Chapter 22

Coldhope Keep, the Imperial League

Smoke and screams filled the air: the dying, the wounded, and men, women, and children fleeing for their lives. Everywhere there was movement—soldiers charging one way, their spears and swords reflecting the glare of burning buildings; bellowing figures on horses and hunched shapes on wolfback galloping the other way; and common folk scattering in all directions, trying to escape. The riders ran them down when they could, trampling them under their hooves or running them through with long lances. Bodies and parts of bodies lay everywhere, islands in the rivers of blood that poured down the cobbled streets.

Rudil was burning, and Forlo watched.

It was so real, so… there. Like Armach-nesti had been on the night they found the shadows had slaughtered the Silvanaes. Forlo knew he was sitting in the great hall of Coldhope, surrounded by stone walls and tapestries and banners, but to his eyes he was in the League's second great colony north of the Run. It was dusk and the red and silver moons swelled above the eastern horizon, the reason the spell worked in the great hall now, when ten days ago they had been forced to use the hulder-ring to aid Shedara's magic. He could hear the sounds and smell the fear of battle and the stink of burning buildings. He was even half-convinced that, if he tried, he could reach out and touch the Uigan and goblins who charged all around him, unaware he was there.

But he stood still instead, a lump in his throat as he watched the barbarian horde tear the town apart. Rudil, a peaceful port that had never seen war and sported little in the way of fortification. In the dying afternoon light, wave upon wave of horsemen descended upon it from the north. He'd watched the flash of their sabers, seen their helmet-plumes streaming in the wind, and knew for a certainty the town would fall. And he'd known, in that same moment, what he'd suspected since Sammek Thale told him of Malton's fall: he could not stop the horde. Not alone. Coldhope was doomed.

He heard a sound and glanced to his right. Essana. She had refused to leave, even when Thale offered her a well-appointed cabin aboard his ship. Forlo had begged her to go with the merchant, but the next morning the White Worm set sail for southern waters without her aboard. Now with him and Grath she stared at the destruction all around and watched as a pack of goblins chased down several young priestesses of Sinar… hacked them to death with cleavers and axes… and fed the pieces to their wolves. She saw a minotaur stagger out of a blazing house, the whole upper half of his body on fire, then collapse in a heap across the broken-necked corpse of a young boy. She looked on as a gang of Uigan riders, led by an armored chief, dragged the torn and battered corpses of the town's elder council on ropes behind their horses. One broke away and tumbled end over end to finish sitting up, its head danging backward from its neck. She watched all of it and wept.

Forlo felt bad for her, but he also felt a new kinship with his wife. This is battle, he wanted to tell her. This was my life, all those years. This is what I want to spare you. But he said nothing. None of them did. They only gazed numbly around them as Rudil fell to flame and sword.

There would be no prisoners. A few would flee, mostly by water, though Rudil's harbor had fallen much faster than Malton's. A handful might survive, somehow, hidden amid the rubble. The rest would die that night and in the days to come. Then… then the League's time in Northern Hosk would be done. The waters of the Tiderun would lower, then run dry, and the riders would come flooding across.

He turned to Shedara and saw the strain on the elf's face, the pallor caused by holding together the magic. He nodded to her, sweeping his hand in an arc before him. "Enough," he said. "We don't need to see any more."

Gratefully, she let the magic go. The images came apart like a crumbling mosaic, pieces falling away to reveal the great hall in their place. The sounds and smells faded as well. It was disorienting, and for a breath Forlo thought he might vomit. Essana put a hand to her mouth, then buried her face in her hands. Grath, leaning against the table across from Forlo, made a sour face.

"Cowards," the minotaur spat. "They cannot live like civilized men, so they fight like animals, without honor. My axe hungers for them already."

"You and your cohort won't last an hour!" Shedara shot back. She staggered to sit down on a chair, but nearly missed and had to catch herself. She shook all over.

The minotaur glowered at her, eyes burning and sharp teeth bared. He drew a sharp breath, but Forlo spoke before he could reply. "You're not a prisoner here any more," he told Shedara. "You're free to leave."

"And where would I go?" she answered, not for the first time. "Armach-nesti is overrun and my queen is dead. Shall I make for Thenol, or the Marak Valleys? Or Kristophan, perhaps? The statue isn't safe in any of those places, and you know it."

"It's not safe here, either," Forlo noted—again, not for the first time. This was already a familiar argument.

She shrugged. "Safer than most places. The shadows haven't come here yet."

"Enough about the bloody statue!" snapped Essana, looking up. Forlo flinched at what he saw in her eyes, surrounded by swollen, red skin. Her lips quivered as she spoke, stretching her mouth into an ugly shape. "We've got to do something. We've got to find a way to stop them."

"There is no way," Forlo said. "Starlight, you have to leave. Find someplace safe to protect our son."

She shook her head, laying a hand on her belly—the swelling just visible now. Her eyes shone in the lamplight. She didn't say a word. Forlo felt, for a flickering instant, the urge to reach across and strike her, to grab her and shake some sense into her. Instead he turned and walked away, moving quickly out the door to the Northwatch. It was hot out. Summer was wearing on and the air was close and still. He walked to the railing and stared past the shimmering water at the ominously dark far shore. Nothing was left there, across the Run. Nothing stood between the horde and Coldhope any more—once the moons aligned.

