Read Larantyne Page 10

  *What My other self can not tell you is where the spell nexus lies hidden. I can do that much for you, and tell you that if you scatter the components, the spell binding Her into this chapel will break. The location you seek is at the heart of the castle, the Covenant Room. We think that may be the location of what hinders the rest of Us, as well, keeping Us confined to Our chapel for these many annums.*

  "Now get out of here," the Warrior snarled, red eyes flaring. "Find the spell and break it, that those foul Darklords may feel My wrath for setting foot upon My lands!"

  Her voice rose piercingly, and even the Maiden winced. Sylvan and Kirel wasted no time in leaving.

  "One problem," Kirel observed, as they closed the door on the Warrior's wrath. "Where's the Covenant Room?"

  Sylvan shrugged. "A better question would be, where's the King? He'd know."

  "That's easy. It's past midday, isn't it? He'll be giving audiences right now."

  But he wasn't. The normal castle routine had been disrupted mightily by the preparations for battle. The other castles hadn't responded to the messengers yet, so the King waited, reluctant to move out, but unwilling to get caught unprepared.

  They tracked down the Castellaine, who only looked blank and shrugged.

  "Covenant Room? No idea. Perhaps you'd better find the King. I'm sure he'd know."

  "Easier said than done," Sylvan muttered.

  Then Kirel smacked his forhead and groaned. "Oh, I feel so stupid! He's in the War Room."

  He set off at a wobbly trot for the War Room, the large chamber intended for meetings with generals, and strategy sessions, and other such non-peaceful pursuits. Sylvan groaned as well, feeling as if he should have known the answer. It should be obvious that the King would be at the heart of the preparations.

  They found Riallen frowning at a map, weary circles under his eyes and a magical quill in hand.

  His eyes lit with welcome when he saw them. "Sylvan! Kirel! You're awake! How wonderful. And you look so well, both of you. Please say you've come with the answer to all our problems and prayers?"

  "Possibly," Kirel replied, then perched on a chair. He felt rather feeble after his long unconsciousness, despite the nourishing meal. Worse, that bottomless thirst had hold of him again, but he couldn't stomach the thought of touching the pot of kais steaming on the sideboard. Although the drink had its virtues, Kirel had no intention of ever liking the vile stuff.

  "We've spoken with the goddess," Sylvan said. "With two of Her selves, anyway. She told us there's a spell binding the Warrior into the chapel and we need to break it."

  "There's a what?" Riallen looked utterly shocked, and put the map away, giving them his undivided attention. "Explain."

  "That's pretty much all we know," Kirel admitted. "She didn't give us much information at all. There's a spell, or maybe two of them, binding the goddess's selves. She can't leave the chapel. The Warrior couldn't even tell us where the spell is located, because it has something to do with keeping Her bound in particular. Maiden had to tell us that, but She couldn't break the spell and needs us to do it for Her. The thing is located in the Covenant Room. And the Maiden said that might be where the other thing, the one affecting everyone but the Warrior, is at, too."

  "Hmm." Riallen steepled his fingers and tapped them against his lips. "One problem. I don't know a thing about this Covenant Room of yours."

  Kirel groaned.

  "The goddess called it the heart of the castle," Sylvan said. "Does that help?"

  Riallen shook his head. "The heart of the castle, in my opinion, would be Justice Hall, because that's where most of the activity takes place. But there's nothing in there that's anything like a binding spell. Did the goddess say how we're supposed to recognize this thing? Or things?"

  Sylvan and Kirel shook their heads.

  "Very well, then, we start looking without a clue. Let's get started."

  The King rose, watched them expectantly. Sylvan and Kirel both looked at him blankly for a moment, then rose as well.

  "I take it you're joining the search?" Kirel said, smiling.

  "Yes. I have to find out what's going on in my own castle, after all, binding up the face of the goddess we need most right now. And I want to know more about this Covenant Room, as well. What Covenant? I never heard of any such thing."

  They started the search in the physical center of the castle. Here they found only what they expected, the great central pillar, the kingstone of the castle. It stretched from foundation to roof, providing support for the many levels.

  Riallen made a frustrated noise and kicked the vast pillar. "This isn't helping. It's just a pillar. We need a room."

  "Yes," Kirel agreed. "And one where nobody goes very often."

  "Or else everyone would know where the Covenant Room was," Sylvan nodded. "How well do you know your attics? And your basements?"

  The attics let them down. Nothing in any of the attic storerooms resembled anything other than dusty old storerooms, although Riallen did point out where Kirel's mother's possessions had been removed to. Kirel marked the place in his memory for further investigation at some point in the future.

  Other than that, though, the attic rooms held nothing of interest. The dust set all three of them to sneezing, and the King decided to order the servants to clean the dust out.

  "Not like it'll take much effort," he said, rubbing watery eyes. "All they need to do is release a few Cooling Breezes in here and open the vents, they'll blow this damned dust right out. It's no wonder people on the fourth level are prone to breathing problems."

  From the attics, they traipsed down many, many stairways, pausing on the main floor to tell the Castellaine to get the attics dusted. Then they descended into the sublevels.

  "Who lives down here?" Kirel asked. The first basement held living quarters, along with food storage.

  "Mainly kitchen staff," the King replied, peering into yet another storeroom, this one filled with sacks of flour. More sneezing ensued. "Although some of the lower servants have rooms here as well. It's just always made sense to keep the kitchen folk closest to the kitchens, so they needn't disturb the rest of us traipsing down three flights of stairs to do their baking and such."

  "Very sensible," Sylvan agreed, from the doorway. "What's below us, then?"

  "Second sublevel is purely storage, vegetables and herbs and wines and such. Third sublevel is for dairy, cheese and milk and eggs. Fourth—ai!"

