Chapter 25

Coldhope Keep, the Imperial League

The great hall was quiet and dark that night, almost eerily so. Hardly anyone remained at Coldhope. The air was thick with magic. Shedara didn't need to look skyward to know the convergence was coming. The next day, all three moons would align, and the air would fairly sing with enchantment. For the moment, only Solis was still waxing; Lunis and Nuvis already ran full. Good enough.

Seeing the tapestries, the animal heads, and the swords hung upon its walls, she felt a prickle of alinsa quar, the sense that her life was fated to that place. It was not the first time she had lived that moment, nor would it be the last. Things changed and the world moved on—how much was different from the night when she first came to Coldhope?—but while the river of time was ever-flowing, sometimes it seemed to loop back on itself.

The door to the cellar was locked, but unguarded. The only two fighting men left in the keep were out on one of the watchtowers, huddled tiredly around one lonely lantern.

Shedara didn't need to pick the lock. The key Forlo had given her opened the door, which swung wide on yawning darkness. The stairway was unlit. No matter—she let her elvensight take over to guide her downward and shut the door behind. The stones were cool and the air was slightly colder. It was enough to find her way in the black. She hoped, idly, that there weren't any more traps. She couldn't let herself be caught again. Too much was at stake.

She walked down the hall, past the niches where crumbled bones had lain for millennia, past the funeral urns where dead men's organs had long since turned to dust, and past the markings in strange alphabets that no man could read any more. She saw warmth, here and there: a rat, spiders, and a centipede as thick as her wrist that hissed at her, then died on the quivering tip of a thrown knife. Nothing else. She wiped her blade clean and moved on.

The vault's door was sealed. She heard a faint sound beyond, a raspy noise, like breathing but not quite. The bloom, she realized: it could sense her—smell her?—and was tensing to unfurl, to cover her with its paralyzing pollen again. She smiled grimly, holding up the key. Not this time, she thought.

The key's white stones had shed the slightest glow when she came down the steps. Now that she stood near the door, however, they shone like little stars, casting flickering shadows all around. In that pale light, everything seemed gray and lifeless. Even her own skin had a deadish cast. She bit her lip, feeling the enchantment that spilled from the key to the door like wine flowing from ewer to cup. There was a lock in the stone, silver and gold with more white stones on it. They gleamed as well, brighter and brighter as she stepped near, until it stabbed at her eyes and she had to turn her head to keep from looking at it directly. The key shook in her hand as she reached out…

There was a click, then a louder grinding sound of stone and stone together. She started and stepped back: she hadn't even reached the lock yet. Evidently, that didn't matter. The magic was strong enough on that night that the key didn't even need to be in the lock to turn it. The white light blared sun-bright, then dimmed again as the door shuddered and ground its way open. Musky perfume spilled out of the vault beyond.

In she went to stand on the spot where she had fallen before, to the lotus dust. She flicked her thumb at that place, a gesture against bad luck. She heard a noise behind her, a great inhalation, like someone working a giant bellows. Steeling herself, she turned to face the lotus. It hung above her, huge and ashen, its petals bunched together in an obscene pucker. White powder fell from the gaps in sifting streams, and at once she felt light-headed, as if her thoughts were slipping down beneath the surface of a pool. She bit her tongue, willing herself to keep conscious. The bloom would open any moment, filling the air with its sleep-bringing dust. It seemed to watch her, waiting, and swelling a little larger with every moment.

"Cut it out," she said, and held up the key.

The stones flared bright, casting their pallid light upon the huge, ugly flower. It drew back with a hiss, then made a strange sound, like a man choking. It began to shudder. Then, writhing a little, it wilted. Its leaves and petals drooped, and streams of pollen leaked out, hanging in the air a while before slowly settling. The key's magic had somehow put the lotus to sleep.

