Chapter 32

Tiderun Shore, the Imperial League

The sword seemed to fly forever, flashing as it spun end over end. Forlo watched it go, over the edge of the tower, over the cliffside and into the space above the ravine. It dropped out of sight, down through the trees onto the rocks below. He heard it hit, the faint, musical clang.

They stood there facing each other, him and the young barbarian, with the Boyla's body sprawled on the steps. Forlo knew little of Uigan custom, but he knew what had just happened was not their way. The riders were hard people, vengeful, and merciless—and yet this young man, who could have cut him to pieces with little trouble, had spared him.

What now?

The man said something he didn't understand. He clapped his chest and repeated it. "Ajan tu Hult chana. Chana Hult."

Forlo stared, perplexed. Then it came to him: the man was telling him his name. He pointed. "Chana?"

The barbarian shook his head. "Hult! Hult chana."

"Hult," repeated Forlo. He touched his own breastplate. "Forlo."

"Furro."

He nodded—close enough. Tried smiling, but the Uigan didn't mimic him, so he gave up. Again, he wondered what to do, and again the man answered for him. Nodding his head, Hult turned and walked down the stairs alone. Forlo watched him go, then descended to where the Boyla lay. His sword was still there, the wound bloodless around it. The flesh had sunk and shriveled—magic, it had to be. It had mostly fled him when his tiger-shape had failed, and the rest had gone when he died.

Forlo stared at the body. It would be burned that night They would dispose of all the Uigan that way, in a heap. Forlo bent down, took the hilt of his blade in hand, put a foot on the Boyla's shoulder and yanked the sword free. He wiped it clean on the hem of his cloak and slid it back in its sheath. He bent down, closed the dead man's eyes, and went down the stairs.

The young barbarian was waiting at the bottom. Again, as he had after the duel, Forlo was afraid he'd made a mistake. The Uigan had rid himself of his saber, but surely he still had a knife. He might have been poised to spring, to ambush him, and to cut his throat. But Hult had no weapon in hand. He stood calmly, watching, his face blank.

But not his eyes.

There was a world of pain in Hult's gaze. Sighing, Forlo turned to walk down to the ravine and to his men. He didn't have to look to see the boy was following.

The fighting was over by the time they got there. The Uigan were all dead, except for a few who had managed to flee into the woods. The cohort's surviving commander, a gray haired soldier named Culos, shouted for his men to spread out into the wild, to hunt down the barbarians before they caused more trouble. Elsewhere, the soldiers stacked the dead upon dry wood, hungry for the torch. There would be a good blaze that night. Their own they laid on their shields, to carry away. Only the defeated were burned on the battlefield.

Of the eight hundred and fifty-six men who had stood against the horde that morning, five hundred and fourteen lay dead. Another hundred and twenty-two were wounded; perhaps half of them would die before they found help. Grath lay in a place of honor among the corpses, his torn and ravaged form obscured by a cloak. He held his greataxe, laid upon his breast. The men joked that the promise of another fight might be enough to bring him back to life. Forlo knew better, and knelt at his friend's side for a long time, speaking gently, words no one else could hear. Or should. Then he rose and walked on, among the heroic dead.

There would be songs of that day, about the men who had fallen. They would be triumphant ballads on the near side of the Run. On the other, dirges. That was war.

The young barbarian following him received either suspicious or baleful glances from the soldiers. Forlo waved away their concern.

When he followed Forlo down from the tower, Hult was almost certain he was walking to his death. The soldiers wanted revenge, and he didn't fault them for it. They had all lost comrades, and nearly their own lives, because of his people and his master. A few spat while others made lewd gestures. Discipline kept their swords sheathed.

The Uigan would have killed him on the spot, would have cut off his hands, his feet, and other parts, and would have ridden their horses over his mutilated body, as they had done to Hoch and Sugai. They would have left what remained for the jackals and skyfishers.

He expected a victory speech from Forlo, some sort of rallying call. But the man who had killed his master said nothing to the soldiers—all of them human, only the one dead minotaur Chovuk had killed. The man's shoulders shook as he surveyed the battle-leavings and waded through mud and blood down to the edge of the water. The deluge had receded, back down the slope. The Run was half-empty again, the water dropping anew. Soon it would be dry once more, the Lost Road exposed again.

Hult kept several paces away from Forlo, wondering why he was following the enemy commander. Chovuk was awaiting him, in Jijin's halls. Death was all that remained for him—and yet, deep down, he didn't want to die. Some part of him wanted to keep living, perhaps to make amends. Perhaps to kill this man later. He truly didn't know.

At the water's edge, Forlo turned and met his gaze. He raised a hand to gesture across the water and said something. Hult didn't know the words, but he understood somehow, and it made his breath falter. The man was offering to let him go. If he wanted, once the waters ran out he could walk back across, to the steppes and prairies. Home. By winter, he would be back among his people, camped at Undermouth beneath the Hill of Lost Voices. He could almost hear the wind in the grasses.

But Hult shook his head. That part of his life was over. He would never find peace on the plains now.