  Riallen smacked his forehead. Flour poofed, for he'd gotten it on his hands, leaving a white smudge on his kingly brow.

  "Yes?" Kirel prompted, debating whether or not to tell his cousin how ridiculous he looked.

  "It's on the fourth sublevel, whatever it is!" Riallen groaned. "I can't believe I didn't realize this an hour ago. The fourth level has been forbidden territory for a long, long time. If there's going to be any kind of Covenant Room in this castle, it'll be there, where nobody's gone since my grandfather's day. I should have thought of that straight away."

  "It's not surprising you didn't," Sylvan pointed out. "After all, if you're aware that no one ever goes there, you probably never think of the place. Did you know you've got a big handprint on your forehead now?"

  Riallen scrubbed at his face quickly, covering up a slight blush. Kirel snickered. "Let's go."

  Riallen led the way down, down, down, into a dank, frozen cold world that seemed miles away from sunlight. He carried a glowtorch, and the others crowded near him for the comfort of the light.

  The fourth level was small, as each level above it grew correspondingly larger and this level provided the support for it all.

  "Here," Riallen said, stopping in front of a door. "I've never been in here, and neither has anyone else I've known, at least not that they admitted. This must be it."

  The door offered no handle, no locking mechanism, just wood. Riallen frowned at it, then laid his hand on it where a handle should have been. It creaked in protest, but swung slowly open.

  "No
one shall bar a king in his own hall," he shrugged, paraphrasing an old saying, then walked in, holding his glowtorch high. Then he cried out in pain.

  Sylvan and Kirel rushed inside, to find the King doubled over on the ground, face contorted in agony. No sooner had Kirel crossed the threshold than he went down as well, whimpering, his pain less intense than what the King suffered.

  "Kirel?" Sylvan knelt on the painfully cold stone floor beside his lover in a flash, face contorted with worry rather than pain.

  "Hurts," Kirel whimpered. "Something wrong."

  "My heart, my heart," the King moaned, rocking.

  "Desecration," Kirel whispered. "Foulness in my heart."

  What in hells? Sylvan took the glowtorch from where it lay beside the groaning King. What's doing this to them? Should I get them out of here?

  The glowtorch illuminated writing on the kingpost, the centerpiece of the room. Sylvan stepped close to read it, then felt a distant pain working at his own guts.

  "Sweet goddess," he whispered, not even noticing the prayerful words in his distress, backing away in horror. "It's a spell, an invocation of darkness! Kirel, I think I've found it! Kirel?"

  His lover moved. Moaning, sweating, face twisted with the effort, Kirel dragged himself towards the corner of the room opposite the doorway. Sylvan stepped around the kingpost and nearly lost his lunch.

  In the corner of the room, on a pitiful pile of tiny skeletons, lay the spell specifically binding the Warrior. What was left of an adult cat, all bone and sinew and bits of fur, had been twisted into a pose parodying a nomad's child on a carryboard and bound tightly, cruelly, into that pose, with red and black cords. Red stones glared balefully at him where the eyes used to be. And somehow, worst of all, Sylvan knew that the poor creature had been alive when this was done, and left to die on the bodies of her own little kittens.

  Tears sprang to the Bard's eyes. He'd never had an especial fondness for cats, or indeed for any animal, but this was cruel, and heart-wrenching, and. . . and obscene. He staggered forward and lifted the bound body, feeling the wrongness emanating from it with his empathic sense.

  Something else he felt, too, loud and clear along senses that shrieked with the dead mother's pain: he could no more break this spell than he could have set it in the first place. Only one of the blood of the caster could destroy this foulness.

  So he bore the body to his lover, who reached out through his pain and touched the bindings. A vivid flash filled the room, then flickering pulses of light flared as Kirel untied first the black cord, then the red cord, then threw the cords far from him and the eye-stones as well. He untwisted the cat's body and laid her carefully on the ground, on her side, like a proper cat would lay. It must have been part of the magic that the long-dead cat bones moved at all.

  "Evil, begone from this house!"

  Riallen rose from the floor and staggered over to where Kirel stood over the bones, strength returning to both of them as the flickering light died. Their voices rose together.

  "Evil, begone from this house!"

  Then the King turned towards the kingstone and drew a hand down its smooth column, erasing the words of the spell where he touched them, leaving a clean glow behind. They spoke in unison again, voices ringing like a great bronze bell.

  "Evil, begone from this house!"

  Kirel gave the cat bones a final pat and joined his cousin, strong now and feeling the power running through them both, to speak the words a final time.

  "Evil, begone from this house!"

  The power roared, and spiraled, and whirled. The kingstone vibrated, shaking dust loose to rain down on their heads.

  "Goddess, I invoke thee!"

  Riallen spoke alone this time, and the kingstone, and indeed the entire castle, shuddered with a vast thunderclap of sound. Kirel and Sylvan both winced and covered their ears, but Riallen stood firm, one hand raised and illuminated by the wild glow of the magic.

  Then the kingstone sucked all the magic up, leaving the three humans blinking in the forgotten light of the fallen glowtorch.

  A wild, shrieking cackle filled the air, followed by the Warrior's appearance, this time in full battle armor with drawn sword.

  "At last, at last I am free!" She gave a triumphant shriek and vanished.

  "It's about thtocken time," a new voice grumbled. An old woman shuffled out of the kingstone. "Fifty long annums of that foulness in my heart, some of it, anyways. Some was newer. Still, fifty annums is a long time, even for one such as myself. Why'd you take so long to break it?"

  "Apologies, Lady Crone," Riallen said, with a deeply respectful bow. "We have only just now learned of the evil. None currently living in this castle even knew of this room."

  "By design, that was," the goddess's fourth face, the Crone, nodded. "Your. . . let me think. You're the young snot, eh? It'd be your grandfather, then. He's the one started this mess, and he's the one forbid entry to this most holy of rooms. Bet you don't even know what it's for, do you?"