With an inarticulate snarl, he punched the balustrade. His fist came away bloody, and he sucked at his cut knuckles in silence.

Heavy, booted feet broke the silence. Grath. He didn't turn as the minotaur approached and came to stand beside him. Neither of them spoke for some time.

"This is hard," Forlo said at last. "I've faced my own death enough times to be used to it. But her… and the child… ." He trailed off, waving his hand helplessly.

Grath nodded. "If somehow Sargas lets me live through this, I swear I'll cut out Rekhaz's black heart for not sending more men. If the whole Sixth were here—"

"Then they'd all die with us. You know that." Forlo's lip curled. "You saw how many there are. It'd take half the imperial army to stop them. No, Rekhaz made the right call. Let us slow them down. We expendable humans will… soften them up, and once he has the crown he can fight them properly."

Silence. Grath didn't argue. Waves broke against the rocks below.

"They'll come over at the Lost Road," Forlo added, nodding to the west. The Tiderun narrowed that way, down to a neck where the sea floor was rocky and the crossing was easy. Two days' ride, or about. "We'll have to face them there."

"Good a place as any," Grath agreed. "And better than most. We'll have the terrain on our side. Hold them longer and do some real damage. You could make her leave, you know. We can spare a couple soldiers to take her out of here."

"Abduct her, you mean."

The minotaur shrugged. Forlo thought about it. The idea was tempting… but he couldn't bring himself to do it. Essana had lived here longer than him, and that counted for something. She was the lady of Coldhope. He sighed.

"I'm going to bed," he said, turning away from the water.

Grath nodded, still staring out at the Run. "Try not to dream."

Forlo let out a mirthless laugh and walked away, back into the keep and up to his bedchamber. Essana was already there, asleep or pretending. He watched her for a time from the doorway, the curve of her back lit by Solis through a window, then sighed and started undressing. Naked, he lay down beside her. He fell asleep holding her, his hand touching her belly.

When the nightmares came, he prayed they would be about Rudil. But they were not.

He woke with a pain in his chest. His heart was beating so fast he thought it was going to burst. He lay blanket-tangled on the edge of the bed, far from Essana. She slept on, moaning quietly with bad dreams of her own.

A face floated in the dark before Forlo's eyes: the same cold, dead face he saw every night. The dream didn't change. Every time he closed his eyes, every time he tried to sleep, he found himself back in the temple, in the tunnel under Hawkbluff. And there, standing before him with feral eyes and fingers hooked into talons, was his dead son. A son who didn't even have a name yet.

He got up, as he always did. He threw on a long-skirted tunic, enough for modesty, and walked barefooted to the door. He went down the steps to the darkened great hall. Maybe get some wine, he thought, or some cold chicken and potatoes. The cook would have left some for him in the kitchen; the servants were used to his nightly wanderings. After that, some air on the Northwatch. The moons were much higher now. Grath would have gone down to the cohort's encampment to be with the men.

"More nightmares?" asked a voice from the shadows.

Forlo nearly jumped out of his skin. He reached for a sword he wasn't wearing and made fists instead.

"Who—" he began.

Shedara stepped forward, into a pool of light. She might have been smiling; it was hard to tell. The color had returned to her face, strength flowing through her veins again after the spell.

"I couldn't sleep, either," she said. "Not after what we saw."

He nodded. "They'll be rounding up captives now. Executing them."

"They'll use knives, or trample them with their horses. Won't want to waste the arrows." She steepled her fingers and glanced away. "I'll take her, if you want. Just promise me I can have the statue too, and I'll make sure your wife's far from here when the Uigan come."

"That's a kind offer," he said. "But it's not my choice to make."

"It can be."

"No."

Shedara rolled her eyes. "At least let me help you with your dreams, then. You're not going to be much good to anyone if you haven't slept for weeks when they cross the Run."

He scowled and looked away. "I don't need any help."

"Of course not," she said. "You like dreaming of your unborn son as a walking corpse."

Forlo caught his breath and stumbled back as though she'd punched him in the chest. He stared at her a moment, then fury boiled inside him. "How do you know so much?"

"I'm talented," she replied. "I hear you yelling in your sleep, every night. Half the keep can hear. I've no idea how Essana sleeps through it. After the first few days, I cast a spell to look into your mind. I needed to know what could make a man like you make a noise like that. Now I know."

He glared at her for a breath longer, then looked away, ashamed. His face grew warm. He shut his eyes. Gods, he just wanted the dreams to stop.

"I can help you," she said. "Let me share your dream. I know magic to keep it from breaking. There's sorcery in you, Forlo—a spell, working deep in your mind. I think it has something to do with these dreams of yours. This nightmare about your son… it's not real, but it's hiding something else. Something you don't want to remember. Or can't."

He looked at her, his eyes wide. "Something in the temple?"

Shedara nodded.

"All right," he said wearily. "Not tonight. Tomorrow. Then, will you please leave with the statue?"