyes flicking hack the way he'd come. "You're not the only one who's found something."

Following the minotaur's gaze, Forlo saw his meaning. In several places, troops had pulled up bones, or even worse things. They clustered with their heads together as they tried to figure out what this meant. It wouldn't take them long. Then terror would spread like fire through dry brush. Biting his lip, Forlo slid his blade from its scabbard.

"Horns," he declared. "Sound the attack at once. Slow march."

Grath raised a massive arm, opening and closing his fist once. A chorus of long, low notes blared across the field, followed by the steady thudding of drums. First the Sixth sounded the call, then the others took it up. Soon, the entire army was moving, pikes thrust forward above walls of interlocked shields. Across the distance, the mad Thenolites cheered and came on at a full charge, gnashing their teeth and raging against their foes.

Ondelos remained atop his hillock, and Forlo imagined his laughter. He watched the Bishop speak briefly with one of his underlings, then fold his hands across his drooping belly and bow his head to pray.

Shadows gathered around the Bishop, swirling like clouds of filth in water. Blacker and blacker they grew, until they all but hid him from sight. A cold wind picked up, whipping across the field, making ripples on the brackish pools, turning the rain into stinging, icy needles. Forlo peered through the rain, shielding his eyes, and saw the fat priest raise his hands, the sleeves falling back to reveal leather bindings around his arms, interlaced with little bones. The shadows blossomed as he moved, flowing upward to form a pillar of darkness that stretched hundreds of feet into the sky. Then Ondelos's voice rose to a piercing shriek, and the whirling gloom burst, flowing outward in a terrifying, billowing ring.

The spell overtook the Thenolite soldiers first, then the charging fanatics, and poured on toward the League's army. In its wake the ground began to churn, geysers of mud erupting as the dead clawed out of their earthen prison.

They were in all states of decay, from bare, brown bones to bloated, wet horrors, to pale corpses that still showed the ragged wounds that had killed them, as recently as days ago. Most wore some sort of armor, either Thenolite or that of the League, and though most were human, there were some minotaurs as well. Dead soldiers from both sides, gathered and brought here by the Bishop's followers… dug up from graves, or plucked from battlefields and buried again in the Hawkvale. Their eyes burned ruddy orange, like dying suns, and their jaws gaped wide, baring yellow, jagged teeth. They snarled and groaned, shrieked and blubbered. The stink surged up Forlo's throat.

Thousands of them, and more coming.

The wave of shadow towered above, ready to crash down. The soldiers paused, quailing before the wave. It was nearly two hundred feet high and filled with things that might be faces, things that appeared suddenly out of the dark and vanished again just as quickly. Forlo felt his own throat clench and sweat sprang from the palm of his sword hand. He knew the shadows would overtake him regardless, but even so, every instinct told him to flee, to get out, for the gods' love, run.

Instead he raised his blade, challenging the dark, and bellowed to his men.

"At your feet!" he cried. "Look down, and use your swords!"

Once, on a youthful dare, Forlo had climbed into the Highvale Mountains in wintertime and dived into a near-frozen lake. The Bishop's spell reminded him of that feeling as it crashed down around him, driving the breath from his lungs and chilling him until warmth seemed forever beyond hope. It was all he could do to keep from falling to his knees and doubling over from the excruciating pain. Then the spell was past him, and moving deeper through the army.

The ground below him was beginning to roil…

The body of a half-naked fanatic surged up before him, half its face cut away, black slime dripping from its nose and remaining ear. Long, filthy fingers reached out for him. With a yelp of shock, he lashed out with his sword. The corpse's head fell away, and the body sank to the ground, twitching as the Bishop's magic left it. Beside him, Grath swept his axe around in a two-handed fashion, striking a leathery skeleton right in the middle. It toppled in a shower of ribs and broken bones. To his right, a soldier screamed as gnarled hands erupted from the ground, seized his ankles, and pulled him down. All around, men were shouting and minotaurs were bellowing as the dead arose. There were nearly as many of the ghoulish creatures as there were League soldiers upon the field, strewn throughout the ranks, breaking up formations and killing without hesitation.