  "No, Lady Crone," Riallen admitted.

  "Hah! What do they teach youngsters these days? Nothing important, that's for sure. This here is the room where the formal Covenant was made, between Myselves and your people. All four of Us were here that day, We were, and the youngsters all played nicely with each other for once. And we all, humans included, agreed on the details we'd worked out over the previous lunation or three of discussion and construction, and the Tershin became Guardians, and your ancestor bound himself and all his bloodline to be the rulers of this lot of folk."

  "This was the first? The very first castle built after the Sundering?" Riallen seemed awed by the revelation. "We'd always thought Anarill came first, as it was central."

  "Nah, nah, that one came second. This here's the spot Otha Verbrasian stood on when his stubborn-bunger Council of Elders finally agreed to do what he told them to. And it's also the spot where rulers really ought to come to renew their Covenant when they take up the crown. Lazy fools been doing it in their own chapels, if at all, for far too damn long. Speaking of which, on your knees, you. King you may be to them up above, but you'll not be truly King until you submit to Me."

  Riallen dropped with painful speed. His knees made a dull thump against the foundation stone of his castle.

  The Crone raised her old arms, gnarled stick in hand, and brought down a shining curtain to enclose her and the King. Sylvan and Kirel both stared, mindlessly fascinated by the shifting ribbons of color, until it dispersed suddenly and Riallen strode towards them, eyes solemn and shining.

  "It's done," he said quietly, gesturing at the room around them.

  Kirel blinked. How in hells had he managed to miss the transformation? The walls gleamed in the light of the glowtorch, the kingstone cleaned and vibrantly alive. The only reminders of the previous horror were the remains of the cats.

  "We're to gather up the mother and her kittens and give them a proper burial," Riallen said, a shadow passing over his features. "And we're to burn those foul cords outside the castle. The rocks are to be thrown in the sewer. Let's get to it, right now. We have to hurry, because we need to bring the army along to Anarill and clean up whatever mess the Warrior leaves behind. No more waiting for the others, this is happening now."

  Sylvan nodded without a word and began gathering feline remains.

  "What just happened?" Kirel asked, rubbing his head. "It's all mixed up in my mind."

  "Mine too," Riallen nodded, bending to lift the mother cat. Kirel picked up a few kittens, feeling sad for the poor little mites. Unlike Sylvan, he was a cat lover, thanks to his mother's passion for the fuzzy little beasts.

  "I think the most important thing is that we, all of us, worked together to free the goddess," Riallen continued. "All four faces were trapped, not just the Warrior. She'd escaped the original binding. It took that foulness with the cats to bind Her. Now, let's get these poor creatures taken care of right away. I know just the place to put them."

  He led them up and out of
the basement. Up above, the castle folk whirled about in an uproar, but the King merely waved away his people and told them he'd be back later to deal with their problems. Then he took his companions to a tree, with its stark, naked branches reared against the sky.

  "Aunt Mairead loved this tree, they tell me," Riallen said, leaning on the pick they'd removed from the gardener's shed just outside the kitchen. "I can't think of any better place to put them, since Mairead probably loved these cats, too."

  Kirel swallowed hard at that. Somehow, he hadn't realized these were probably his mother's cats, possibly even her favorites.

  "I think I'd better dig the hole, since my father was the sick bunger that did this to them." So saying, Riallen swung the pick with a will. Snow, ice, and rock-hard dirt flew everywhere. Shortly he'd produced a decent sized grave, and Kirel laid out the bones, mother and babies nestled close together in death as they must have in life. Then together he and the King covered the bones and stood quietly over the grave, each saying a silent prayer for the peace of the feline spirits.

  "Mrrr, rreow?"

  "Look!" Sylvan, the first to turn at the sound, pointed excitedly.

  A cat sat watching them with light glinting off her wide, grass-green eyes, her medium length fur a mottled and indistinct color that let her fade into the undergrowth outside the castle walls when she wanted to. She held one front paw fastidiously out of the snow.

  "Kitty, kitty," Kirel said, crouching down and extending his hand.

  "Hello, kitty," Riallen said, although he wasn't familiar with cats at all, never having seen one up close.

  With all the dignity of her breed, the wild cat rose and waddled towards Kirel, her pregnant sides sticking out far beyond her ribcage. "Mrrow!" she announced, then reared up and rubbed Kirel's hand with great force.

  He rubbed the cat's ears, feeling her quiet purr through his fingers. "Invite your friends to the stables, lady cat," he suggested, then stood up with a smile. "Looks like the castle's got some new residents on the way, cousin. I hope you like cats."

  "I hardly know," Riallen admitted, as they started towards the castle, feline in tow. "I'm sure it'll be nice to have them around, though. They'll eat all the mice, won't they?"

  "Indeed they will. And they'll keep your feet warm in wintertime, also, and make you laugh so hard you'll probably burst something when they're kittens. But one thing I'm sure you'll learn rather quickly."

  "What's that?"

  "This may be technically your castle, but it's hers now." He indicated the mother-to-be with a smile. "And she'll only let you live here as long as you pamper her accordingly and supply her with food fit for a queen."

  Sylvan and Kirel laughed at the King's dismayed expression, and they all stepped back into the castle, ready now to deal with the day's strange side effects.

  Frostfall

  The army, made up of the complete Home Guard, Old Guard, and cavalry, moved out within the hour. They'd been ready and waiting to go at a moment's notice for days, so the order came as something of a relief.

  Kirel said goodbye to Sylvan, glad for the chance to do so. The day of the Reaper attack he'd not gotten such luxury. He threw together every bit of warm clothing that could possibly work with his armor, and some good thick blankets. Hopefully he'd survive this adventure, and not wind up frozen solid on the side of the magical road.