They stood together at the edge of the dwindling sea, the sun westering above. Then Forlo glanced to his right, narrowed his eyes, and walked over to pick something up. He turned and held it out to Hult.

His shuk.

Hult hesitated, his eyes locking with Forlo's. The strangeness of the moment unnerved him. Warily he came forward, reached out, and took the saber's hilt in his hand. Forlo smiled, then turned and started back up the slope again. Hult watched him go. Then, sheathing his blade, he followed.

Hult could have run. The men of the cohort left him alone, busy as they were attending to the dead. Forlo paid him only enough heed to make sure he wasn't coming at him with steel bared. Yet he remained, and this said something to Forlo. There was an honor to this Hult that he couldn't help but admire. Killing the Boyla had linked their lives.

Which left the question: what to do with him? Forlo couldn't exactly ride into Kristophan accompanied by a warrior of the enemy. Now wasn't the time to decide, though. It was better to finish things at Coldhope first, before worrying about such matters. There were more immediate considerations.

Essana, for one.

Iver had the blue banner. Even now, he was galloping to the keep like half the Abyss was chasing him. He had much of a day's head start, and there was no way to make that up. Forlo would have to go to Coldhope first, then find Shedara's trail and chase the elf down. Best to get started.

Culos wasn't Grath, but he was a capable commander and deserved some recognition for leading the final victorious push against the Uigan, so Forlo put him in charge of cleaning up after the battle. The cohort would hunt down the last of the horsemen, hold the necessary funerals, and head cast in two days. By that time Forlo hoped to have caught up with Shedara and his wife. When he returned with them, the soldiers would be rested and ready to rejoin the rest of the Sixth. He and Culos shared a laugh at the thought of Rekhaz's surprise to see them alive. Then, his wounds bound, his wineflask and foodpouch full, he took the reins of a fresh horse and led it up out of the ravine.

Hult came after. Of course.

Forlo looked back at the young Uigan, walking behind him. He would run all the way to Coldhope, if it came to it—would follow his trail even after Forlo had well outstripped the lad. He thought of that and shrugged.

"Well," he told Hult, knowing full well the young man couldn't understand a word, "you'd better get mounted up, I suppose."

There were a number of Uigan horses left alive: marvelous, proud beasts that would fetch a good price at market. The soldiers were loath to give up their spoils, but acquiesced when Forlo insisted. Hult picked a fine chestnut stallion with black fetlocks and a speckled muzzle. It was ornery in the soldiers' care, but the barbarian calmed it with a word, and it became as tame as a plough-horse when he climbed into the saddle. He gathered the reins in one hand, laid the other on the hilt of his saber, and gave Forlo a firm nod.

They rode, the dusk deepening behind them.

It was two days from the ravine to Coldhope. Forlo hoped to make it in a day and a half—about what Iver could manage. He watched for signs of the young guardsman's passage as he and Hult galloped along the road, through forest and over hills, slowing only to ford shallow, rocky streams along the way. Iver's trail was clear, the ground freshly trampled: a blind ogre could have followed it.

Hult said nothing the whole time, lost in his own thoughts. The Uigan had no idea where they were going, or why—how could he?—but he didn't seem curious, either. Born to follow, Forlo thought, studying his blank face askance. If he grieved for his former master, he showed no sign. If he grew weary from fighting and riding with no pause to rest… well, perhaps he could sleep in the saddle. The Uigan were rumored to do that.

Forlo's thoughts kept straying ahead, across the miles, to the castle clinging to its crag above the Run. He thought of Essana, standing on the battlements, waiting for some sign of what had become of her husband. He thought of Shedara, abducting his wife when the blue banner appeared. By the second sunset after the battle they would be moving, on toward the uplands. They would think him dead. It would tear Essana in two, though they both had been certain when they parted that they would never meet again in this world. He wept to think of her mourning him, then cheered himself with thoughts of the joy in her face when he found her again.

The night moved on and the leagues passed with it. He ran a hand over his eyes, burning and heavy-lidded. It had been long since he'd slept. Hult remained passive and untroubled. The moons rose, drawing the tides back high and hard. By the time Lunis and Solis hung fat overhead, he knew Iver must have reached Coldhope. It would lay dark and quiet when Forlo and Hult got there. Abandoned.

Then he crested a ridge and hauled on his reins to bring his mount to a halt. The horse whinnied and reared, nearly throwing him. Alongside, Hult stopped his steed with ease, and together they sat atop the rise, looking down into a hollow below, where reeds crowded the banks of a shallow creek. There was something down there among the cattails.

Even in double moonlight, it was hard to make out what it was. It seemed as if the darkness itself had thickened, gathering into pools beside the brook. Amid the blackness, something lay upon the ground—no, two somethings. Forlo squinted, but couldn't see what they were.

A wave of cold washed over him. Beside him, Hult stiffened, the color draining from his face. Reaching across his body, he drew his shuk. The blade made no sound as it cleared its scabbard. Shivering, Forlo did the same, his sword gleaming in the moons' light. It felt heavy in his hand. Gods, he was tired!

