The Gates of Winter by Mark Anthony

first topic that came to mind. “How many men has Calavan been able to raise?”
    Once again, she had miscalculated. Boreas's visage darkened, and his hands became fists. “It seems even my own barons grow stingy these days. They think they can fulfill their oaths of fealty by sending me but seventy knights and two hundred foot. All the more reason my son and Lady Aryn must wed quickly. I would have at least one baron who is loyal to me.”
    Grace had at least hoped for good news from Calavan. Even with these new forces, that gave them fewer than five hundred men. Five hundred to stand against the entire army of the Pale King. It was like throwing a pebble at a river in an effort to dam it.
    Her thoughts must have been plain to see, for Boreas moved close and touched her cheek. His hand was rough and warm.
    “Do not despair yet, my lady.” His voice was low, rumbling through her chest. “The muster I called as king has yielded us little, but I have sent out another call to war, one I believe will be heeded by far many more.”
    Grace gazed into his eyes, then a gasp escaped her. “The Warriors—the followers of Vathris Bullslayer. You're summoning them here.”
    She saw the king and Sir Tarus exchange a fleeting look. So Tarus already knew. No doubt Beltan did as well.
    “Can you really expect them to come?” Falken said. “What if their kings and queens command them otherwise?”
    Boreas gave the bard a sharp look. “There are powers even higher than kings and queens, Falken Blackhand. And there are vows that bind more tightly than vows of fealty. Throughout the centuries, the followers of Vathris have waited for one day to come. For one thing.”
    “The Final Battle,” Grace murmured.
    Boreas bared his teeth. “Can the war that comes be any other? The men of Vathris will heed the call. If they believe, then they must.”
    “Forgive me, Your Majesty,” Melia said, smoothing her blue kirtle, “but I know something of the temple of Vathris in Tarras. I do not imagine the high priests will appreciate a call to war issuing from the north. And while there are many worshippers of Vathris in the Dominions, surely there are ten times that number in the lands of the south.”
    Boreas let out a grunt of disgust. “The high priests of Tarras are fanatics and fools. They have forgotten their true purpose and do naught but scheme to find ways to bring men under their power, and to use that power for their own ends.”
    “Is it true,” Tarus said, a pained expression on his face, “that the priests in Tarras are forced to offer up the jewels of their manhood in a golden bowl on the altar of Vathris?”
    “That and their sanity,” Boreas rumbled. “I doubt an army of eunuchs is what Vathris had in mind when he foretold the coming of the Final Battle.” He stalked toward Melia. “The priests may have forgotten the legends, but the men of Vathris have not. It may take some time for the men of Tarras to come, and even longer for the men of Al-Amún across the Summer Sea. But they will come.”
    Melia's amber eyes were thoughtful. “Yes, I believe they will.”
    Grace felt hot; she had been standing too close to the fire. Dizzying visions of warriors and
feydrim
and iron gates swirled in her mind, and she herself stood at the center of it all, holding a shining sword. She had to get out of here, away from the fire, and talk to Lirith and Aryn.
    But to talk to them of what? The Witches, and how they sought to stop the Warriors, who they feared would fight on the side of Runebreaker in the Final Battle? Grace wasn't sure. One thing she
was
sure of was that Aryn was still hiding something—not just from her, but from Lirith as well.
    Grace had hardly had a chance to speak to Aryn these last weeks, occupied as the baroness was by Lord Farvel's endless questions regarding her coming wedding. Grace wished the young woman was here now. Or perhaps it was better she wasn't, with all this discussion of the Warriors and the