  On his way down to the stables, the King's favorite page stopped Kirel.

  "The King says you must wear this," the boy said, holding out an impressive scarlet plume. "It goes in your helm. On top."

  "What? Why would I have to wear a feather?"

  "Because you're the Prince, he says. Royalty wears the red plume."

  "Well. If you say so." Kirel accepted the feather, along with its attendant message of "Here I am, please shoot me!" He toyed with it as he jogged through the halls, very glad his pack would shortly be on his horse. Yes, he'd put most of the clothing on, but the pack still felt bulky and awkward to someone utterly unused to carrying loads of stuff for any reason. Even horse dung got a wheelbarrow, and grain a feedcart.

  At the stable, he dropped his load by Dapple's stall. The Great Horse snorted and stamped, already tacked up and ready to go, wearing his own armor and heavy barding. Kirel bolted for the armor shed and stuffed himself and his extra padding into the cold, cold adamantium. Before he put his helm on he gave the feather a long look, then sighed and fixed the plume into the holder on the helm's crest. If this was some kind of joke. . .

  The first thing he noticed upon leading Dapple out of the stable was that the plume was no joke. He spotted the King immediately by the big red feather waving from the top of his head. The King sat on his rangy hunter, Hawknose, overseeing the fighters as they formed up in their proper marching order. Kirel mounted and threaded his horse through the activity to reach his cousin's side.

  "I see Sheldon found you," the King said, nodding at Kirel.

  "Yes. What's with the feather?"

  "We need to be easy to find at all times."

  "Isn't there an easier way to do that than a big fat target that just begs to be shot at?"

  The King snorted. "Target it may be, but it serves a purpose. You certainly found me fast."

  "True enough."

  "Are your men ready for this?"

  Kirel looked out over his cavalry with a sudden surge of pride. All his riders sat properly in their ranks up by the big castle gates. "Yes, of course."

  "Good. As soon as these fools quit their squabbling over precedence, we're leaving. You ride with me. Let Tenyk take charge for a while."

  "Why not, he can handle it. And as we ride you can tell me more about what we're up against. My studies haven't reached the Forces of Evil unit yet."

  Riallen laughed. "Well, at the pace of foot soldiers in this bloody cold, we'll have plenty of time to cover everything about our enemies."

  "Good. Keep my mind off freezing."

  "Just be grateful we've got horses. Imagine what it would be like if you weren't sitting on a warm animal."

  "Brr." Kirel shivered. "Here now, it's cold enough already. No need to give me a chill."

  "I wonder, is the Darklord behind all this a total moron? Nobody chooses to fight in winter."

  The army moved out into the cold, windy day, five hundred strong and ready for anything. Kirel continued to feel self-conscious about the feather, but there wasn't much he could do about it. And while they rode, his cousin gave him a general rundown of the forces of evil, from the Dark One himself crouched like a spider up in his fortress of Storm King right on down to the lowliest demon, the kind sent to infest and annoy the outposts while the Dark One or his Darklords recovered from a major assault.

  "You mean they can wear themselves out?" Kirel asked.

  "Yes, and a good thing that is for us, too. Even the most evil of mages has to obey the laws of this world. They don't have an infinite supply of strength and magepower. Otherwise we'd have broken long ago, and Anarill as we know it would be no more."

  "Names sure can get confusing around here," Kirel remarked, as his mind automatically deciphered which Anarill the King spoke of. "The Army of Larantyne rides against the Kingdom of Anarill, both part of the Northern Alliance, that most people call Larantyne, sitting on the continent of Anarill. . ."

  Riallen shrugged. "What can I say? I've always suspected the poor naming skills of our ancestors stem from the fact that they were once nomads, with no reason whatsoever to name castles, countries, and such."

  The army stopped early, in order to set up their magically enhanced tents in the daylight. Without that help, none of them would survive the journey through the wintry Northlands. Kirel wondered, as he rubbed Dapple down and watched the sun descend towards the horizon, why nobody had thought to procure stable tents. Surely the lives of the horses were important, too? Perhaps the cavalry just never rode out in winter?

  More likely nobody thought of horse tents because Great Horses had little difficulty with the cold
. Nor did Figros. But the other assorted hunters, plow horses, palfries, and such most certainly did.

  Kirel noticed the weird weather slowly. He saw the changes peripherally, not really paying attention to them, until the smells and sounds of soldiers making dinner filled the air and the sun slipped quietly beneath the horizon. Then something made him look more closely as he finished settling Dapple's gear for the night.

  The winter blue of the sky arched overhead, mostly clear of clouds, a welcome change from recent days. Something almost like glittering mist hung in the air, haze speckled with sharp pinpricks of light. Kirel paused, hands on hips, and looked. Something felt wrong, but he just couldn't pick out what. It looked very pretty, the way the last rays of the setting sun caught the white haze and made it glow, but. . .

  "Prince Kirel? Commander?"

  "Huh?" Kirel quit looking at the glowing sky and focused instead on Hern, one of his cavalrymen. "What is it, Hern?"

  "Have you seen the sky?"

  "Yes," Kirel nodded. "What about it? It's very pretty."

  Hern's eyes widened. "Pretty? You don't know what it means. I tried to get to the King, but he's already in a meeting with all the Generals and Captains and no one will let me in to see him. You're the only one left out here with any kind of authority. But somebody's got to let him know. We're all going to die tonight if we don't get ready now. Might anyway, no matter what we do, but we have to try."

  "Maybe you'd better tell me what's going on," Kirel suggested, tucking his rubrag under his belt, inside his warm cloak.

  "It's an attack," Hern said, "From the Dark One. In about two hours it'll be cold enough to kill us all out here. And then the demons will come."

  "Well!" Kirel blinked rapidly. "Let's go see the King."