Forlo knew Ondelos was rubbing his fat hands together with glee that his trap had been sprung. "Not so fast," Forlo said, half to himself. Turning to the nearest cleric, he raised his shield-arm as a signal.

Created by the evil of necromancy, the undead were vulnerable to divine power. At Forlo's signal, the army's priests began to pray—first a few nearby, then more at a distance, and still others all across the valley. They raised their hands to the heavens, calling on the gods for strength, and silvery light seethed around him. They gathered the light, then swept their arms down like great, chopping blades. As Forlo watched, the divine glow swept across the battlefield like a hundred exploding stars.

The bloodthirsty howls of the Thenolite dead turned into anguish as the clerics' spell first struggled against, then overcame the magic that bound their spirits to their bodies. Decaying flesh burst into white flame, peeling and falling away. Bones blackened and crumbled to ash. All that remained when the silver glow passed were charcoal smudges and heaps of white powder, soaking into the ruptured mud. The dead army had unraveled into nothing.

"Ha! Your plan seems to be working," roared Grath, chopping a ghoul in half at the waist with a great sweep of his axe.

The pieces flopped down into the mud, tried for a moment to crawl back to each other, then stopped as Grath's axe cleaved apart its skull. A moment later, the holy light washed over them and the pieces dissolved. So did the one-armed horror Forlo had just spitted upon his sword, which had been clawing mindlessly at the blade, trying to work itself free. Its mouth opened to scream, spilling out worms, then it burned away into a cloud of drifting soot.

All across the field, the horror played out. The dead tried to escape, but could not. Instead, they fell to the blades of the legions, or were annihilated by the clerics' power. In some places, they hadn't even fully freed themselves from the mud, and the ground collapsed over where they had lain, leaving charred black limbs sticking out of the soil like some unholy crop. Elsewhere, soldiers hacked and stabbed the mud itself, destroying their enemy before it could reveal itself. In minutes, what could have been a catastrophic defeat for the League became an unquestionable victory: only a few dozen soldiers perished before the fighting died down. A great cheer went up among Forlo's troops.

It took him a moment to realize they were shouting his name.

"They should stifle that," he muttered, the corners of his mouth tightening. "The battle's not done yet."

"May as well be," Grath replied. "We've got them outnumbered for real now."

Across the field, where a few straggling undead had escaped the brunt of the priests' assault, the Thenolites had fallen back on their heels. Even the fanatics looked doubtful, and some of the common fighters had thrown down their weapons to flee. Atop the hummock, Bishop Ondelos had turned as white as his raiment. Forlo couldn't help but grin at the sight of the great ruler of Thenol, reduced to desperation.

"On, before they regroup!" he shouted. "Give quarter to he who asks for it—and leave none alive who doesn't! A thousand gold galleons to whoever brings me Ondelos—two thousand if he's alive!"

The drums picked up the march again—double time now—but were barely able to keep up with the pounding of boots as the army charged. But Ondelos was no longer there. He had fled the field already. Forlo lifted his gaze to the pinnacle above, where skeletal birds slowly circled the towers of the temple of Hith, and swallowed. His quarry hid within.

Sword ready, he moved on toward the dark church.

"It unsettles me," Essana said. "It's almost as if it were…"

"Alive," Forlo finished when her voice trailed off.

She nodded. "I'm glad you think so, too. I was afraid you'd think I was frightened of shadows."

"Never you," he replied. "I thought the same thing when I first saw it on Harlad's ship."

The statue stood before them, in the center of the great hall, half-mantled by shadow as the afternoon lengthened. It did not move, and it did not shimmer with magic or anything so obvious. But his wife was right—something about the thing seemed wrong, somehow. As if the stone were alive.

