Chapter 18

The Twin Watchers, the Imperial League

The history of Southern Hosk was a recent one, for neither the minotaurs nor the humans of the League and Thenol had lived there longer than a few centuries. The humans had come from Styrllia, one of the outlying provinces of Old Aurim, as survivors of the First Destruction, fleeing the doom of their homeland. They had found the woods and valleys south of the Tiderun friendly and more or less free of the poisons and monsters that had ravaged the lands to the east after the rain of fire. They proclaimed several kingdoms, subjugated the peaceful tribes that already lived there, and built the great cities of Kristophan and Vinlans. They felt that the gods had smiled on them again, after turning their backs on Aurim.

Then came the Uigan, sweeping down from the steppes across the Tiderun. The Run had been drier in those days, the waters receding for weeks sometimes, when the moons were aligned. When that happened, the horsemen poured across in droves, burning, slaughtering, and carrying gold and women back across the straits. For nearly a hundred years it went on: the men of the new kingdoms would rebuild, refortify, regain the riches they had lost—then the Tiderun would empty and the barbarians would return, scattering ashes and blood in their wake.

The raids were why the men of New Styrllia and the other kingdoms welcomed the minotaurs when they came. The bull-men had expected to be met with sword and spear when they made landfall in Taladas—for where had anyone met them with anything else? But while there were some clashes at the beginning, they soon found themselves greeted with open arms. The minotaurs were at least civilized, unlike the riders, and they were brilliant warriors. So the kings of men made a pact with them: they could settle in Southern Hosk, and even rule it as an empire, as long as the humans of those lands remained free. And they would have to fight the Uigan.

Thus was the Minotaur League born. When the barbarians crossed the Run again the next summer, they found the land much changed. The fiefs they had raided with impunity were guarded by horned giants who were each the match for three ordinary men. For the first time, the Uigan were beaten back across the Run. They returned in greater numbers the next year, but while they claimed some victories, even these were costly. The minotaurs would not be moved. At the same time, the dry times on the Run were growing shorter and less frequent. In the end, the Uigan gave up and returned to slaughtering the Kazar and their other rival tribes. No barbarians had crossed the Run in over two hundred and fifty years—not even during the dark times of the Godless Night. They stayed up in their grasslands and dusty hills, barely even troubling the colonies of Rudil and Malton on the strait's far shore.

Things change, though; things end.

Malton was a burning ruin. Rudil, Forlo knew, would soon follow. And soon, too, the moons would align. The Run would be dry again. It wouldn't last as long as it had in the old times, when the land was still settling after the Destruction, but the two halves of Hosk would be one for six days. Plenty of time for the Uigan who had sacked Malton to cause widespread ruin across the League's northern provinces. Plenty of time to destroy all he held dear.

When he finally caught up to the Sixth again, fifty leagues south of where the army had been previously camped, he was dazed in the saddle. He'd barely slept and hardly eaten since leaving Coldhope three days before. When he did try to rest, he kept having the same dream—always the same now—no more battles against fanatics and the Thenolites' buried army. Only the tunnels beneath Hith's temple, the darkness, the stink of decay… and the sight of his unborn son, shambling toward him with mindless, sorrowing hunger in his eyes.

He didn't want to close his eyes, so he rode day and night, trusting his horse and his instincts to keep him from getting caught in a thicket or plunging off a cliff in the dark. He was battered and bleeding from the branches and bushes that whipped by him as he rode. He could barely think, let alone speak. Still, he did find them again, his former legion, camped in a valley between the Twin Watchers.

The Watchers were older than any histories told—more crumbling reminders that there had been realms there in the ancient days. They were once statues of white-stone, perched on hilltops of brown, wind-bared rock. No one knew who the statues signified, for they had fallen to rubble from the waist up, leaving only their armor-kilted legs standing on adjacent hilltops. Even these were barely recognizable, worn away by centuries of wind and rain, their features gone. Some scholars said the statues weren't intended to be human, claiming the legs bore signs of having been covered in scales. Other sages called those scholars fools. There had been duels fought in the Kristophan Arena over this debate. Forlo didn't care about scales or the Watchers. In his mind, he saw the horror in Sammek Thale's eyes as he told of Malton's fall. He saw the Tiderun dry and the waves of riders thundering across, their curved swords raised high, their horsetail banners streaming, and their voices yelling for blood. He saw Coldhope in ruins, Essana dead, and himself and many others too. The keep would barely slow the horde as it thundered on toward the richer cities. They had destroyed Malton in hours. In six days' time, they could lay waste to Thera and Trilloman… maybe even the shards of the capital that remained after Ambeoutin's death. The minotaurs, divided and distracted with the fighting over the throne, would not be ready. The Uigan would bring ruin to the League, then carry its gold and women away as in the old days. The days of peace were at an end.