  Hern didn't say another word, just set off in the direction of the King's pavillion.

  Kirel recognized the youngster standing guard outside immediately. His name was Kelfry, and he'd come in with the last batch of horses and volunteers from the outlying holdings before the snows. So new he squeaked, and very serious about his duties as a cavalryman and soldier. He recognized Hern first, and glared.

  "I thought I told you—"

  "Enough, Kelfry. Let us pass. It's important."

  "Commander! I'm sorry, I didn't recognize you."

  "Don't worry about it. Just let us in."

  "Well. . ." The young man hesitated, torn between his duty to leave the King undisturbed, and obedience to his commanding officer. Hern shuffled impatiently. "Okay. But only you. He waits outside."

  "Fine." Kirel entered the pavillion. Huge and multi-chambered, the thing housed twenty, and boasted a large meeting area. The warmth inside wasn't as good as being in the castle, but it was certainly more comfortable than outside. Somewhere in the sea of specially treated, magically enhanced spiderweave, Kirel had a little cubicle for his own. It beat the life out of sleeping under the stars in the cold.

  The main corridor funneled Kirel directly into the meeting.

  "—depends on if they expect us or not," General Koll was saying. "If they don't, we're good. If they do?" He shrugged. "Bad situation. Sappers and infiltrators, against goddess-built defenses, with ground that's frozen until spring."

  "Excuse me," Kirel said, before anyone could comment.

  "Kirel! About time you got here." Riallen waved him to a seat. "Sit down. We're planning the assault."

  "I didn't know I was expected here, cousin. But there's a problem outside."

  "What is it?"

  "One of my riders says the strange weather is an attack from the Dark One." Kirel said it with a straight face, even though he still found it rather incredible to interact directly with the legendary forces of evil, like people up here did on a near daily basis. Such things just weren't considered real in most of the southlands. He'd seen actual demons with his own eyes, true, but it still felt weird.

  "What?"

  "There's a strange white haze over everything—"

  That was as far as he got before Kirel found himself overrun by a stampeding herd of men. He stifled wildly inappropriate laughter as the commanders of the Army, including the King, dropped their dignity and scrambled and shoved their way out of the tent like unruly schoolboys. He followed behind at a more sedate pace, using the time to get his expression under control.

  Outside the tent, the men huddled in a tense knot, with occasional apprehensive glances at the glow. The last bits of sun dipped slowly below the horizon, coloring everything orange.

  "Death is not an option," the King said. "So. There you have it. We're not going to die. What do you lot recommend? I have an idea, but it might be mad."

  "Madness might work." Trise tried to grin, but it looked more like a sick grimace. "I say strike the camp."

  "That was my idea, as well. Other suggestions?"

  "We could, possibly, all clump together for warmth," Koll said dubiously.

  "Would someone mind telling me what's going on?"

  Riallen glanced at him, then back at the glittering air. "Poor, ignorant southlander. That white stuff? The haze, as you called it? Frostfall. Tiny ice crystals, like snow without clouds, only worse. Have you noticed how dry the air is?"

  Kirel nodded. "My lungs have been burning more than usual."

  "That's because of the frostfall. It sucks all the moisture out of the air, and lungs as well. And it's going to get cold soon. I know, you think it's cold already. In an hour or two, it'll be cold enough to kill. And then, when we're all suffering miserably, the demons will come. Frost and snow demons. They love the cold. And they will eat you alive."

  "Hern said something about that." Kirel frowned. "Tell me, how can we protect the horses?"

  "Damnation. We're going to have to strike the camp. The only way to keep them warm is to move. The tents weren't made to withstand frostfall, otherwise I'd say bring them inside."

  Kirel nodded, with an internal sigh. "Probably. If it gets much colder, they'll freeze where they stand. And. . . Their noses. We need something to cover their noses." He touched his muffler. "Like this. Something they can breathe through, but it will filter some of the cold, and keep in some of the moisture."

  "That's your job, Horsemaster," the King said. Kirel felt a sharp stab of annoyance at the dismissive tone as his cousin turned immediately to General Koll. "Get everybody packed up and moving. I want us on the road again within the hour."

  The General nodded and started issuing orders to the Captains. Kirel backed off a bit, suddenly feeling useless. He noticed something incongruous: Hern and Kelfry standing fairly close together by the entrance to the King's pavillion. He moved to join them.

  "Well, you got your wish. The King's been warned. We're striking the camp and moving out. Any ideas on where we can get some fifty or so horse mufflers?"

  Kelfry gave him a disbelieving glance, and Hern guffawed as though it was the funniest thing he'd ever heard.

  "I'm serious. We need something to cover their noses with that they can breathe through. And I don't mean feed bags, either, the weave on those is far too loose."

  "Spare shirts?" Kelfry suggested.

  "Does everyone have them? That they aren't wearing, I mean." Kirel perked up immediately. That sounded promising.

  "Supposed to," Hern shrugged.

  "Come on, then. You started this, Hern, now you get to help finish it. Let's go cover up some horse noses."

  They set off for the horse lines, riding along a wave of rapidly spreading activity as the officers spread out and began the process of preparing for the coming storm. Already the air felt noticeably colder, and much drier.

  "That kid. Kelfry. Is he cavalry?"

  "Huh? Oh, yes. You should know that. Why? Thought you didn't like him."

  "Oh, he's not so bad. I was just curious. Hadn't seen him around."

  "He's not been here very long. Came in with the last batch of horses from the farms."

  "Huh. Those folk bunk in a different barrack than mine. Must be why h
e's so green he didn't know to let me through to the King."

  "Yes. At least it worked out okay. That reminds me, the King acted like I was supposed to be there already. Do you know who's running messages tonight?"

  "No idea."

  "Damn." Kirel sighed. Sometimes it seemed like life was out to get him.

