Chapter 33

Coldhope Holding, the Imperial League

Hult wanted to tell Forlo, wanted to explain the danger. The shadows they'd killed by the dead soldier—he tried not to think of what the creatures had done to the man, or to their horses—they were kindred to the cloaked figure who had taken control of his master. Like goblins were to men, maybe. There was dark power at work, and he couldn't help but wonder that the creatures were there, so close to where the Uigan horde had fought the imperial soldiers. It seemed too great a coincidence.

A thought began to form in his mind.

He left it alone and concentrated on keeping up. Forlo was moving very fast, keeping a remarkable speed for a man in mail—much less one as weary as he must be. Hult was barely able to keep pace, and he was clad in leather, not steel. But then, Forlo had more at stake. Hult had long since guessed where they were bound. No one moved with such urgency or such wildness in his eyes unless he were heading home.

Neither of them sheathed their swords. It didn't seem wise. More shadow-things lay ahead, surely—maybe even the cloaked man, the Teacher. He wished he knew how to speak the southern tongue, so he could tell Forlo these things. He wished he hadn't been so blind in following Chovuk. As the elders said, though—if wishes were water, no man would die of thirst.

The woods thinned again and moonlight made rosy-gray patches where it leaked through the branches. He could smell the ocean. The salty tang was strong with the great tides at their full extent, covering over the bodies of his people—the ones they hadn't left to burn upon the shore.

On they ran, for miles, neither speaking, neither breaking stride. Up over hills and down into valleys, the moons westering above. Somewhere along the way, Hult forgot his fatigue and fell into that strange state beyond exhaustion, where a man believes he can run forever. The land flowed past, rocks, bushes, and trees. The briny smell grew stronger. He could hear the surf.

The thoughts in his head grew and took shape. If the shadows belonged to the cloaked man… if they had come to this place… had the Teacher only sent the horde as a feint? Had their charge across the Run been meant merely to draw the soldiers away, to distract them from some other target? Did it really matter if Chovuk and his tribesmen lived or died? The killing flood, the one that had come from this direction… ?

No. It was too much. Shaking with rage, Hult ran on.

Then they crested a ridge and Forlo stopped, staring. A castle lay before them: a dark, cliff-perching shape amid sea-mist that glowed silver in Solis's light. Surf exploded against rocks beyond it. There was no movement, no light, and no sound save the roaring waves. The place was silent as a tomb.

The darkness moved. Hult saw something, spun, and drove his shuk into its heart. The shadow-devil shrieked—that ungodly noise, the sound of damnation—and tore apart. He let his momentum carry him through its dissolving wisps, then turned slowly, watching around. He expected more, but there was nothing, no other danger nearby.

He heard a sound, the rattle of steel, and turned to look at Forlo. Their eyes met. Together they were ready.

All the times he'd come home. All the times he'd felt that fear, that moment when he was sure the place would be in ruins, or burned. All the times he'd been certain Essana was dead. He'd thought it foolish then and hoped it was foolish now.

Coldhope wasn't toppled. There had been no fire. As far as Forlo could tell, its walls were intact and as strong as when he'd left. But looking down on the keep from atop the ridge, he knew it was a dead place. The watchfires were out and there was no lamp-glow in the windows. The silence made his skin cold.

"Isn't it enough?" he railed, looking up at the wheeling stars, the gods' signs blazoned across the sky. "We won the battle and defeated the enemy. Isn't that enough for your bloodthirst?"

The heavens did not answer.

He understood, then. The Uigan had been a part of it. They had drawn him away, pulled away all the good warriors and left Coldhope vulnerable. The shadows had come and had met no resistance. Gods. Had the flood been part of the grand scheme, too? Had Shedara, willingly or no?

He wished again that he knew the Uigan tongue. He had questions upon questions, and only Hult to answer them. Half of him just wanted to run the barbarian through and be done with it, to satisfy himself with petty revenge. But common sense stayed his hand. There would be time for vengeance later, if needed. For now, the young Uigan seemed a useful extra sword.

More shadows sprang at them, swarming out of the dark. Forlo twisted around and leaped at them recklessly, leading with his blade. It worked well enough, cutting two of the creatures to ribbons and giving the others pause. Hult moved in alongside, his shuk weaving through the air. Hopeless, distant voices cried out as the two of them cut through the living night.

Then it was over, the slain shadows no more tangible than smoke, fading in the air. There were some left, but they drew back, melting into the blackness once more. The short, stubbly hairs on Forlo's scalp stood erect as he wondered how many more lurked out there. He leaned on his sword, breathing hard, fear gnawing his heart. He looked down at Coldhope, for once befitting its name. In his heart, he knew it was his home no more.

And Essana?

That was the question. Had the elf escaped with her? Had they taken the Hooded One? Blue banner or no blue banner, he knew Shedara would have had the wits to flee if it seemed the keep might be overwhelmed. But had she had time?

There was only one way to know. So, trying to swallow the fear that clogged his throat, Forlo set out down the road toward the keep. Home from battle, for the last time.

So quiet. So still.

The two guards he'd left lay at their posts, torn open and drained bloodless. The one who still had eyes—the crows had been busy with the other—stared in glassy horror, or total shock. The eyeless man had drawn steel and died with it in hand; his partner had not. The shadows had struck by surprise and killed them swiftly. Perhaps Coldhope's defenders had slain some of their enemy; perhaps not. There was no way to tell, for the shadows left no corpses.