The movement was enough. Below, the shadow-pools shifted, held still for a long, breathless moment—then seemed to dissolve, flowing away to meld with the night. As they did, the shapes on the ground became clear, and Forlo caught his breath, nearly choking at what he saw there.

They had been a horse and a man, once, but only the size gave them away. Of the bodies, little remained but shreds of flesh, drained bloodless gray. And lying close by, in a forgotten heap not far away, were the ragged remains of a banner. It was impossible to tell colors in the silver-red glow, but Forlo knew the cloth was blue.

He shivered again.

Hult jumped down from his horse, as nimble as a man newly rested. He glanced around, his sword ready. Watching him, Forlo had a thought: he knows what has happened here. He knows what those shadows were. And I don't know his tongue to ask!

He dismounted as well, calming his nervous horse with a word and a touch. The air felt bitter cold. His breath frosted before him, and he knew it wasn't just fear. Something was there. He glanced around, looking for some sign of the things that had murdered poor Iver. There was nothing, though—only the dark, swaying forms of trees, blocking out the stars.

Hult muttered something in his language and kissed the knuckles of his left hand. An invocation to his people's gods, probably. Standing in the darkness, waiting for something to kill him, Forlo wished he believed in any god enough to pray for his life.

The night came alive.

It was so swift, he barely had time to react. Only two paces to his right, the darkness thickened, coalescing into something with the shape of a very short man. The black form slid toward him without a sound and struck his sword arm, latching on with what felt like shards of jagged ice. He yelled and tried to shake it off, but it held him fast. His arm went numb, as if it had frozen on the spot. His fingers locked around the hilt of his sword, as stiff as if they were carven rock. Acting on instinct, he balled his left hand into a fist and tried to punch the thing.

His swing found nothing; it was like fighting smoke. His fist lost all sensation as it passed through the shadow, then felt as if a thousand pins were sticking it as the feeling returned.

The shadow shook him, and he felt flesh tear—but no pain. He was too numb for that. Its weight—how could it have weight when there was nothing there?—bore him down and forced him to his knees, then let go. The darkness gathered before his face. He knew that when it struck again its cold would flow down his throat, find his heart, and kill him. Clutching his injured arm, he searched around for some way to stop it.

A curved blade came down and cut through the shadow's midst. There was a distant wail, as of something trapped deep beneath the earth, and the darkness ripped apart, turning to twisting wisps. Then, nothing: it was gone. Hult stood in its place, pale and grim, his shuk's blade rimed with frost. He reached out and offered his hand to help Forlo rise.

The other shadow hit Hult from behind, and he screamed as its dark talons sank deep around his calves. It yanked him back, and the violence of it made him drop his saber. Forlo watched the darkness drag the barbarian toward the dark line of the woods. Hult grabbed hold of a pale trunk and held on as his attacker pulled and pulled, struggling to haul him away. Forlo understood, just as he'd known when he faced his own death a moment ago, that if Hult's grip loosened, if the shadows got him into the trees, he would be lost.

Run, some part of his mind begged. He was your enemy two days ago and you owe him nothing. Only Essana matters—leave him and go.

Hult did not cry out. Veins stood out in his neck as he strove against the shadows. The tree began to bend and to crack. Forlo ran to him.

He nearly died for it. His arm was still tingling, and his sword felt as though it were made of lead. His first feeble swing missed the shadow entirely—came closer, in fact, to hitting Hult. The young barbarian swore in Uigan and jabbered something else.

"I know, I know," Forlo said, recovering his balance from the wide slash. He drew the blade back, held it poised, then thrust hard, right at the heart of the shadow.

Again the scream, the howl of a damned soul. Again, the shadows tore apart. Hult fell to the ground, his legs pierced and gouged, and he lay still, groaning. After a moment he looked up. Forlo nodded, offering his hand—as the Uigan had done, just before the shadows attacked him. Hult took it and struggled back to his feet. Together, they turned and saw the third shadow.

It had come up, silent as death, and killed both their horses while they weren't looking. It hovered over the animals' bodies—pale and torn, but no blood to be seen—glaring at them. Its face was a horrid visage, the merry grin of a kender turned wasted, gray, and terrible. Its eyes were pools of lightless black and its teeth were long, cruel needles. The two men exchanged glances, then strode forward, swords brandished. The shadow-kender leaped—and perished on their blades, ripping away to nothing with a despairing groan.

Hult went over to the horses and paused a moment, his lips moving in silent prayer. Then he bent down and grabbed their supply pouches from the saddles. He threw one to Forlo and kept the other. They looked at each other again. They had saved each other's lives now. Whatever strange bond had formed between them had deepened.

There wasn't much left of Iver, and no more story for his body to tell. The shadows had killed him, then paused to feed on his body, or something. He'd never made it to Coldhope—which meant Shedara had never seen the signal of defeat. She would still be there, and Essana too. That thought gladdened Forlo for a moment, before another hammered it down.

There must be more out there.

His heart pounding, he turned and started up the far side of the hollow, striding briskly on toward his home. Hult followed.