Shedara took another breath. Already she felt less giddy and more like herself. She let the key fall to the floor, then put a hand to her head. She'd come close to succumbing again, but the bloom hadn't taken her. The vault was unguarded at last—nothing but her… and the other presence, the feeling that someone was standing right behind her. Biting back the urge to whirl around, she turned slowly to face the statue.

There it stood, before her, as she had seen it in vision and dream, black and stooped, hands folded, and face hidden. The Hooded One seemed to watch her from the depths of its obsidian cowl, its gaze far from friendly. She felt the urge to shy back, but resisted with a stubborn glare. It was a statue, cold stone, no different to her elf-eyes than the worn dais it stood upon. But other senses, long attuned to magic and heightened by the moons' coming concordance, told her otherwise. Something stirred in the room. The statue had been waiting.

Shedara stood before the Hooded One, lost in thought, for what felt like an hour. It was dangerous business. She didn't even know if what she planned was possible. She had to try, though. She had to take the risk, if the horde was to be stopped. Merciful Solis, she prayed, watch over me now.

The words came to her, to the spell, full of power. The incantation burned brightly in her memory and flowed from her tongue like quicksilver. Her hands danced and her fingers weaved as she gathered the moons' energy into the room. Solis, for wisdom. Lunis, for control. Even Nuvis, for power. Around her, the air began to shimmer, motes of rosy light flaring and fading. She felt the Art burn in her, stronger with each syllable and every breath. It felt good, exhilarating. The magic swelled and suffused her flesh and bones. There was nothing like it in all the world.

"Moitak larshat ku talathom," she spoke, the walls around her humming with the sound of her voice. "Ikuno gangarog te apun do."

Hear me, you who are dead. Hear my voice and answer.

The air grew cold, as if a winter wind had blown through. The dust and the cobwebs did not move, though. She forced the magic out of her, through the darkness and to the statue. The spell of communing fit together in her whirling mind, like a child's puzzle-game. She felt the presence within the Hooded One, knew who it was and could scarcely believe it. The tales were true. Maladar an-Desh, the Faceless Emperor, was in the room with her, trapped within the prison of his own statue.

Then the last pieces of the spell fell into place, and he stepped forth.

He was pale, a wraithlike smoke, powerless and wretched. His hood hung low, covering the ruin of his face. A feeling of loss and rage rose off him, like heat off hard desert, and it took Shedara's breath away. She had never felt hate so strong before. Hate for her, for compelling him… at Forlo for imprisoning him… at all who hunted him… at himself, for living so long in his prison. Nausea rose in Shedara's throat, and it was all she could do to maintain the spell. He reached for her, misty, gloved hands clawing the air, but she held firm. She did not back away. His fingertips couldn't quite reach her.

What will you have of me? asked the phantom, in a voice like the grinding of a sarcophagus's lid. I do not belong here. It is not yet the time, and you are not the one who will free me.

"Perhaps not," she replied. "But you will hear me, nonetheless. And you will obey."

Shedara thrust out with her power, made shackles of it, and bound the spirit with them. Maladar snarled as dark cords of magic, violet-black ropes that sparked and sizzled, appeared and coiled around him, tight. He struggled against the magic, but Shedara spoke another word and the spell held him fast. The magic was too strong for him to resist—at least, in his weakened state. She trembled as she watched him, sweat beading on her brow. The ghost gave one last, great push, trying to get past her defenses, to no avail. She held him fast, despite all his protests, and after a long moment he subsided.

She had worried he might be too powerful to command. The Faceless Emperor had been strong in life, one of the greatest archmages ever to walk the face of Taladas. But centuries of imprisonment in the Hooded One had left him a shadow of what he once had been. The hate in him burned bright still, but he lacked the strength to fight. The enchantment that bound his spirit to the statue, bolstered by her own power, was too strong.

You will rue this day, the voice scratched. You will regret forcing me to work against my will. I will collect the debt.

"Perhaps," she allowed. "But first, you will do as I say."