  Between them, Hern and Kirel managed to get to each rider in the cavalry and spread the word to cover the horses' noses. Soon every horse looked rather silly, sporting its rider's spare shirt tucked into its bridle and tied around the nose by the sleeves, some snorting and shaking their heads. But they all accepted the indignity, thanks to their basic training, and seemed a bit happier, too. Kirel could understand why. The soft skin of horses' noses and lips was very sensitive, and they had massively long nasal passages. His own nose and throat burned painfully enough, he could imagine how awful the frigid, dry air would feel going through a nose and throat ten times longer than his own.

  Within the hour, the encampment was stowed away in packs and saddlebags again, and stars glittered fiercely through the haze. The cold clutched at human and animal alike, far more intense now. Kirel spared a thought for his first winter in Scholastica and almost laughed. Now he understood Sylvan's amusement at his reaction. Why, compared to this, the coldest day in Scholastica was downright balmy!

  He nudged Dapple into a walk and sought out his cousin. The air prickled and stung. He could feel it even through his warm under-layers. He wondered what would happen if he touched his armor with his bare hands. Not that his hands wanted to come out of their mittens, but Sylvan told him once of silly boys daring each other to lick flagpoles back in Scholastica. He'd claimed it was a tradition, of sorts, and that invariably someone's tongue would freeze to the cold metal.

  Then the moaning started. Soft at first, just a hint of sound, then it built in intensity. Kirel shivered harder. All around him, horses shivered too, and stamped uneasily.

  "What is that?" Kirel asked of no one in particular. He heard General Koll snapping out orders to the foot soldiers in the background.

  "Demons," someone replied shortly.

  A bolt of pure terror shot through Kirel from head to toe, but he looked beyond it and started issuing some orders of his own. He really had no idea how to fight a snow or ice demon, but he knew that facing any enemy with a disorganized force was just plain dumb. Somehow he'd landed in the position of Commander of the horse troops, so by damn he was going to do his best and not thtock up again. He hoped. He'd done good once, by the Mother, he'd do good this time.

  Demons, not men. He could fight demons again. He could. Unnatural destroyers, no redeeming features at all. If a demon died by his hand, looking at him with shock and reproach, he could handle that. Those overgrown bugs hadn't bothered him at all, aside from the fear of getting chopped up by their vicious mouths and arms. But what would he do if he found himself facing a Nameless One? Would he remember the encouraging words of General Trise, and fight a human enemy with success?

  He'd better.

  No time now for self-indulgent fussing. The horse troops fell into their proper ranks and took their place at the vanguard of the fighting force. No sign remained now of the encampment, other than the trampled and stained snow alongside the magical road. Now five hundred soldiers of the Old Guard stood ready, although they all shifted uncomfortably in the deep cold. Kirel found his way back to the King's side.

  "The current plan is just to keep moving until the cold breaks, all night if we have to," Riallen said, surveying his force. "Damn those magicmen! I'd string every last one of 'em up by their balls, if I could find them!"

  Kirel blinked. "Magicmen?"

  "Yes. All our magicmen ran off in a bunch several annums back, damn them. How are we supposed to survive this without magic? It's hard enough under ordinary circumstances. No one's seen frostfall in twenty annums or more."

  "Where did they go?"

  "Who knows? Other castles, probably." Riallen shrugged and signalled the advance. Men and horses stepped forward into the moaning cold as one.

  They all discovered quickly that moving provided little warmth. The night kept getting colder, beyond the point where it even seemed possible. The only benefit to moving was that it kept flesh from freezing solid.

  Then the demons came.

  Fighting demons in the dark, icy cold quickly became a chaotic mess that belied all the training of the army. People stumbled around in the bitter blackness, trying to find the swift-moving demons by sound alone, since humans don't see all that well in the dark. The horses actually had an advantage there, but they wanted to get away from the demons, and their riders wanted to get closer to strike at the elusive things.

  So people wound up fighting individually, rather than in a cohesive whole, waiting for a demon to strike and reacting to it. On the good side, the activity kept people alive. On the bad side, finding a target pretty much guaranteed taking a wound from frozen claws or teeth.

  As Kirel fought to keep Dapple on the road, he thought frantically, trying to come up with some way to use the horses' better night vision. But he couldn't come up with anything at all. Light, light, how to make some light? An image flashed into his head, his own hand tucking a lightstick away in his saddlebag. Maybe. . .

  He brought Dapple to a plunging halt and dug out the lightstick quickly, while the horse's sides heaved and he coughed at the cold air. Rope! Find some rope! No, not rope, one of the unused latigos on the saddle would do.

  Dapple gave a great sideways leap while Kirel fumbled with the latigo. Kirel's thighs clamped automatically, and he barely swayed in the saddle as the strap came loose. He hauled the horse back to a stop and tied the activated lightstick to his swordarm. He held his arm up and saw a satisfying beam of light catch a bit of movement.

  "Hey!" he yelled. "Everyone, look!"

  Not a very eloquent call for attention, perhaps, but it did the trick. Soon every fighter wore lightsticks tied to their arms and the tide began to turn in favor of the humans.

  "So all that mess was caused by ten demons?" Kirel asked later in disbelief. The frostfall had lifted, letting the humans fumble their way through setting up camp in the dark.

  "And a frost giant. Don't forget the frost giant." The King leaned back in his folding chair wearily, rubbing his forehead.

  "Those were hardly ordinary demons," General Koll grunted. "Ice wraiths? Nobody's faced those in decades."

  "Whoever came up with the lightstick idea deserves some kind of reward."

  Kirel blushed. "Uh, that was me."

  "Really?" Riallen smiled at him. "Good thinking. None of us have ever had need to come up with a way to light a battlefield before, because we've never been caught on the road, in the dark. During frostfall, no less."