Essana shivered. "I feel like it's watching me."

That made no sense. It didn't even have eyes. The hood hid its eyes, along with the rest of its face. Forlo wondered if the sculptor had crafted eyes anyway, hiding them from view, a secret within his craft. There was no telling, when it came to artifacts from Aurim. The art that had survived the First Destruction was prized for its subtleties, its cunning.

"It's worth an emperor's ransom," Forlo said, more to himself than to Essana. "Once the succession's sorted out, I'll find someone to buy it."

"I wish you could do it sooner," she said, and shuddered again. "I would prefer it out of my sight."

Forlo felt a flash of irritation. The statue could double their fortune and ensure their family's dominion over its holdings for generations to come. Essana shouldn't be complaining about it. In his heart, though, he had to agree with her. The thought of seeing that grim, weirdly watchful figure every day wasn't pleasant.

"I'll have it removed," he told her. "I'll have it put below, in the vaults. You won't have to worry about it then."

She considered it a long moment, frowning. "Well, perhaps you shouldn't—"

"What, then?" he snapped, his annoyance growing. "Throw it in the sea? Drag it out into the woods?"

Essana turned away, flushing, tears in her eyes. That surprised him. It wasn't like her. She'd always been willing to snap back and call him a fool when he was in an ill temper. He went to her and put a hand on her shoulder. He touched her cheek with his other hand, turning her around. There were wet tracks on her face and fear in her eyes.

"Starlight?" he asked. "What is it?"

"You could guess." The words barely rose above a whisper.

He thought, trying not to lose his patience. He could feel the statue's gaze, just like she'd said. Finally he shook his head. "I don't kn—"

Then, a breath late, it came to him.

"Oh, hang me. You're not."

She nodded, more tears spilling, her hands moving to cover her belly. "I wasn't sure," she said. "I didn't think it was possible any more. But a Mislaxan came to the town while you were gone. I sent for her to find out the truth."

"When?" he breathed.

"It must have happened right after you returned," Essana said, smiling. "Maybe even that night. It's still early yet, and much can go wrong. But if the gods smile, in the wintertime we'll have a son."

Son. Not child. The Mislaxan had told her the child would be a boy, evidently. Some of the more skilled healers could sense such things, even early on. "Starlight," he breathed. "Our son."

"And heir," she said.

Her smile brought tears to his own eyes. He hadn't wept since he was a boy. He caught her up and held her to him, kissed her and drew back, staring into her eyes. Both their faces were wet. This day had been long in coming.

"You're pleased." She grinned.

He kissed her again. "Very nearly."

They held each other a while longer, then he felt his gaze drawn away. He glanced across the room and saw the statue standing there. Watching them. Ridiculous, but no denying it.

Looking back at Essana, he saw that she was staring at the statue too. She was pale and afraid. A strange look for her. He felt a surge of anger at the thing he'd brought back from Lamport. He thought of Harlad and of how freely the old pirate had gotten rid of it. He was beginning to understand why.

He had a son coming, though. He couldn't give the statue away, or destroy it, or whatever the small voice in his head was telling him to do. Its value might be great.

"The tunnels," he said. "Out of sight. We'll forget it's there, in time."

He half-expected her to argue, but she shrugged instead, her mouth a lipless line. "Do what you think is best," she said.

She kissed him again, on the cheek, then stepped out of his arms and away, up the stairs to their chambers. Forlo watched her go, hating himself for disappointing her. Then he glanced back at the cowled statue and felt its aspect change slightly. Not just watchful now. Something else. Pleased?

Glaring at the hooded figure, he turned on his heel and strode out of the hall, not the same way his wife had gone.

A week passed, and midsummer drew near. The days sweltered, but the needed rain never came. The nights were little better, being windless and sultry. It did no good for anyone's mood, and though he knew better, Forlo still sulked when he and Essana were together. They hardly spoke and barely touched at night, all when he should have been happier than ever in his life. She tended to the Holding, while he rode in the countryside or hunted or taught the servant boys how to wield a sword. Time crawled.