Maladar's specter glowered at her. Speak, then. What ill you have of me?

She nodded, smiling to herself. It was working. There was some hope, after all. "No great thing," she said. "It's quite simple, really… ."

There was a thin rain along the coast, a cold presage of the coming winter, when the country along the Run would become damp, miserable, and gray. Forlo and his men rode in silence along a thin trail of mud, the drizzle drumming on their helms. They sang no martial songs. Each was lost to his own dark thoughts. When they made camp, they drank their ale by banked fires and slept early. Beyond them, past the cliffs that overlooked the Run, the waters rose and fell, rose and fell, higher each evening and lower each morning than the last. New islands jutted from the sea, growing taller and broader day by day. There were no ships on the Tiderun—the loss of Malt on and Rudil had put a stop to trading, and the fisherfolk had fled south and away from the coming threat. The company's outriders reported no sight of anything on the far shore, but the mist and rain hid much from view.

At last, as the third day was nearing its end, the ground began to slope down, into a deep ravine where a stream trickled into the sea. Dark pines lined the hills to either side, and the broken and charred stub of a tower rose like a skeletal finger from a pinnacle of stone at the gorge's edge, giving a commanding view of the land around. About its base spread a mass of tents, flags, horses and men. Forlo eyed the banners, some part of him hoping to see the colors of other legions, but there were only the red and blue of the Sixth, and precious few of those. The last defense against the Uigan. Nine hundred humans.

And one minotaur.

"So you decided to show up," were Grath's first words to him, coming down from the wrecked tower to greet him. He wore a massive hammer on his belt, an even larger axe across his back, and a grim gleam in his eye. "Damned fool. Bring any help?"

Forlo made a sour face, and said nothing.

"Ah, well." The minotaur shrugged, asking no more. "We should be fine with what we've got, eh?"

"Oh, yes," Forlo said after a moment. "No trouble at all."

Grath nodded to the tower. "Come on up to the eagle's nest. Damn fine view up there."

Forlo nodded to his men and signaled for them to join the rest of the camp. They did so with scarcely a word, and he and Grath went up a flight of steps to the tower. The stones of the spire's upper floors were scattered around its base, moss-bearded and half-buried in the earth. It looked as if the tower had been blown apart. Forlo had been out there before, explored the rubble, and wondered what had destroyed it. Magic, probably, or dragonfire: no siege weapon could have done that. He had the feeling, though, that whatever had shattered the tower had done so from within.

Through the vine-draped archway at the spire's entrance was a great, wide expanse of charred stone. A crumbling staircase wound around its middle up to the point, thirty feet above, where the whole thing ended in broken shards festooned with nests and bird droppings. The two of them climbed to that point, and Grath hoisted himself up and sat upon a cracked finger of rock, swinging his legs out and gazing down upon the ravine far below. It was a precarious perch, but that didn't seem to bother the minotaur. He patted a spot next to him.

"Come on. It's really something to see."

"Thanks, but no," grumbled Forlo. his stomach dropping. He stayed on the stairs, finding a chink to peer through.

It was an astonishing view, as close to a bird's vantage as he'd seen on any battlefield. Miles of land stretched out on all sides, save the north, where the sea lay. It was mostly drained, though not shallow enough to cross, not yet. That would happen the next day, the day after that at the latest. From the tower, he could see the far shore… .

His blood went cold. The northern side of the Run was dark—it seemed to be covered with ants, thousands of them.

"Khot," he swore.

Grath grunted. "They showed up the day before yesterday. More coming every day. I sent a scout out in a punt the first night for a closer look and to get an idea of numbers."

"And?"

"Haven't seen him since."

Forlo grimaced, feeling sorry for the poor bastard who'd had to sail a one-man boat out toward that multitude. What did exact numbers matter, anyway? Two thousand riders would be too many to withstand, and they clearly had far more than that. Five, maybe six times as many. He shook his head.