  Kirel shivered just at the sound of the word. "I'm glad we survived that. You said the frost giant caused it?"

  "Indeed. So. Does anybody have anything incredibly important to discuss? Because now that the fun's over, I'm ready to call it a night."

  All three Generals laughed, a somewhat grim and exhausted sound.

  "Nothing that can't wait for morning, Ri," Madden said. "I'd rather seek my bedroll as well."

  "Good. That's all, then, gentlemen. We'll be on the move again by first light."

  As Kirel settled into his bedroll on the frozen road, with the gentle warmth of the pavillion wrapping around him like a hug, he wished Sylvan were here with him. Rather ironic, of course, because not too long ago he'd been utterly thankful that Sylvan was safe home, far from the icy cold and the dreadful chaos of battle.

  What would the next day bring, he wondered. More demon attacks? A peaceful, if cold, journey? A naturally fierce blizzard?

  He fell asleep listening to the memory of Sylvan playing his dulcilute.

  Stalemate

  The journey to Castle Anarill stretched out over six miserable days, due to the lack of sunlight. Days came and went in a flash, with sunset seeming to follow hard on the heels of
sunrise. The army kept moving as long as they could, but travel in the black of night just seemed pointless. Even with the magically clear road to show them the way, such a large group of people and animals did nothing but hinder one another in the dark. So they camped more than they traveled, and kept up a brisk pace as long as the light lasted.

  They finally reached Castle Anarill late afternoon of the sixth day. Riallen sent scouts out to determine what exactly awaited them. Had the Warrior already trashed the place? Perhaps more Darklords joined forces and came across the border to help their comrade?

  Nobody knew, and the uncertainty ate at everybody as they set up camp within view of the castle itself. That presented a clear risk, but it felt justified to Riallen. If the forces of evil still held the castle, they would attack anyway. Why not position his own forces where he could see the attack coming?

  The scouts returned as people finished off their evening meal. Riallen heard their report as he savored his last cup of kais for the day.

  "Thank you," he said, and dismissed the scouts. His mind worked at the information they'd brought him, turning it around and around, examining it from every different angle. Very interesting. He'd need to think this through for a while, and get some input from his officers. Not just the Generals this time, all of them, right down to the lieutenants. Because the situation the scouts reported to him a few minutes ago was just downright weird. So weird, in fact, that Riallen felt totally out of his depth even thinking about it. But of course, that just meant he had to consider the problem all the more carefully, lest he miss something dreadfully obvious.

  He could scarcely even picture the situation over there, for all that the scouts had gotten quite close enough to give a very detailed report. Really, what was he supposed to do with an entire battle, friends and enemies alike, frozen in place?

  At least there seemed little threat of attack in the night. The King sent messengers round to all his officers, inviting them to a strategy session first thing in the morning. What would the others make of this weirdness? About the only thing Ri felt sure of was that the weirdness resulted from the direct intervention of the Warrior. Who but a goddess could cast magic on such a grand scale? But what was he supposed to do with the result of that magic?

  It did occur to him that now might be a great time to eliminate a lot of servants of darkness. Surely there was some way to destroy them as they stood, leaving only the residents of Castle Anarill behind? Perhaps, but would he be able to live with himself if he chose that route? Huge difference between killing in a fair fight and slaughtering helpless victims.

  Of course, conscience aside, such action would result in a bloodless victory for his army.

  Was it worth it, though? At what point did honor stop and stupidity begin?

  Weird.

  Ri got up and walked the camp, looking over his soldiers and thinking about honor, the Northlands in general, the way his people had finally begun to accept him.

  Hmm. Perhaps the goddess would perform her trick on his Council. He snickered at the amusing thought. When this unusual winter campaign ended, he'd work on getting rid of the dead weight and creating a new Council. He wondered once again that he hadn't found a way of doing so already. After all, when he'd taken the throne, he'd turned the whole political and social structure of Castle Larantyne on its ear anyway, so why not do away with the Council as well?

  Because, of course, his grip on the reins hadn't been secure enough at the time. He'd had to let the Lords and Ladies keep some sense of empowerment, or they'd have rebelled at his rule after the annums of his father's pseudo-rule.

  That was neither here nor there. The subject only came to occupy his mind because what he should be thinking about, the situation in that castle over there, just made him completely uncomfortable.

  Ri turned to check on the horse lines. Nothing stressful over there, just a bunch of big beasts munching on grain in feedbags. He rather liked the animals. Why had his father hated them so, anyway? Must have been one of those illogical dislikes humans in general seemed subject to, like an extreme version of not liking a particular food or color. He shrugged it off, found his own horse Hawknose to give him a goodnight pat, and moved on, no closer to determining what to do with the frozen tableau of battle.

  Maybe he should see if any of the soldiers were also artists, for surely having a battle frozen in mid-swing, so to speak, offered a perfect opportunity to sketch out a realistic action scene.

  Riallen laughed at himself and decided that, if his thoughts meant to go in such a ridiculous direction, maybe he'd better just call it a night and go lay down. Let his subconscious mind work on the problem. It probably had a much better chance of finding a solution than his conscious mind did.

  So he made his way back to his big pavillion, glad his folk granted him at least the illusion of privacy. One thing he'd never taken into consideration in his plans for the future: the complete loss of his own life. After an entire lifetime of hiding away in the shadows, trying to stay unnoticed and therefore alive, this business of being constantly in the public eye still left him uneasy. The only place life took on any sense of normalcy at all was in the kurill.

  But such was the price of Kingship. No use fretting about lost privacy, he couldn't have it both ways. And he wasn't about to let his country dissolve into civil war and fall to the Dark One just because he didn't like people watching him all the time, or being trailed discreetly by a guard or two everywhere he went. They lurked back there now, trying to seem inconspicuous, like they just wanted to take a stroll in the icy evening air and just happened to follow the King's exact path by chance. Ri sighed and ducked into his pavillion.