The Uigan had to be stopped. Any reasonable fool would know this. Duke Rekhaz was undoubtedly a fool. Forlo prayed he was reasonable as well.

Crossbowmen nearly shot him out of his saddle as he galloped down into the camp in the dark, only hesitating when he raised his hands to show they were empty, then pulled off his helm to show who he was. Through the cuts and bruises, they recognized their old marshal, took his horse's reins when he slowed, and caught him as he slumped and toppled from the saddle. They called for Grath, gave him watered wine and fried bannocks, and tried to clean his wounds. They were good men and loved him still. It made him glad.

Then Grath was there, his face swimming into the firelight, creased with worry as he took Forlo's hand. He knew something was terribly wrong. After bellowing for a healer, he turned his troubled gaze back to Forlo.

"Khot," he swore. "You look like you rode through the Abyss to get here."

"No Abyss," Forlo panted, smiling. He'd bitten his tongue as he fell; there was blood on his teeth. "Just… forest."

Grath grinned a moment, then the smile faded. "Tell me," he said. "Why would you come back here? What brought you these many miles, my friend?"

Forlo took a deep breath and let it out. He and Grath had been shield-brothers, had killed together, and had watched comrades die. Thank the gods for such true friends, he thought.

The healer came—not a Mislaxan, but an older soldier adept in herbs and leechcraft. He was a gray bearded human with a surcoat emblazoned with the knife-and-leaf sign of a physic. Wyndan, his name was. He'd tended Forlo's wounds before, had been with the Sixth through the whole of the Thenol campaign. He shoved other warriors aside, making room for himself.

"Wait," Forlo told him, raising a hand. All his knuckles were bloody and raw. He'd never ridden so hard in his life.

Wyndan stopped, looking to Grath, who nodded. "Speak, Forlo," the minotaur said. "Tell me your tale."

Forlo let out another breath—a sigh—and began.

In the morning, when Wyndan had treated him, they brought him to Rekhaz and he told the tale again. The Duke listened, eyes narrowed, as Forlo spoke of Malton's fall and of the enemy gathered across the Run. Rekhaz stroked his chin as Forlo repeated what Sammek Thale had seen, of the Uigan lord who could call down the storm with a word, and of the allies he had gathered on his bloody mission: goblins as well as riders, many thousands strong. Then, when Forlo was done, Rekhaz sat quietly for a long moment, his brow furrowed.

"Barbarians and Wretched Ones," he said at length. "A savage who brings down walls with whirlwinds and lightning. And they are coming here, just as I'm about to do away with Count Akan?"

Forlo nodded, aching. He'd barely slept—his son's staring, lifeless eyes still haunted him, no matter how tired he was. He'd woken in pain. The ride had cost him… might have killed a lesser man, one who'd spent fewer years in the saddle.

"I've told you all I know, Your Honor," he said.

A lie. He hadn't mentioned the statue or the elf who'd been caught trying to steal it. It would complicate things, and he didn't know if it was part of everything. Rekhaz would understand, he'd told himself over and over as he rode. Despite their differences—despite their hatred for each other—he would recognize the great threat. That hope had been a candle for him as his horse's hooves devoured the land. That horse would never run like that again.

Rekhaz looked down on him, and the candle flames in his tent began to waver. There was no belief in the Duke's eyes, only disdain. Folding his massive arms across his chest, he stared at Forlo in silence for a long moment, then spat in his face.

"Khot," he said.

It was Grath who responded first. Forlo was too shocked to speak. "Your Honor," he said, stepping forward, "that was not well done. If there is a threat in the north—"

"If? Rekhaz interrupted, stopping Grath with a glare. "Yes, if. What proof have we? What evidence that what he says is true?"

"You have my word," Forlo said tersely, wiping his face. "The word of a lifelong defender of the League. It should be enough."

"Should it? I see no defender here," sneered the Duke. "All that stands before me is a weak man who turned away from his duties before they were done. Who refused the call to glory when it was sent to him, not a week since! Now you come crawling back—"

Forlo shook his head. "I bring you warning, Your Honor."

"Warning of barbarians who haven't threatened us since our grandfathers' grandfathers' time!"

"Perhaps," Forlo allowed, "but they gather now."

"Khot," Rekhaz said again.

Grath stepped in again. "Lord Forlo has never been aught but a friend of the realm. I will stake my own honor upon his word. If this invasion—"

"Keep your tongue!" the Duke roared. "You overstep your bounds, Lord Grath!"

