Chapter 31

Coldhope Keep, the Imperial League

Shedara hadn't breathed for minutes. Black spots danced before her eyes and roaring filled her ears. She stood rigid, back arched, every muscle tensed—balanced on her toes, as if any moment the power coursing through her body might lift her off the ground. Her fingers curled into claws. Magic seethed in the air of the vault, making it glow like a thundercloud at night—more power than she'd ever felt before. Intoxicating.

Maladar's ghost hovered before her, gloved hands outstretched, almost touching her face. He, too, was afire with the moons' power, not just Nuvis but its red and silver cousins as well.

Together, they watched it happen. The quake, far away, beneath the Boiling Sea; the rising swells that swept out from it, making towering waves that battered the seaward edges of the Steamwalls and the burning lands to the east; and the column of water that broke high over the edge of the Tiderun, then thundered along its length, mile after mile, without mercy. She caught sight of the distant figures of the Uigan horde, spread out across the Run, panicking. She watched them die, thousands of men drowned and crushed by the watery hammer.

The wave carried on. There were many leagues yet to go before it spent itself, washing on to the distant western ocean. She didn't need to see that happen, though. The deed was done and there was no use dwelling on it. She prayed to whatever gods might be listening that it was enough—that it had bought victory, or at least the chance of victory, for Forlo and his men. She hoped they weren't already dead. She wished she would be forgiven for her terrible act, for her collusion with darkness to slaughter so many men.

"Enough," she spoke through gritted teeth… and released the spell.

The magic boiled away and flashed through the air like crimson lightning before fading into motes that fell around her like snow. She exhaled, lungs burning. Bowing her head, she stood trembling in the dark.

"That was a fell thing we did," said the spirit. Not an accusation—simply a statement of fact. Perhaps a note of approval in his voice, even amusement. It was hard to tell, with no face to read.

"It was… for the good," Shedara gasped. "It… had to be… done."

Maladar laughed. "Oh? Where is it written that all things necessary are good? I know better, lady of the Silvanaes Sometimes the things that must happen are terrible and foul. If you learn nothing else from this day, know that. Triumph has its cost."

Shedara looked at him, at the wretched mad king. Disgust rose in her throat, bitter.

"It is finished," she said. "Go back to your rest."

"My prison, you mean," the faceless specter said, the voice thick with derision. It folded its hands in its sleeves. "And if I do not wish to?"

Shedara shivered at the arrogance in the voice—not groundless pride, to be sure. Maladar was powerful. But the spell still bound him; the threads of silver light held him fast to the Hooded One. "Not your choice to make," she said. "I compel you. I control you. I hold the power here."

"Then release me!" cried the ghost. "Free me from this captivity! You have that power too."

He left it unspoken, but his tone promised rewards. Riches, power, and knowledge. The bonds holding him were frail; it would be so easy to sever them, to set him loose in the world again. She felt his ancient evil, poised to spring. She smelled it in the air, the attar of night-blooming flowers—not very different from the gray lotus. She had tasted his might: the same power that had slain armies and brought entire provinces to ruin, centuries ago. It had taken a company of archmages to stop him and to imprison him in the stone. It would only take a word to let him go.

"Please, Shedara," he said.

Her mouth opened, tongue set to form the first sound. Maladar had been imprisoned in the statue for ten human lifetimes. His grandchildren's grandchildren, if any of his progeny had even survived, were long since moldering bones. His name and all his deeds were all but forgotten—only sages still knew of him.

"Have I not suffered enough?" he asked.

She stared at him, long and hard. There was no real penitence there, no sorrow for the evils he had wrought. Beneath the false humility she saw the beast he was, and had always been. It was spiteful, vengeful, and cruel: a twisted, pale thing with claws. She thought of the Voice, and her fear at the thought that this wicked man might one day enter the world of the living once more. The statue must be destroyed, Thalaniya had said.

And Thalaniya had died for it, at the hands of the shadows.

Shedara bit her tongue hard and tasted the iron tang of blood. She shook herself, throwing off the specter's allure. He writhed, knowing she would not do his bidding. His form swelled, growing taller than her—seven feet, eight, nine. The room grew painfully cold. She spat red on the floor.

"Go back now," she said thickly, past the swelling in her mouth. "Return to the darkness of stone."

Silence. The spirit glared at her from the depths of its hood. Then, with swift violence, the silver bonds that held it grew taut. Maladar screamed with rage.

"I am awakened!" he cried, his voice shrill, shaking the stones. "I will not sleep again! My time will come, and you will suffer for denying me!"

"Maybe," Shedara said. "But not today."

With a final push of willpower, she flung her arm out in a sweeping, dismissive gesture. The bonds pulled back at him, yanking him back toward the Hooded One. He fought, snarling, but the spell's power was too great for him to resist. With a final, wrathful howl, Maladar vanished into the statue once more.

