“Maybe.” Belash levered himself to his feet and wandered away along the wall, speaking to the defenders, kneeling beside the wounded and the dying.
Senta stretched himself out, lying back with his head on his hands, watching the stars appear in the darkening sky. The air was fresh and cool, the bonded rocks below his back feeling almost soft. He closed his eyes. When he opened them again, Miriel was beside him. He smiled. “I fell asleep,” he said. “But I dreamed of you.”
“Something lascivious, I have no doubt.”
He sat up and stretched. “No. We were sitting in a field by a stream, beneath the branches of a willow. We were holding hands. Like this.” Reaching out, he took her hand and raised it to his lips.
“You never give up, do you?” she said, pulling back from his touch.
“Never! Why don’t you kiss me, beauty? Just the once. To see if you like it.”
“No.”
“You cut me to the bone.”
“I think you’ll survive.”
“You are frightened, aren’t you? Frightened of giving. Frightened of living. I heard you with Angel last night, offering yourself to him. It was a mistake, beauty, and Angel was right to say no. Insane but right. What is it you fear?”
“I don’t want to talk about this,” said Miriel, making to rise.
Reaching out, he lightly touched her arm. “Talk to me,” he said softly.
“Why?” she whispered.
“Because I care.”
She sank back and for a while said nothing. He did not press her but sat beside her in silence. At last she spoke. “If you love someone, you open all the doors into your heart. You let them in. When they die, you have no defenses. I saw my father’s pain when … when Mother was killed. I don’t want that pain. Ever.”
“You can’t avoid it, Miriel. No one can. We are like the seasons—we grow in spring, mature in summer, fade in the autumn, and die in the winter. But it is foolish to say, ‘It is springtime, but I will grow no flowers, for they must fade.’ What is life without love? Perpetual winter. Cold and snow. It’s not for you, beauty. Trust me.”
His hand stroked her hair, and he leaned in close, his lips brushing her cheek. Slowly she turned her head, and his mouth touched hers.
An arrow sailed over the wall, and the sound of pounding feet echoed in the pass.
“The Gothir have immaculate timing,” he said, rising up and drawing his sword.
Angel was uneasy as he stood on the rim of the valley, looking out over the moonlit grassland and the gentle hills. In the distance he could see the turrets and walls of Kar-Barzac close to a wide flat lake the color of old iron. Nadir women and children were moving down into the valley in a long, shuffling line, many of them dragging carts piled high with their possessions. Angel switched his gaze to the rearing mountains that circled the valley, scanning the twisted peaks. This was all open ground, and he thought of the defenders manning the three passes and prayed that the rear guard would hold. For if the Gothir forced their way through any one pass …
He closed his mind to the pictures of carnage.
Most of the Nadir warriors had ridden ahead to the fortress, with the majority of those remaining defending the passes. Only thirty men rode with the women and children, shepherding them toward Kar-Barzac. Angel swung into the saddle and rode down the hill, his mood lifting as he saw the mute Nadir boy marching beside an overloaded cart, Angel’s cloak on his scrawny shoulders and in his right hand a length of wood shaped like a sword. The cloak was dragging in the dust. Angel rode alongside the boy and leaned down, lifting him in the air and perching him on the saddle behind him. The boy grinned and waved his wooden sword in the air.
Touching heels to the gelding, Angel galloped the horse toward the front of the line, where Belash rode beside the Nadir war chief, Anshi Chen. The two warriors were deep in conversation. Anshi looked up as Angel approached. He was a stocky man, running to fat, and his dark eyes showed only hostility as the Drenai reined in.
“We are moving too slowly,” said Angel. “It will be dawn soon.”
Belash nodded. “I agree, but many are old. They can move no faster.”
“They could if they left those carts behind.”
Anshi Chen sniffed loudly, then hawked and spit. “Their possessions are their lives,” he said. “You would not understand that, Drenai, for yours is a land of plenty. But each of those carts carries far more than you see. A lantern of bronze may be just a light in the dark to you, but it might have been made by a great-grandfather a century ago and prized ever since. Every item has a value far greater than you can comprehend. Leaving them behind would be a knife in the soul to any family here.”