At least the statue was dealt with. Before the first night, the servants had taken it away, down into the deepest recesses beneath the keep. Forlo had only been down to the deepest vaults a few times and hadn't liked it. Coldhope Keep was built over much older ruins, whose tunnels had been dug out thousands of summers ago, by men forgotten by history, as a place to bury their dead. The statue was locked away down there in the dark, with bones for company.

He could still feel it, though, even down there. It wasn't watching any more, but it was waiting. Skulking, a poet might have said. Forlo didn't care for poets. But the word was apt. Whenever he was within the keep, he thought he could sense the statue, as his warrior's instincts had trained him to sense enemies lying in wait. The same sense that had told him of the dead army at Hawkbluff. At night, after the nightmares woke him, he fancied he could hear the hooded statue breathing.

Essana never spoke of it, nor did she have to. Every time she looked at him, it was there in her eyes: get that dreadful thing out of here.

On Sargasday, the end of the week, he was out most of the day, stalking a stag in the woods to the south. The stag eluded him in the end, but the chase was good, and he feathered three coneys on the way home. There were still a few hours left till dusk and the sun was well above the horizon—enough time for the cooks to dress his catch and roast them for supper, with parsnips and a sauce of berries and honey. He was humming an old warrior's tune, The Sun Upon My Shield, when he came out of the forest and started up the road for home.

The song died on his lips when he reached the gates. There was another horse there, a hulking stallion tethered in the bailey. The stableboy was giving it water to drink. Its flanks were caked with road-dust. It wore no barding or caparison, for the weather was too warm, but its harness was familiar. The leather was dyed in martial colors. Crimson and blue.

The Sixth.

Dropping the coneys, Forlo bolted up the keep's steps three at a time, shoved through the doors to the great hall—and slammed right into Grath Horuth-Bok. The minotaur let out a roar of surprise, then embraced him in a crushing hug.

"A son! I knew you'd breed one day, you old fox!"

Forlo blinked, then smiled and gave his friend a shove. "When did you get here?"

"Less than an hour ago," Grath said. "Rode hard. Gods' grief, but I'd rather march." He rubbed his backside.

"I was about to send someone for you," said Essana. He glanced at her, sitting on a chair in the shadows. He hadn't known she was there. "You saved me the trouble."

He winced at the curtness in her voice, wishing he could undo all the tension that had been piling up between them these past days. Instead he turned back to Grath, who grinned at him, oblivious.

"What brings you here?" Forlo asked. "And if you say your horse, you'll regret it."

The minotaur laughed briefly. "The war," he said. "Or the troubles, or whatever they're calling it in Kristophan. Soldiers are dying, no matter the name. It is getting close to an ending, but there are some hard battles ahead."

He stopped, looked at Forlo a moment, then opened his mouth to say more. And closed it again.

Forlo's good mood vanished. "Grath. What—"

"Just listen. There's someone you should talk to. He's only a few days' ride away."

"Who?" Forlo demanded. "One of the claimants to the throne?"

Grath nodded. "You don't have to say anything now," he said.

A sigh escaped Forlo's lips. He looked across the hall.

"Go," said Essana. "But come back."

He knew what she meant. Maybe a week or more apart would help. He shook his head. "All right," he said. "But your friend isn't going to like what I've got to say."

The rains came, turning the roads—unpaved in the north—to mud and leaving both Grath and Forlo sullen and quiet. They rode slowly, three days stretching to four, then five. The hills they passed were bare gray ghosts crowned with the shadows of pines. They went inland, south and west, back toward Kristophan, passing hardly anyone on the road. Travel and trade were slight this year in the League, with war threatening. Thunder muttered above.