Grath's eyes burned with fury. Forlo saw it, held up a hand to stay him, and gave him a look that said not now. The Duke would kill them both if they joined against him—it would only take a word to bring the guards waiting outside his tent.

"Is there anything I can do, Your Honor"—Forlo could no longer speak to the minotaur without his mouth twisting contemptuously—"to convince you this is no trick? That I tell the truth?"

Rekhaz regarded him slowly, evenly. Cunning sparked in his eyes. He smiled, and not in a friendly way. "There is one thing. Return to the army, Forlo. Serve the League, as you swore to do. Vouch for my claim to the throne and fight on my side. Then I will give you a cohort to settle this little invasion you speak of."

"A cohort?" Forlo asked incredulously. "Only six hundred men? The Uigan and their allies number twenty times that many. We'd need the entire legion—"

"A soldier of the imperial army is worth twenty savages," Rekhaz shot back, "and a hundred goblin scum. You have my offer—and humans only, none of the true warriors. I will keep the minotaurs in my company. Now, will you give me your answer, or shall I have you flogged and sent away?"

Forlo ground his teeth, cursing himself. He saw his future clearly. If he survived the coming battle—and with only a cohort, the chances of that were slim—he would be called south immediately to help affirm Rekhaz's hold on the throne. He would spend the rest of his life in Kristophan, or leading its armies until he was old, his son was grown, and Essana, probably dead. It was exactly what he had not wanted, what he had struggled to avoid.

But if he didn't accept… what then? All he had believed in and fought for would be lost anyway. And the League's glory, which he had striven to keep bright, would dim—perhaps for good. If history remembered him at all, people would say that Barreth Forlo had possessed the chance to stem the invasion from the Tamire, and had refused it out of pride.

He bowed his head, tears in his eyes. Essana, he thought, this is the only way I can save you. Us. I'm sorry.

"Very well," he said. "I am yours to command, Duke Rekhaz. I will rejoin the army."

"This is not right!" Grath snapped.

Rekhaz turned and punched Grath in the jaw, sending him staggering. "You will kindly stop telling me what is right and wrong!" he shouted. Then he saw Grath put a hand on his axe and smiled. "Oh, do try it, Marshal. Give me the opportunity to gut you like a pig."

Grath tensed, blood on his lips, and for a long moment he stared at the Duke. Rekhaz regarded him with disdain, his arms at his sides, not even touching his own blade. Then, finally, Grath relaxed, though hate obviously simmered in his eyes.

"You're lucky I still have need for you, Marshal," Rekhaz snapped. "Now get out. Both of you."

Once they were outside, Grath finally drew his axe, whirled, and brought it down on a map table outside Rekhaz's tent. The board shattered, splinters flying. Parchment flew everywhere, drawing stares from all around.

"Be easy," Forlo said, guiding his friend away. "It is done, and nothing can change it now."

"You were right about him. I should never have sworn my men to that scum," Grath snarled. "You earned all you had, and he made you give it up as if it were nothing. I ought to go back in there and put steel in his gullet!"

Forlo rested a hand on his arm. "I won't let you throw yourself on his sword for my benefit, my friend."

Grath seethed for a moment before slowly getting control of himself. "All right," he growled, "all right. I'm sorry, Forlo. I'd hoped for better. You're right, by the way—if this horde is as large as you say, a cohort will barely slow them down. Especially a cohort with no minotaurs! I'll send word to the other legions—maybe they'll send some men, too."

"No," Forlo said, "they're too far south, from what you've told me. Even if they did send reinforcements, they'd be too late. No, my friend… it does seem a lost cause. But at least what I swore in there won't matter, in the end—because in a few weeks I'll be dead, and then it will be very hard for me to serve the Duke."

Grath thought for a moment, rubbing his bruised jaw. He met Forlo's eyes, and soon both were chuckling grimly. "Not you alone, Forlo," Grath said, his voice hard. "Both of us."

"What?"

"I'm going with you," Grath said. He raised a finger. "Don't say it. I still command the Sixth, not you, and certainly not Rekhaz. Let him name a new marshal for the legion. He'll be more than happy to see ray back for a while. I'd rather fight and die beside you than ride to glory with that one."

Forlo stood silently beside Grath, staring out into the night. Campfires glimmered in the gloom, lighting the featureless Watchers from below. The dancing shadows made them look eerily alive. What Grath intended was foolish, almost to the point of madness. But Forlo knew his friend wouldn't be the only one. Most of the soldiers in the Sixth would gladly follow him. He wished he could take more. Wished they could just kill Rekhaz and bring the whole legion north. But that wasn't honorable, and the minotaurs would never accept such a move. Nor would half the men. They were bound to their duty. So was he, now.

"It's good to have friends," he said at last.