“It is not a knife in the soul that concerns me,” said Angel. “It is a knife in the back. But this is your war.” Swinging the horse’s head, he rode back along the line.
There were more than three hundred people filing onto the valley floor, and he guessed it would be another two hours before the last of them reached the fortress. He thought of Senta and Miriel back at the wall and Waylander on his lonely journey to Gulgothir.
The stars were fading, the sky lightening.
And his unease grew.
The white-haired Innicas moved back from the shelter of the boulder to where his brother knights waited. “Now,” he told them. “The moment is here.” Gathering the reins of his black stallion, he vaulted into the saddle, drawing the black sword from the scabbard at his side. One hundred warriors mounted their horses and waited for his order. Innicas closed his eyes, seeking the communion of blood. He felt the flowing of the souls, tasted their anger and their need, their bitterness and their desires. “Let not one Nadir live,” he whispered. “All dead. Gifts to the Lord of All Desires. Let there be pain. Let there be fear and anguish. Let there be despair!” The souls of his knights fluttered in his mind like black moths, circling the dark light of his hatred. “What do we need?” he asked them.
“Blood and death,” came the reply, hissing in his mind like a host of snakes.
“Blood and death,” he agreed. “Now let the spell grow. Let fear flow out over our enemies like a flood, a raging torrent to drown their courage.”
Like an invisible mist the spell rolled out, drifting over rock and shale, down onto the valley, swelling, growing.
The hundred knights of blood ended the communion and rode from their hiding place, fanning out into a fighting line, swords at the ready.
Angel felt the cold touch of fear, his mind leaping back to the day at the cabin when the Brotherhood had first appeared. Dragging on the reins, he swung the horse to face the south and saw the enemy silhouetted against the sky, their black cloaks flowing in the breeze, their swords raised high. Belash saw them at the same time and shouted to Anshi Chen.
As the spell of fear rolled over them, women and children began to wail and run, scattering across the valley. Some threw themselves to the ground, covering their heads with their hands. Others merely stood, frozen in terror. Shia was walking in the center of the column when the spell struck. With trembling hands she lifted her bow from her shoulder and clumsily notched an arrow to the string.
Angel felt the mute boy’s arms tighten around him. Swinging in the saddle, he lifted the child, lowering him to the ground beside a hand-drawn cart. The child looked up at him, his eyes wide and fearful. Angel drew his sword and forced a smile. The child pulled his stick from his belt and waved it in the air.
“Good lad!” said Angel.
The thirty Nadir outriders galloped their mounts to where Belash and Anshi Chen were waiting. Angel joined them.
“Their spell of fear will not hold once the killing starts!” said Angel. “Trust me!”
“There are too many of them,” muttered Anshi Chen, his voice trembling.
“There’ll be less before long,” snarled Angel. “Follow me!” Kicking his horse into a gallop, he charged at the black line.
The Brotherhood swept forward, and the thunder of hoof-beats echoed in the valle
y like the drums of doom. Anger swept through Angel. Behind him were women and children, and if, as was most likely, the Brotherhood did break through, he did not want to be alive to see the slaughter. He did not glance back to see if the Nadir were with him. He did not care. Battle fever was strong upon him.
The black line came closer, and Angel angled his horse toward its center. Belash came galloping alongside him, screaming a Nadir war cry.
Three horsemen closed on Angel. Ducking under one wild cut, he slashed his sword into the helm of a second knight. The man was catapulted from the saddle. Belash’s horse went down, but the Nadir leapt clear and rolled to his feet. A sword blade glanced from his shoulder. He leapt and dragged the rider from the saddle, plunging his blade deep into the man’s belly.
The small wedge of Nadir riders was surrounded, and the wings of the Brotherhood line, some forty men, swept on toward the women and children.
Shia watched them come, fear surging inside her, and drew back on her bowstring. Her first shaft pierced the neck of the leading horse. It fell and rolled, hurling its rider clear but bringing down the two following horses. Other knights swerved to avoid colliding with the fallen. A second shaft sank into the neck of a knight. He swayed in the saddle for a moment before toppling to the ground.