Spray rose from the bursting surf, beyond the northern wall. The waves were like voices, speaking words Forlo couldn't recognize. His own blood, pounding in his ears, almost drowned them out. Hult glanced around, wary. Saber ready as they stood over the bodies. Forlo knew the men's names. Davin and Ramal. Both had been family men and had stayed behind to guard the keep because of it.

The doors of the manor stood slightly ajar and the crack between them was dark. No light burned within, so he found a torch that had fallen in the fighting. It was still good; he struck sword against stone, made a spark, and got it lit. When the flame was bright enough to see by, he climbed the steps, his heart hammering. It was very dark inside: all the lanterns were out. He nudged the doors open, making room, and went in. Hult followed, always two steps behind him, blade ready.

He almost stepped on Voss, who was sprawled just inside the house, facedown, his hand reaching toward the doors. Whatever killed him had ripped his back open—it looked like claw marks, running deep enough to crack ribs and cleave his heart in two. The master of Coldhope's servants had perished trying to shut the doors. Forlo's eyes darted back and forth, across the great hall. The windows were dim, letting only pale, milky light through. The whole building was riddled with welling pools of blackness.

Starlight, he thought. He did not call. Be gone, my love. Tell me you had the sense to flee this…

They went from room to room, covering the lowest floor of the keep first. Bodies were everywhere: servants killed as they worked, or tried to flee. Forlo saw it vividly in his mind: the darkness roiling through his home, utterly silent, murdering without mercy, draining the blood from its victims. Hult was very pale beside him, his lips moving, invoking his people's gods. Death on the battlefield or in a raid was one thing, an expected sight. This was entirely different. This was slaughter.

Still no Essana. He went back to the main hall, to the curving stair that led to the upper floors. He paused and glanced sideways at the cellar door. It stood open, yawning blackness beyond. The sight made him shiver, and for a moment he thought of going in—but just then he heard something from above: a faint clank and what sounded like a muffled curse. A woman's voice.

He looked at Hult. The young barbarian was staring up the steps, like a hound that had just found a scent. He'd heard it too.

"Star—" he began to call. His voice caught in his throat, and he coughed to clear it. "Essana? Are you there?"

For a moment, no answer. Then, from above, a cry.

"Forlo?"

It wasn't his wife. It was the elf.

He ran up the steps, two at a time, Hult scrambling beside him. His throat was tight, his brow cold with sweat. There was light up here—orange glimmered, beneath the door of the main bedchamber. He ran at it and kicked it open. The latch splintered and the frame cracked, leaving the door hanging from one hinge as he stormed inside.

Shedara stood there, back flat against the wall, a dagger in each hand. Her clothing was torn, and there were bloodless scratches on her face, legs, and arms. Dark circles stood out beneath her eyes. Candles burned around her, half a circle of them, two paces wide. They had melted down to stubs, some guttering, some out, a few still flickering. One had fallen over—the clank of the stick had been the sound he'd heard from below.

Shadows filled the room, too: half a dozen of them at the edge of the light, held back as though by solid stone. They reacted at once to the crash of the door, twisting sinuously to face Forlo and Hult. Swords went to work. Voices screamed. Behind the fell creatures, Shedara leaped forward, plunging her knives into one of the fiends from behind. It shrieked and unraveled. So did two others, cut in half by Forlo's and Hult's blades. The last three moved to take their place.

A talon of darkness got past Forlo's armor and gouged his wrist. The wound burned like ice, with no warmth of blood after. He bit his tongue to keep from crying out and lashed back with his blade. He saw it swipe through the shadow. The shadow screamed. Hult destroyed another a heartbeat later, then leaped at the last. It twisted away from his flashing shuk—and right onto the waiting tips of Shedara's knives.

The doomed wailing faded away; the shadows melted to nothing. Forlo dropped his sword and slumped against the wall, clutching his arm. He looked around the room. It was destroyed, everything smashed or torn apart. The shadows had been furious, waiting for the candles to go out, for the elf’s wall of light to crumble.

Shedara stumbled to the ravaged bed and sat down on it, head bowed. Hult stared at her, confused.

"What happened?" Forlo asked.

The elf bowed her head, sighing as if every woe in the world was on her shoulders. "I cast the spell that caused the flood," she said. "I invoked the Hooded One to do it. I thought I was clever… but it was what they'd been waiting for, the shadows. They took the statue, Forlo… it's gone. And now he's awake."

Forlo put a hand to his brow and shook his head. Too much. He just wanted to sleep. Hult looked from one to the other, not understanding.

"We have to get it back," Shedara said.

He nodded, looking up at her, all his fear and dread plain on his face.

She looked away. "They took her too."

Forlo's knees gave out He slid down the wall and hit the floor hard. Hult took a step toward him and Forlo held up a hand. He sat there with his eyes burning and his face in his hands. "Where?" he asked after a time.

"I don't know," she said. "There was a dragon… a black dragon. I tried to get to Essana… but there were so many. By the time I fought my way up, it was too late. I saw it fly away with her. Barreth, you must believe me."

"I do," he said. It hit him, then—he knew what else they'd taken. She still carried their child, their unborn son.

Hult went to the window and looked out. A moment later he came back, holding something in his hands. It was a scale, huge and lustrous black, like a platter of obsidian. He turned it over in his hands.

Forlo felt like someone had driven a spear through him. He could barely breathe. "I have to get her back," he groaned.

"I know," Shedara said. "And worse yet, the statue. If Maladar gets free—"

With effort, Forlo pushed himself to his feet. He looked at the other two, feeling helpless. "So what do we do now?"

"Gods," Shedara said, and shook her head. "I don't know."