"Yes," Grath said. "Come, Forlo. Let's go choose who will die with us."

Essana gazed down from the wall of Coldhope, tears in her eyes. Below her, the tents of the cohort spread out, covering the fields. Blue and red banners snapped in the wind. Men moved to secure the camp, shouting and cursing. There was no laughter, though: the soldiers had an idea of what they would face once the moons aligned. They had no room in their hearts for mirth.

"So few," she said. "You gave Rekhaz your whole life, and he gave so little back!"

Forlo reached out and took her hand. He saw Grath down below, barking orders and urging the men on. They had arrived just two hours earlier, Forlo riding ahead to prepare the way, the rest marching behind. Essana had been elated to see them, but that hadn't lasted long. She'd been expecting a legion—and a husband who would stay when all was done. Now, she looked out at the cohort and saw death. Never mind that the death would be glorious and in battle—the soldiers' wives would be widows anyway. And so would she.

"I tried, Starlight," he said. "Rekhaz… he shamed me and put me in a place where he knew I could not live. He's ready to sacrifice the northern provinces for the throne if it comes to it. He's betting he'll have beaten Akan and united the armies again by the time the Uigan turn their attention south."

"You make it sound like a shivis game. Pieces moving on a board," she said. Her voice was dull and empty.

He sighed. War was a game, if seen from above. You needed to think of it that way sometimes, when you were in command. The key was never to forget that for the soldiers doing the fighting—and the dying—it was far from play. Rekhaz had forgotten that, and now Forlo looked back on his years in command, during the Thenol campaign, and wondered if he had too.

"Coldhope may fall," he said. "Everything along the coast is in danger. Grath's already sent riders to the east and west, warning the other lords to start their people moving south. It probably won't help, but it's worth trying."

She looked at him, hurt. "You want me to leave too."

"Yes."

Essana shut her eyes, put a hand to them, and pinched. She was trying not to cry, to be strong for him. The wind blew around her, tangling her hair. Gods, it hurt Forlo to see her like that.

"Starlight," he said, "please."

"I can't!" she snapped, her voice breaking. Down in the camp, some of the soldiers glanced up and looked away again when Forlo glowered their way. "This is my home, Barreth. My family has lived here as long as there are records. Since New Styrllia was settled. We weathered the hordes before, in the old days. We can do it again."

"It's not just you I'm trying to protect, Essana. Think of the life inside you. I don't want it endangered."

A mistake. Her eyes turned cold. "You think I do? I want this child to live too, Barreth. I want an heir—but I don't want to give him birth in exile from his home. I want our son's first days to be here, where he belongs—not so far away that he only hears of Coldhope from tales."

He felt his own anger rising, venomous words on his tongue. He gritted his teeth, saying nothing. Essana turned and stormed away, back toward the keep. He heard her sobbing, took two steps to follow, then stopped himself. Anything he said now would only make things worse.

He went down to the camp instead and walked among the tents and campfires, the training grounds where the soldiers sparred, and the archery range where they practiced with crossbows. He was proud of them—six hundred men, all ready to die at his command. But Forlo wasn't ready any more.

"Trouble?" Grath called out. He was carrying a keg of ale from the supply wagons, the big barrel perched easily on his shoulder. "Anything I can do?"

Forlo walked toward him. "Never marry. It complicates things."

"Why do you think I haven't done it yet?" the minotaur replied, grinning. "Let me guess—she refused to leave?"

Forlo nodded.

"I could get a couple big lads to make her. Abduct her, take her down to Trilloman. She'll hate us forever, but at least she'll live to do the hating."

It was tempting, but Forlo waved the suggestion off. "No, we need to do something else."

"And that is?"

"Fight and win."

Grath laughed aloud—then stopped, seeing the gravity in Forlo's eyes. "How do we do that, with these numbers?"

"Send men around to the villages. Organize the commoners and make an army of the people."

The minotaur chuckled again, this time without much humor. "How many will that get us? A few hundred more? Rabble armed with scythes and rusty spears their grandfathers gave them? That'll put the fear of Sargas in the Uigan, aye."

"At least it's something," Forlo shot back.

"Doubling the watch on Aurim's walls the night of the Destruction would have been something, but it wouldn't have stopped the burning rain." Grath looked around, rubbing his snout with a callused hand. "We need disciplined troops, someone who knows which end of a sword goes in the other fellow." Grath threw up his hands. "If you can think of any place to find that, I'll gladly kiss the first dwarf I see."

Forlo caught his breath, a thought occurring. He turned it over in his mind. Grath saw him thinking and tilted his head curiously.

"What?" the minotaur asked.

"I don't have any dwarves handy," Forlo said. "How about an elf?"