Grath refused to say who awaited them at the end of their journey, and the issue preyed on Forlo's mind. There were only two minotaurs vying for the throne left, according to the tales: Shold Ar-Torath, called Woe-blade, and Count Akan of Highvale. Forlo cared for neither of them very much. Shold was a distant cousin of the late emperor and a former marshal of the Fourth Legion. He and Forlo had fought in the same battles, a decade and more ago. He was a hard one to like, dour to his peers and downright vicious to the men under his command. Once, he'd had a soldier beheaded for returning a day late from leave to visit his wife and infant son—a flogging offense under most commanders.

Akan was worse. Not related in any way to the imperial house, he had worked his way into the circles of power through guile and ruthlessness. He had been Ambeoutin's favorite, of all the regional lords. Forlo, who had always respected the emperor, doubted this was because of any friendship between the two. More likely, Akan had known some scandalous secret. Now the snake had the crown nearly in his grasp—and he had never once raised a sword in defense of the realm. For that reason, more than any other, Forlo would have favored Shold. So would Grath, he thought.

So the Woe-blade was his preference, he decided on the second night as he lay in a wooded hollow, listening to the rain on the boughs. Whatever happened, his answer would not change. Whatever he did, the League would have a bad emperor after the interregnum's end. Why should he have a hand in that?

On the fifth day, a little after noon, they came to the top of a ridge and halted. The road went on, down a switchback path carved into the slope and into a valley below, along the shores of a lake. Silvermere, it was called, for it was known to shine brightly in Solis's light. Presently, however, it was the hue of lead beneath the glooming sky. Along its rocky edge were many tents and crimson and blue banners, all hanging heavy with rain-water. The Sixth was here, at least what remained of it. They had lost maybe thirty additional soldiers in the east, chasing bandits. Now, however, they had a new leader. Surrounded by a picket of fire-hardened stakes, a broad, round pavilion marked the dwelling of the one they sought, the minotaur who had drafted Grath into his service.

Forlo stared, not believing his eyes. Even from this high vantage, it was easy to make out the blazon on the standards outside the tent. It wasn't the sign of Akan, the black star on a blue field, nor of Shold, whose colors were a gold ship on purple. Instead, it was a sign Forlo knew too well: two silver swords crossed on a black, starry sky. The emblem of Duke Rekhaz.

"Him?" he blurted, looking to Grath. "He means to win the throne?"

"He does more than mean it," Grath replied. "He will succeed. He slew Lord Shold in a duel three weeks ago, and hopes to have Count Akan's head by autumn. Then he'll go to Kristophan and name himself emperor. I mean to be at his side when he does."

Forlo stared at Rekhaz's tent a while longer, then shook his head.

"What makes you think I want anything to do with him? What makes you think I'll even talk to him?"

Grath shrugged. "You rode all this way."

"But why Rekhaz?" he pressed.

"He's my commander," Grath replied. "And I'd rather see Akan wear a noose than the crown."

"Fair enough," Forlo said, then shook his head with a sigh. "You're right. I came sixty leagues to see this. I'll go the last furlong." I'll hear Rekhaz out, he added silently, then I will go home.

He grimaced, following Grath down the trail. He already knew it wouldn't be that easy.

Rekhaz stared at him from across the tent. He was in a temper, fists clenching and unclenching at his sides. It made Forlo glad the sentries hadn't asked him to give up his sword. Most men wouldn't have been permitted to wear a blade into the heart of the camp. Most men hadn't led the soldiers of the Sixth to war and victory.

The duke's nostrils flared. "Well? What is your answer?"

He'd made a good case. He was more suited to rule than Count Akan. He could control the armies better and had a head start on handling the League from his service as governor at Kristophan. And the peasants didn't hate him in the way they hated the lord of Highvale. He needed help, though, in swaying the other nobles. Forlo's support, his presence in the capitol, would do much to bolster his cause. The lords thought highly of Forlo: word had spread of his doings in Thenol. Rekhaz had even offered Forlo a lordship of his own and his own fief in the south, once he had the throne.