"They'll come across there," Grath went on, pointing. The ground beyond the ravine's mouth was rocky, with few pockets of silt: a natural bridge, when it was dry. There wasn't another like it, the whole length of the Run. Twenty horses could cross it abreast. "I've got men making pickets across the gap and some sappers digging trenches up the slope. Should slow them down."

"Back them up with pikes," Forlo agreed. "The Uigan are good horsemen, but they don't know formation Fighting. The First waves will break on that, at least."

Grath nodded, grunting.

"Archers on the high ground to either side will pick off any who get through. The main body of swords should be in the ravine. Find a spot where the slope's hard to climb and put them on top. If we pen them in, we can hold them."

"All good ideas," Grath agreed. "There's a ledge halfway along where we could get some skirmishers hidden, too. Hit 'em from behind and cut them off."

Forlo shook his head. "Those men would last about a minute in the press, two if they were lucky. I'd rather have the extra blades on the line. If we had more men, or they had fewer… ."

He fell silent, looking out, then clenched his fist. Gods' spit, this would have been a winnable fight, if he'd had all of the Sixth! Or if the Silvanaes had come. They had plenty of terrain advantage, they had superior tactics, and they had discipline that would hold. All they lacked were numbers!

"It won't work," Grath said, echoing the thoughts in his mind. "We knew it wouldn't. This could be a damned good fight, if things were different, but it'll turn into a rout A slaughter."

"I know," Forlo said, and nothing more.

"You should go," said Grath after a moment. "Take your lady-wife and ride."

"And leave you to die alone?"

"You think I'll be happier knowing you died beside me?"

Forlo shot him a look. "You won't know any better. I'll outlast you."

"I'll take that bet," the minotaur said.

Forlo laughed, a grim sound that died quickly. He turned to look down at the camp and at the men there. They were working hard, readying for the fight. He felt a swell of pride. They were brave men. Yet they must be afraid… only madmen wouldn't be, knowing what lay across the receding water.

Grath pulled out a flask, drank from it and handed it to Forlo. He took a sip. Wine. Good stuff; not the sour sludge the army normally carried. A Theran vintage, if he wasn't mistaken.

"You stole this from Coldhope's cellars," he said, "didn't you?"

The minotaur grinned. "I prefer 'purloined'. More poetic."

Forlo took another drink, then handed it back.

"I'm sorry about the spell," Grath said after a time. "I didn't know what else to do. It broke my heart to see you like you were."

"Yeah, I'm a heartbreaker," Forlo replied, with a sour grin. "That I am."

Grath nodded. "Ondelos has a special place in the Abyss for what he did, I'm sure."

"He'd better," Forlo said, "or what's the point?"

They were silent a while longer, finishing the wine. Grath took the last pull, upended the flask sadly, and tossed it over the edge. It sailed, spinning, down into the ravine.

"Someone will probably write a ballad about this stand," Forlo said, swinging around and hopping back onto the stairs. "The sheer desperate hopelessness of it."

"I had a thought," Grath said, hurrying to follow.

"Not unusual," Forlo replied.

"The married men."

Forlo stopped, eyeing the minotaur. "What about them?"

"I want to make the same offer. Let them leave if they want to, to go back to their wives and their children. I don't expect them all to do it, but some might. They deserve the choice."

Forlo looked hard at Grath, before nodding. "Damn. Now you're breaking my heart. Fair enough. Make the offer."

He turned and looked out to the west. The sun was going down. Soon, the moons would rise, all three of them full. The Run was filling in again. It would be high soon, swamping the mouth of the ravine. Some of the pickets would wash away and need replacing come morning. When dawn came, the sea would disappear entirely. And the Uigan would come.

"I'm glad you're staying, Grath," Forlo said.

The minotaur clapped him on the shoulder. "I was never the marrying kind… Sir."

They stood silent a moment, looking at each other, then went down the steps together. Nothing more needed saying.