Shia notched a third arrow, then heard the thunder of hooves from behind her. So close! Spinning, she saw a score of riders in silver armor, white cloaks fluttering behind them. They galloped through the refugee line and bore down on the Brotherhood. Shia could not believe what she was seeing. Like silver ghosts they had come from nowhere, and in their wake the spell of fear vanished like ice under sunlight.
On the far side of the field Angel cut his way clear of the mass and saw the white knights hammer into the Brotherhood. Exultant now, he turned again and drove his mount back into the melee. Swords clashed all around him, but he was oblivious to danger. His horse went down, and he hit the ground hard, a hoof clipping his temple. Losing his grip on his sword, Angel rolled. A blade slashed down at him, but he ducked under it, then hurled his weight at the rider’s horse. Off balance, the beast fell, tipping the knight to the earth. Angel scrambled across the fallen horse. The knight was struggling to rise when Angel’s boot cracked into his helm. The chin strap ripped, and the helm fell clear. The knight tried in vain to stab his attacker, but Angel’s fist smashed into his face, spinning him around. Angel’s hands closed on his throat like bands of iron. Dropping his sword, the knight grabbed at the fingers, but all strength fled from him.
Angel dropped the corpse and gathered up the knight’s sword.
Anshi Chen hacked his blade toward the neck of an attacker, but the man partly blocked the blow, the sword striking the side of the helm and dislodging the visor. As it came clear, hanging from the helm like a broken wing, Anshi recognized the albino face. “Belash!” he cried. “It is him, Belash!”
Innicas’ sword swept out and the blade plunged into Anshi’s belly. Belash, hearing the cry, swung and saw Innicas deliver the deathblow. All reason fled from the Nadir, and he let out a terrible scream of hate. A horse reared alongside him. Belash leapt at the rider, dragging him from the saddle. Not stopping to slay the man, Belash took hold of the pommel and vaulted to the beast’s back. Innicas saw him, felt his rage, and quickly scanned the battle line.
The Brotherhood was broken.
Panic rose in his heart. With a savage kick he pushed his horse into a gallop and rode for the south and the hidden pass. Belash set after him, leaning low over the stallion’s neck to cut down wind resistance. Innicas, in full armor, was the heavier man, and his stallion tired as it pounded up the hillside. Innicas glanced back. The Nadir was closing.
The knight’s stallion, almost at the point of exhaustion, stumbled on the shale and half fell. Innicas jumped clear. Belash bore down on him. The shoulder of Belash’s stallion cannoned into the knight, punching him from his feet. Dragging on the reins, Belash leapt lightly to the shale.
“You killed my father,” he said. “Now you will serve him for eternity.”
Innicas, sword in hand, gazed upon the stocky Nadir. The man had no armor and carried only a short saber. The albino’s courage returned. “You cannot stand against me, vermin!” he sneered. “I’ll cut you to pieces.”
Belash attacked, but Innicas’ sword blocked the blow, and a murderous riposte saw the black blade bury itself in Belash’s side, cleaving the ribs. With the last of his strength Belash dropped his sword and drew his curved dagger. Innicas wrenched at his blade, trying to drag it clear. Belash reached out, his left hand clawing at Innicas’ helm, fingers hooking around the broken visor. Innicas felt himself being drawn into a deadly embrace. “No!” he shouted. Belash’s knife plunged into his left eye, piercing him to the brain. Both men fell.
Innicas twitched and was still. Belash, with trembling hands, opened the blood-drenched pouch at his side, tipping the finger bones onto the chest of the dead knight. “Father,” he whispered, blood bubbling from his lips. “Father …”
In his panic Innicas had misread the battle. Despite being surprised by the arrival of the white knights, the Brotherhood still had the advantage of numbers. Only seven of the Nadir warriors remained, and despite being joined by the twenty white-cloaked knights, they were outnumbered by more than two to one.
Angel, bleeding from several wounds, could feel that the battle was ready to turn against the Brotherhood. Their leader had fled, and the arrival of the white knights had stunned them. But the enemy could yet win, he knew.
Not while I live, he thought.
