Even so my heart shivers at the prospect. Though I cannot say why, the certainty has grown in me over time. When I take the virulium again, there will be no coming back. The darkness will drag me down, a final sacrifice for the fate of Licorna. Though I long for it, I know it is my final damnation.
I draw a breath, hold it for some while, then ease it slowly from my lungs. If damnation is the price that must be paid, so be it. I will pay it and willingly. But not until the last possible moment. Not until I know it will be effective, and our victory assured.
Turning in the saddle, I gaze back over my shoulder at the host gathered behind me. We’ve passed through the city to the swath of clear ground between it and the citadel walls, but I’ve had to hold them back. The barrier remains firm, and the Noxaurians swarmaround it like scuttling insects, seeking entrance. Here and there a Noxaurian takes the virulium dose and, as a result, turns on his own brethren, who are obliged to kill him before he wreaks too much havoc. I don’t want my own people mixed up in that mess, though many of them, like me, have virulium hidden on their persons, waiting for when the time is right.
I turn my gaze beyond my war host, beyond the ruined city, and out to the plain where ourdakathsmay still be glimpsed at a distance. I don’t know why I do—forsheis not there anymore. When word reached me of the Shadow King’s march across Cruor, following the mage-roads, I sent word to Halamar:Take her now. Go.
It no longer matters if she is strong enough for the journey. If she remained, she would be in far too much danger. I’ve heard stories aplenty about the trolde warriors; I do not expect them to show mercy, even to non-combatants.
Would the Shadow King even recognize the face of his former bride-to-be? I wonder even as I doubt. He must have taken another of Larongar’s daughters to seal the alliance. There is no other explanation for why he would now march through Cruor to the defense of mortal mages.
Bile rises in my gorge. I spit it out on the ground. The troldefolk are fae-kind, rough creatures of rock though they may be. How could they betray their own and join forces with the humans in this conflict? What need could have driven the Shadow King to such an extreme? Not the power of love, it would seem, for he did not hesitate to take anew bride when the former bride was stolen from him.
Did he even mourn for Ilsevel? Did he have any idea what a treasure he had lost?
The ground shakes beneath me, scattering these intrusive thoughts even as a shadow falls across my host. I look up at the great cyclopi—the one-eyed giants, whom Ruvaen summoned from Eledria. Three of them, massive monsters without conscience or any discernable form of sentience. I loathe the sight of them. There was a time when I would have rejected Ruvaen’s suggestion that they be brought in to batter at the Miphates’ spell-barrier. But that was the old Taar. This new man is ready and willing to do whatever it takes. Hobgoblins, giants, the blood of demons. If it will help me oust those devils from their tower, so be it.
“Hold your positions,” I command, raising an arm high for my people to see. I hear the commanders of the host echoing my order to their riders. Tensions are high, and I know how eager my warriors are to charge into action below. But the Noxaurians are swarming the barrier, and more and more of them have taken virulium too soon, their rabid need for blood devouring any reason they once possessed. So my own people must remain at bay until the barrier falls.
Kildorath rides his licorneir to my side and salutes solemnly. We have scarcely spoken these last weeks, but he continues to serve me with silent loyalty, maintaining the protection song-barriers. Today there has been no need for such barriers, however. Thevardimnarhas not fallen; indeed the atmosphere has been strangely quiet allday, though I can feel the palpable sense of expectation.
The Shadow King,I think. The Miphates must have somehow received word of his coming. They do not open the Rift for fear of decimating the trolde force before it reaches us. Even traveling by mage-road, his people would not be entirely safe. It is, perhaps, a small blessing for the rest of us; but one that will no doubt demand a return when the troldefolk make their appearance.
Lathaira appears on my left, as large and brimming with pent-up energy as the powerful licorneir she rides. She was not happy that I sent her daughter away from the coming fight. But though she longs to do battle with the Miphates, Sylcatha’s ongoing loyalty to Ilsevel is unshakeable. As travel across Cruor is impossible without a soul-bonded licorneir, she was the natural choice to protect both Ilsevel and Halamar.