Shedara sucked air into her lungs, then bowed her head and began to shake. How close had she come? What had she nearly done? Tears spilled down her cheeks. For several minutes, she did not move. Finally, wiping her eyes, she looked up.

And screamed.

The statue had changed.

The hood had fallen back to reveal the face beneath—a face no sculptor could ever carve—a horror that had haunted her nightmares, ever since she had first glimpsed Maladar in the pool. Its eyes and nose were staring sockets, its mouth lipless, and its upper teeth were bared above a jawless hole. Flesh ran like candle wax down from the hairless scalp to hang in glistening loops from the ruined cheeks. Here and there the flesh had bubbled away—particularly on the hairless scalp—to bare the smoothness of the skull beneath. Behind that ghastly visage, she felt a presence, and knew at once that what Maladar had said was no empty threat. He was awake, and watching her from within the stone. Watching and hating.

Cringing, she turned away, and cried out again.

The darkness behind her came alive, small shriveled forms breaking free of the gloom to surround her, push her down, and overwhelm her: the broken shadow-things that once had been kender, that had followed the statue's trail across the breadth of Hosk. Shedara's cries choked off into a strangled pitiful moan. She had failed, she realized as the world slipped away from her, spinning off into dark.

The shadows had found the Hooded One at last.

An old man, Forlo thought, staring at the stooped, sobbing figure who knelt on the stone before him. The Boyla's white hair had spilled free from his braid and strands were plastered to his scalp with sweat. He bled from numerous small wounds, though only a gouge in his cheek seemed very deep. He looked feeble and spent—Forlo felt a surge of pity for this wreck of a man and had to fight it back. This man was responsible for the ruins of Malton and Rudil, and for the deaths of many of his men—including Grath—and nearly his own. It was hard to reconcile that with what he saw before him, though.

His eyes rose to the young Uigan who stood nearby. A protector. The riders had a name for his role, but Forlo couldn't remember what it was. He looked tired too, and though he held a bloody saber in his hand Forlo knew he wasn't about to use it. Their eyes met, and all he saw in the youth's gaze was loss. The battle was over for him.

There had been magic in the air. He'd felt it. Now it was gone, and he wondered why. Had the Boyla's power simply run out? Had some ally abandoned him? Yes, that had to be it. The lines of betrayal were furrowed like canyons on the old man's face.

The ruler of the Uigan looked up. His eyes were wrathful, bloodshot pits—but a man's eyes now, not a tiger's. Slowly he rose, his legs shaking a little. He was tall for a horseman, but still shorter than Forlo. He bared his teeth and spat, then turned to his young companion.

"Tenach," he said in his strange tongue. "Shuk yani chan."

The youth paled, bit his lip. "Ardang—"

"Yani shuk!"

The Boyla held out an age-spotted hand, anger breaking his voice. The youth looked at Forlo, looked at his master, and bowed his head. Then, with resignation, he handed the old man his sword.

Forlo raised his blade, instinct taking over. It saved his life: no sooner did the Boyla have the saber in his hand than he leaped forward, shouting a fierce warcry while shoving the tip of the blade at Forlo's face. Even on his guard, Forlo barely turned the weapon aside, swiping with his own blade to knock it wide. The shuk scraped the tower's battlements as the Boyla leaped back down the steps. He was naked, but he did not care. Forlo launched three rapid swings—a high cut, a low thrust, and a feint to the man's shoulder that turned toward his hip. The old man blocked them all with ease, his lip curling. The song of steel on steel echoed across the canyon, where the clash between horde and cohort was dying.

There was no point to the fight, no real victory the Boyla could gain. Even if he killed Forlo, he wouldn't survive much longer in lands overrun with his foes. But the Boyla wanted revenge, and he came on shrieking. He was strong and quick—too much so, for one who looked so ancient. Forlo caught his first strike with his shield, but the follow-through was blindingly quick, and his parry came clumsily. The slash was stomach-high, and Forlo deflected it, partly. The saber found a chink between his armor and cut his shoulder—not deep, but painful. Yelling, Forlo pounded the man with his shield, sent him staggering back again. The Boyla lost his balance, dropping to one knee but coming back up again.

Warm blood ran down Forlo's arm. The Boyla grinned when he saw it, and hurled himself forward.

Forlo's sword was already moving to meet him, and the old man had to duck and twist to dodge the blow. He spun as he did so, his foot coming around in a wheeling kick that struck Forlo in the knee. More pain exploded, and Forlo dropped onto the stairs with a crash of mail. He struggled to rise, but the Boyla was on him, his saber pressing toward Forlo's throat.

Khot, he was strong! He bore down with a madman's might, barking curses in his language, and spittle flecking his lips. Forlo couldn't do anything with his left arm, weighted by his shield and pinned by the Boyla's knee. With his right he let go of his sword and got his arm up to block the shuk—the blade's edge rasped against his metal vambraces. Forlo kicked and shoved, trying to throw the old man off him.