Forlo took a deep drink of wine—good stuff, not soldier's grape, brought from the duke's own vineyards. Rekhaz kept his tent austere—just a cot, a footlocker, a stand for his armor and weapons, and a table spread with maps—but he enjoyed some comforts. Forlo had another sip, then lowered the plain pewter cup and met the duke's gaze.

"No," he said.

It grew very quiet in the tent. Grath shifted his weight, shook his shaggy head, cursed under his breath. Rekhaz blinked, amazed. Then the surprise wore off, and fire filled his eyes. Forlo could see the rage building within him. His lips curled, baring fangs. He drew a breath to reply.

Forlo held up a hand, cutting him off. "There's nothing you can say to sway me, my lord. My service to the League is honorably ended. I will not be drawn in, for land or gold. I have my home, my wife, and a son coming at last. Why would I give that up, to ride to battle again?"

"You can lose all those things," Rekhaz rumbled.

Forlo shrugged. "Perhaps. You could always find some reason to arrest me, seize Coldhope, even take my head once you're emperor. But it wouldn't do any good for your rule. I'm a hero, remember? If you win the crown I will come to your coronation, swear fealty, and send all the taxes and tributes required. I will watch over the Run, and never say a word against you. All I ask is for you to leave me alone to live my life."

Rekhaz looked as if he were about to start breathing smoke. Forlo half-expected him to reach over his shoulder and draw the massive broadsword slung across his back. He wondered what Grath would do, if things went that way. He didn't envy his friend the choice he'd have to make.

"You'll find the Sixth hard to control," Forlo said quietly, if you do anything rash now."

The duke snorted, then turned and slapped the winebottle off the table. It spun across the tent, spattering red droplets and leaving a stain on the far wall. "I rode this far north, just to speak with you," the duke said.

"I'm sorry," Forlo replied. He folded his arms across his chest.

Rekhaz was still for nearly a minute, visibly calming his fury. "Very well," he growled at last. "You have made your choice. One day, you may come to regret it."

Forlo nodded, deferentially.

"Go."

Forlo held his breath and turned his back, waiting for the ring of sword leaving scabbard and ready to defend himself against being struck down from behind. If Rekhaz hadn't been his enemy before, he certainly was now. It wouldn't be easy for him, if the duke won the crown. He walked swiftly, forcing himself not to look back. Grath followed him out, the flap flying as he emerged from the tent.

"That was stupid," the minotaur muttered.

"Probably," Forlo said, not breaking pace. "But I vowed to retire, and he knows it. If he'd ever been a friend to me in the past, I might have considered helping him. But no… he'll have to do this without me. What of you?"

Grath glanced back at the tent. "He'll want to head south again at once. Tomorrow at dawn, I reckon. Akan's down near Vinlans, trying to build support of his own. Rekhaz will take the fight to him—the longer he waits, the more nobles will go over to Akan. He needs Highvale's head on a pike, and soon."

Forlo nodded. They came to the horses, and he looked around the camp. Men were gambling, drinking beer, telling lies: everything he remembered and missed. Not as much as he would miss Essana, though. It gave him comfort to see the soldiers carrying on their lives. The Sixth was doing fine without him, and his wife was waiting. Carrying his child.

"I'll do fine, riding back alone," he said, then leaned close, speaking so only Grath could hear. "Watch yourself. Rekhaz will play you like a piece on a shivis board."

Grath nodded, clapping Forlo's shoulder. "I'm sorry to see you go, my friend—but only so sorry. Good road ahead of you, Barreth."

"And you."

The minotaur turned and walked back into the camp, without looking back. Forlo could hear Rekhaz bellowing at the men, taking out his wrath on them. They would march to Vinlans, and bring war with them. Without him, thank the gods.

Forlo got on his horse and rode north, back up the ridge and away through the rain.