Final Battle.
You don't really believe Aryn would betray Boreas, do you, Grace? She loves him like a father.
And what of herself? She was a witch, too. Not so powerful as Aryn, nor so experienced as Lirith, but a witch all the same. Was she bound to betray Boreas as well?
She struggled for something to say, something that would distract Boreas from the guilt she was certain shone on her face. However, before she could speak, Falken moved to her.
“It's time, Grace,” he said in a soft voice.
She wanted to believe she didn't know what he was talking about, but she did. Slowly, she drew Fellring from the scabbard at her side and held the blade before her. The runes on its flat caught the firelight, gleaming red as if writ in fire.
Falken's eyes were locked on her. “The Warriors of Vathris gather, but it will take time for them to come together. Time we may not have. The Rune Gate could open any day. We need to take what men we have and march north to Gravenfist Keep.”
“Gravenfist Keep?”
“It is an ancient fortress, the greatest ever raised by Malachor. The keep sits atop a narrow pass, guarding the only way out of Shadowsdeep—and out of Imbrifale. If the Rune Gate opens, Gravenfist Keep is all that stands between the Pale King and the rest of Falengarth.”
No, it wasn't nearly enough. What good was a ruined keep manned by five hundred men and one skinny woman with a too-big sword against all the vast hordes at the Pale King's command?
“I can't do it,” she croaked.
Falken actually laughed. “Yes you can, Grace. You're Ulther's heir. Everyone knows it. You don't see the light in the eyes of the men when they see you holding that sword, but the rest of us have.”
Boreas, Tarus, and Melia all nodded, and Grace felt her knees go weak.
“But the keep—what if it isn't even standing anymore?”
“It yet stands,” Falken said. “I saw it myself when I dared to venture into Shadowsdeep over a year ago. It is in disrepair, but it is still strong. It was said both runelords and witches had a hand in the building of Gravenfist, and that they wove its very stones with enchantments of power. If you could find a way to awaken those ancient defenses, you could hold the Pale King's army at bay with just ten men, or even by yourself. Five hundred will be enough to hold back the Pale King until the Warriors of Vathris can reach you.”
Her stomach clenched into a hard knot. “Defenses? What kind of defenses?”
“I honestly don't know,” Falken said.
A groan escaped her. “Well, that's just great. I don't suppose there's a button on the wall labeled ‘Push here for magic'? What if I can't find a way to turn on these defenses you're talking about?”
Her words didn't rattle Falken in the least. His eyes shone as he wrapped his gloved fingers around her sword hand. “You will, Grace. You will because you have to.”
No,
she tried to say.
I can't do it. I won't.
Instead she met the bard's eyes and gave a grim nod.
9.
That afternoon, Grace ventured down the winding paths of Calavere's garden. She wasn't certain what she was looking for. If it was solitude, then she found it in abundance. In winter, the garden was a half-wild thicket—the hedges untended, the paths all but obscured by dried leaves—as if a section of primeval forest had been transported from Gloaming Wood to the middle of the castle's upper bailey.
If it was signs of spring stirring she had come looking for, then the effort was in vain. Here and there, Grace stooped down to dig through the loam with her fingers. On Earth it would be the middle of February; crocus would already be poking up through the snow. However, she could do no more than pry away a thin sheet of soil; beneath, the ground was frozen hard as iron.
Falken had said the bitter weather was the work of the Pale King and the one Imsari he possessed—Gelthisar, the Stone of Ice. Was this what Berash had planned for Falengarth? A land of frost and snow, where
You don't really believe Aryn would betray Boreas, do you, Grace? She loves him like a father.
And what of herself? She was a witch, too. Not so powerful as Aryn, nor so experienced as Lirith, but a witch all the same. Was she bound to betray Boreas as well?
She struggled for something to say, something that would distract Boreas from the guilt she was certain shone on her face. However, before she could speak, Falken moved to her.
“It's time, Grace,” he said in a soft voice.
She wanted to believe she didn't know what he was talking about, but she did. Slowly, she drew Fellring from the scabbard at her side and held the blade before her. The runes on its flat caught the firelight, gleaming red as if writ in fire.
Falken's eyes were locked on her. “The Warriors of Vathris gather, but it will take time for them to come together. Time we may not have. The Rune Gate could open any day. We need to take what men we have and march north to Gravenfist Keep.”
“Gravenfist Keep?”
“It is an ancient fortress, the greatest ever raised by Malachor. The keep sits atop a narrow pass, guarding the only way out of Shadowsdeep—and out of Imbrifale. If the Rune Gate opens, Gravenfist Keep is all that stands between the Pale King and the rest of Falengarth.”
No, it wasn't nearly enough. What good was a ruined keep manned by five hundred men and one skinny woman with a too-big sword against all the vast hordes at the Pale King's command?
“I can't do it,” she croaked.
Falken actually laughed. “Yes you can, Grace. You're Ulther's heir. Everyone knows it. You don't see the light in the eyes of the men when they see you holding that sword, but the rest of us have.”
Boreas, Tarus, and Melia all nodded, and Grace felt her knees go weak.
“But the keep—what if it isn't even standing anymore?”
“It yet stands,” Falken said. “I saw it myself when I dared to venture into Shadowsdeep over a year ago. It is in disrepair, but it is still strong. It was said both runelords and witches had a hand in the building of Gravenfist, and that they wove its very stones with enchantments of power. If you could find a way to awaken those ancient defenses, you could hold the Pale King's army at bay with just ten men, or even by yourself. Five hundred will be enough to hold back the Pale King until the Warriors of Vathris can reach you.”
Her stomach clenched into a hard knot. “Defenses? What kind of defenses?”
“I honestly don't know,” Falken said.
A groan escaped her. “Well, that's just great. I don't suppose there's a button on the wall labeled ‘Push here for magic'? What if I can't find a way to turn on these defenses you're talking about?”
Her words didn't rattle Falken in the least. His eyes shone as he wrapped his gloved fingers around her sword hand. “You will, Grace. You will because you have to.”
No,
she tried to say.
I can't do it. I won't.
Instead she met the bard's eyes and gave a grim nod.
9.
That afternoon, Grace ventured down the winding paths of Calavere's garden. She wasn't certain what she was looking for. If it was solitude, then she found it in abundance. In winter, the garden was a half-wild thicket—the hedges untended, the paths all but obscured by dried leaves—as if a section of primeval forest had been transported from Gloaming Wood to the middle of the castle's upper bailey.
If it was signs of spring stirring she had come looking for, then the effort was in vain. Here and there, Grace stooped down to dig through the loam with her fingers. On Earth it would be the middle of February; crocus would already be poking up through the snow. However, she could do no more than pry away a thin sheet of soil; beneath, the ground was frozen hard as iron.
Falken had said the bitter weather was the work of the Pale King and the one Imsari he possessed—Gelthisar, the Stone of Ice. Was this what Berash had planned for Falengarth? A land of frost and snow, where