The Boyla's face bore down, close to his, his teeth bared to bite. His breath reeked of blood. The wild fury in his eyes was terrifying. Looking into them Forlo knew the man wouldn't hesitate. Those teeth would clamp down on his face, grind through flesh and gristle, and gnaw all the way down to his skull if he got the chance. With a grunt, he thrust his own head forward, felt the brow of his helm pound into the Boyla's nose and heard bone snap, followed by a howling.

There was blood everywhere. The old man fell back, clawing his face and yelling. Forlo heaved himself back to his feet, grabbed his sword, then came on as hard and fast as he could.

Even then, with his broken nose smeared across his left cheek, the Boyla was ready for him. He moved like a dancer, spinning, dodging, leaping forward, and drawing back. Blade caught blade again and again. In all his years at war, Forlo had never faced someone so skilled. Not even Duke Rekhaz could handle a sword as well.

The shuk won past his defenses again: another grazing blow, this time across his thigh. It slowed him and made his footing less sure. To his left the central shaft of the ruined tower yawned: one bad step that way, and it would be over. He leaned the other direction instinctively, just as the Boyla's foot came around again and struck him in the side.

His armor saved his ribs from breaking, and probably hurt the old man worse than the kick had hurt him, but it still knocked the wind from Forlo's lungs and sent him staggering. The old man hurled himself forward again, but this time Forlo was ready, turning to swipe the rim of his shield in a whistling arc. It struck the Boyla's sword arm and again there was the snap of bone—louder this time, a nauseating sound Forlo knew well from the battlefield. The saber clattered down on the stairs and the Boyla screamed, clutching an arm that hung limp and useless above the elbow. A jagged white spur of bone poked through the flesh, bringing blood with it in pulsing bursts.

Forlo shoved off the wall and got his balance back. Time to end this, he thought, bringing his sword down.

The old man twisted aside from the killing blow, grabbed the fallen saber with his left hand and came up again. His broken arm flapped horribly, blood bathing it from elbow to wrist. He swung the blade around nimbly, though, and Forlo had to jerk his head back to avoid a mouthful of steel. Pain razored across his lower lip, splitting it open. He spat blood.

He glared at the Boyla: crippled, disfigured, and unclothed—but somehow still alive and still intent on this last kill. The old man snarled something unintelligible in a mocking tone. He swung the saber in long, swooping arcs, faster with each loop, until it became a gray blur around him. Forlo stopped trying to track the blade, focusing on the old man's eyes instead. Death hung in the air, Filling the space between them.

He raised his sword. "Come on, then," he said.

The old man charged. They slammed into each other. Steel pierced flesh. When they parted, Forlo's sword was no longer in his hand.

He'd left it in the Boyla's belly.

The old man sank to his knees, staring at the weapon lodged in his flesh, halfway to the quillons. Dark blood poured from the wound—a vein severed. It was a killing blow. He opened his mouth to speak, but more blood came out that way, too, so he smiled instead, ghastly. Forlo turned away, unable to look at the mad delight on that ruined face, and stumbled up the steps.

It was only when he heard running feet behind him that he realized his mistake, and cold horror washed over him. He'd forgotten about the other rider.

Hult watched his master fall, the tip of their enemy's sword sticking out the small of his back. Dark blood ran out of the wound, promising death. He grieved, and yet also felt a certain relief. Chovuk would not have to live long with the shame of his defeat.

He hurried to his master's side, knelt, and eased him down onto his side. The aged face was white and his eyes were cloudy with pain. He tried to speak, but couldn't. There would be no last words for Chovuk Boyla, no repentance for his misdeeds.

Somehow, he still held the shuk. Now he glanced at it and raised it feebly. Hult obeyed. He nearly had to break his master's fingers to pry the blade loose. When he did, Chovuk relaxed and tilted his head back to bare his throat.

There were three duties left to a tenach when his master lay dying, three lives he must take. His master's. The killer's. His own.

Hult laid the saber against Chovuk's throat. He saw tears in his master's eyes: it should not have ended this way. No one could have foreseen the horde smashed, the Boyla's defeat, perhaps the end of the Uigan nation. The world was a cruel place, sometimes.

"Jijin welcome you," Hult said, and cut.

Chovuk thrashed once, then lay still.

Drenched in his master's blood, Hult rose and ran a few steps towards the way the southerner had gone. The man turned and stood facing him, his eyes on the saber in Hult's hand. He had no sword of his own; it was still in Chovuk's body. He shrugged off his shield and let it fall with a clang onto the flagstones. An unarmed opponent: it would be a quick kill, easy to end this one, then put the shuk through his own heart. It was the way of things, it was what he was trained to do. Tenachai had been doing it for as long as the Uigan had been around.

Hult stared at the man who had slain his master. The man nodded, understanding. His eyes were full of grief. Hult raised the saber, catching the sunlight on its blade.

And flung it away.