A sword slashed past his face, the flat of the blade slamming against his chin. He went down and struggled to rise. Hooves pounded the earth all around him. Rearing up, he pushed a booted foot from the stirrups and propelled the rider to the ground. Taking hold of the pommel, he tried to mount the horse, but it reared, throwing him to the ground once more.
With a curse Angel grabbed his fallen sword. A blade lashed down. Angel blocked the blow and, as the rider rode past him, reached up and grabbed the man’s cloak, hauling him from the saddle. The knight hit the ground hard. The point of Angel’s sword slid between visor and helm, and with all his weight Angel drove the weapon deep into the man’s skull. The blade snapped. Angel swore.
There was a fallen sword close by. Dodging between the milling horses, Angel reached for it, but a rearing hoof smashed into his head, and he fell facedown onto the grass.
He awoke to silence and a terrible pounding in his skull.
“I always seem to be stitching your wounds,” said Senta.
Angel blinked and tried to focus on the ceiling above him. It was twisted at a crazy angle, and the window below it was canted absurdly. “There’s something wrong with my eyes,” he muttered.
“No. It’s this place—Kar-Barzac. Nothing is as it should be here. Kesa Khan says it has been corrupted over the centuries by sorcery.”
Angel struggled to sit, but his head swam and he fell back. “What happened?” he groaned.
“I arrived to save you.”
“Single-handed, I suppose.”
“Close. We waited until just after midnight, then, when the Gothir had fallen back for the fifth time, we ran for our horses. There were only thirty of us left, but it was enough to send the Brotherhood fleeing from the field.”
“I don’t remember that,” said Angel. “In fact, my thoughts are hazy. I seem to recall ghosts riding to our rescue in white armor.”
“Priests,” said Senta. “Source priests.”
“In armor?”
“An unusual order,” said Senta. “They call themselves the Thirty, although there are only eleven of them now. They are led by an abbot named Dardalion.”
“He was a Purdol. He helped Karnak. Get me up!”
“You should lie back. You’ve lost a lot of blood.”
“Thank you for your concern, Mother. Now help me up, damn you!”
“As you wish, old fool.” Senta’s hand slid under Angel
’s shoulder, levering him to a sitting position.
Nausea gripped Angel, but he swallowed it and sucked in a deep breath. “I thought we were finished. Where’s Miriel?”
“She’s safe. She’s with Dardalion and Kesa Khan.”
“And the Gothir?”
“Camped all around us, Angel. They’ve been reinforced. Must be seven, eight thousand men in the valley.”
“Wonderful. Is there any good news?”
“None that I can think of, but you do have a visitor. Charming little fellow. He’s sitting in the hallway now. I’ll send him to you in a while. I found him sitting by what we thought was your body. He was crying. Very touching it was. Brought a tear to my eye, I can tell you.” Angel swore. Senta chuckled. “I knew you weren’t dead, Angel. You’re too stubborn to die.”
“How many did we lose?”
Senta’s smile faded. “Belash is dead, and Anshi Chen. There are some three hundred warriors left, but many of them are youngsters, untried. I don’t think we can hold this place for long.”
“They’ve not attacked yet?”
“No. They’re busy chopping down trees, making scaling ladders and the like.”
Angel lay back and closed his eyes. “Just let them give me a day or two. Then I’ll be ready. I’m a fast healer, Senta.”
“In that case we’ll try not to start the war without you.”
Senta found Miriel on the inner rampart, leaning on the twisted wall and staring out over the campfires of the enemy. Nadir warriors were standing close by, sharpening their weapons. The swordsman moved past the Nadir and halted beside the tall mountain girl. “Angel’s fine,” he said. “A few minor cuts and a large lump on that thick skull. I sometimes think if the world ended in fire and flood, he would walk out of the cinders with singed hair and wet boots.”
She smiled. “He does appear so wonderfully indestructible.”
“Come and see what I found,” said Senta, walking away to a set of stairs that led down to a narrow corridor and a large suite of rooms. The windows were distorted, shaped like open, screaming mouths, and the walls were crooked. But the large bedchamber was empty, and in its center was a golden four-poster bed, beautifully proportioned, rectangular and solid. There were pillows of silk and a coverlet filled with goose down.