“Do you think they’ll do it?” Lathaira asks, her gaze fixed on the massive forms of the giants, progressing through the Noxaurian ranks. The Noxaurians are obliged to flee, for those huge, flat feet crush everything beneath them without a thought for allies or allegiances. They approach the invisible barrier now, hefting tremendous war hammers in their fat hands.
“We shall learn soon enough,” I answer grimly. Elydark shifts underneath me, spurts of red flame flashing in his eyes. I search for signs of Miphates on the wall which surrounds the citadel, but see nothing. To all appearances, the citadel looks abandoned save for the steady pulse of spellwork pouring out from behind the wallto power that invisible barrier. They aren’t holding back, but using up whatever reservoirs they’ve accumulated. Trusting the Shadow King to arrive in time to save them, no doubt.
The three giants approach the barrier. Moving not quite in tandem, they draw back their fleshy arms, swing those massive hammers through the air. To the naked eye they seem to strike against nothing—but myibrildiangaze sees the ripple of magic rolling out from each point of contact, concentric circles of flashing energy and light. Ponderous and slow, the giants brace their feet, pull back their arms, and strike again. The barrier shudders, and the magic pouring out from the far side redoubles.
With a third strike, the barrier collapses, and the three cyclopi step through to approach the walls. A great cry goes up from the Noxaurians. They hurtle forward, eager to swarm the walls at the feet of the giants. Some of my own people break rank and charge out as well, but most respond to the shouts of their commanders to stand their ground. Just as well—even as the Noxaurians reach the barrier line, a massive flow of renewed energy pours out from the citadel. The barrier slices down hard, cutting many of them in two. In the end the barrier was only down for a matter of seconds, enough time for the three giants to pass through unharmed.
“Shakh,”I curse. The walls and gates of the citadel are also ensorcelled with stronger magic even than that used on the barrier. The giants go at it with their hammers, ready to smash them to dust. But wave upon wave of reinforcement magic repeltheir blows. It’s just a matter of time, I tell myself. Sooner or later, the Miphates will run out of spells.
Just as that thought passes through my mind, shouts erupt at the back of my own fighting force. A ripple of fear passes through the Licornyn. Hearing it, I twist in the saddle, my gaze first going to Lathaira beside me. She is looking up into the sky. Raising her sword, she bellows out an inarticulate cry of fury mingled with true terror.
I tilt my head back and see what she sees.
Monsters fly across the sky. Four-legged beings of black shadow, vaguely horse-shaped but nothing like horses, galloping on paths of pure darkness. Morleth—interdimensional beings of pure darkness, the favored mount of the troldefolk. Dark spines protrude from their heads and down their necks, but seated between those spines are figures clad in bristling stone armor so large it would crush any one of my warriors who tried to wear it. Those figures wield clubs and swords of black crystal, and from their throats issues a roar so deep, as though it’s been dragged up from the very depths of the world.
The foremost of these riders, leading the charge across the sky, is a figure of singular magnificence and dread. He brandishes a crystal sword, and, ringing his stone helmet, is the unmistakable shape of a great, pronged crown.
Fear grips my heart in a fist, squeezing tight. The Shadow King has come.
31
ILSEVEL
“We must get you through the gate,maelar,” Sylcatha says, her voice tense and close to my ear. “Once we’re through, you should be safe.”
I could almost laugh at the absurdity of this statement. Without a doubt the dead Licornyn will follow us through into Wanfriel. I’ve seen them there myself. Now they are on our tail, there is no eluding them. Though it was my own desperate command which sent Kyrsidar into headlong flight, I know it is ultimately useless.
The only hope we have is to face them.
The un-song of the dead reaches out to me, scattering the threads of broken song in my mind, replacing it with shadow, with nothing. I look back over my shoulder and see three unicorns, each bearing riders. Tongues of darkness surround them in place of the blazing soulfire of living licorneir, and from that darkness pulses the demonic energy that drives them.
Shanaera rides foremost of the three, closing in fast. I recognize both her and the powerful dead licorneir which carries her, the very beast on which she escaped when Taar pursued her from Rothiliar House. All her other companions were slain in that altercation. Apparently she gathered more in the interim. Even from this distance, I can see the black warpaint streaking her rotten face, and she’s braided what remains of her lank hair, which whips back from her exposed scalp. Her smile is wide and fierce and desperately hungry.