  Which, of course, offered very little solitude. The big tent, with its magically enhanced, oiled spiderweave, seethed with people. All his officers, plus of course his cousin, with his double right to be there as both officer and cousin. But in here he had a medium-sized chamber all to himself, where he could tie the laces on the door flaps and relax a bit.

  Which was exactly what he did.

  Retribution

  Morning light found King and officers already gathered around the multi-part folding table in the main chamber of the King's pavillion. They shared a simple breakfast, about the best kind available in the camp: fresh griddlecakes, honey, dried fruit, and kais. The same thing every other person in the camp got in the morning.

  "You all know where the situation stands," the King began, as people finished their food and leaned back to enjoy their kais. Except Kirel, of course, who hadn't grown up drinking the stuff and therefore considered it rather nasty. He drank it, but with none of the evident pleasure of the others.

  "Frozen into place, if I understood the report right," General Madden humphed. "Just not natural."

  "Agreed. Surely the goddess's Warrior self had something to do with that. So that's what we've got to work with, a battle frozen in mid-swing. What are we going to do about it?"

  "You're going to give me backup, that's what you're going to do," the Warrior said, striding up to the table.

  "Ah. . . Welcome, Warrior," Riallen said, recovering from his shock quickly. "Anything you need, of course. Just let us know."

  "I just did. It's about damn time you lot got here." Iona raked the assembled officers with fiery, disdainful eyes. "Six whole days I had to wait! And then you get here without a plan."

  "We have plenty of plans," General Koll assured her. "But none of them allowed for a battle that awaited us in complete stasis."

  "Yes, that is rather a different solution, isn't it?" Iona smiled, an expression to chill the blood. "Wouldn't normally go to such an extreme, but there were too many of them. Even a goddess can only handle so many servants of the Dark One at the same time. Otherwise there wouldn't be a Dark One, now would there?"

  "Of course not," the King said hastily. "And. . . Was your plan to let us position ourselves effectively, then unfreeze the combatants?"

  "Boy has a brain," Iona nodded, then fixed Ri
with a fierce glare. "Now don't thtock it up! And you," she turned her gaze on Kirel, "you tell that stubborn-bunger doubter of yours that you're to keep your cavalry out of the main conflict on My orders. Most of you lot are riding ordinary horses, not My creations. When the magic starts flying, those poor things'll drop dead of pure fright. So use your bows, stay mobile, and don't get in the thick of the fighting."

  "Understood, Warrior," Kirel nodded, deeply amused that Kenton even annoyed the Warrior. He hadn't known Great Horses were somewhat resistant to magic. That made perfect sense, now that he knew they truly sprang from magic, just as the legends claimed.

  Iona gave the assembled leaders one last sweeping glare. "You've got one hour. Get yourselves into position and be ready to support the Anarillians straight away. I'll handle that blasted Darklord. Move!"

  Iona disappeared. The humans stared at the empty place where she'd stood.

  "Well," the King said, recovering first. "I guess we'd better get moving."

  "I had no idea She was so. . . so. . ." General Trise tried to come up with a word and failed. He shrugged.

  "Vigorous?" Maddock suggested, pushing his chair back and standing. "Come on, people, we've got a job to do. Let's get moving."

  Getting the army to the castle and positioned within the hour presented a challenge, to say the least. Kirel got his cavalry in position, of course, because the horses moved far faster than unmounted humans. But he spotted at least two units still on the move when Iona reappeared as a great black raven over the castle. She shrieked, and the main gates to Castle Anarill burst open. Inside the walls, the sounds of battle rose immediately as the Larantynian army began pouring through the gates.

  "Kirel!"

  "What is it this time, Kenton?" Kirel responded absently, scanning the scene before them for any clue as to how to use his archers.

  "We need to move in closer, get in the castle walls. We're useless out here."

  "What did I tell you?" Kirel twisted in his saddle to glare at the man, copying Iona's fierce expression. "We're staying clear at the Warrior's orders. If you want to piss Her off, you go right ahead. I wash my hands of you. This cavalry's no place for a lone wolf that won't bow to authority."

  Kenton's eyes widened. "But—"

  "Well? I'm waiting."

  Kenton looked at the battle in the castle courtyard, which even now showed signs of bursting free of the structure and spilling onto the plains. He hesitated, fidgeted with his reins, then bowed his head. "My place is with the cavalry, Commander."

  Finally! Kirel felt like cheering, but nodded instead. "Then see that you keep it. Looks like we're about to become useful, people. Ready bows and wait for my signal."

  They'd spent hours doing mounted drills with the short, powerful bows specifically made for horsemen. Accuracy was still pretty far off, but they could at least all handle both bow and horse at the same time.

  An explosion boomed down below, and Kirel winced. Magic. Something he'd certainly never been trained to combat. But even Nameless Ones could fall to a well-placed arrow. Now if only the first units in would do their job and lure the conflict out onto the plain. Otherwise, the cavalry would be shooting blind over the walls, and that would just be a really bad idea.

  "Oh shit!"

  "What is it?" Kirel's attention switched from contemplating the conflict within the castle walls to focus sharply on Flower, the woman who'd sworn.

  "Demons!" She pointed. Everyone looked. Most of the cavalry swore.

  "Here we go, people. Let's get it right the first time."

  The cavalry moved into a canter, the pace slower but smoother than a gallop, and headed for the incoming mass of demons.

  Perhaps incoming wasn't quite the right word. The demons, things that looked like an unholy mix of jackal, frog, and man, with long dorsal spines, came boiling out of the ground straight into the back end of the fighters waiting outside the castle gates.

  Even as the soldiers engaged with the demons, Kirel led the cavalry in an arc past the conflict. Each rider got off three or four shots before momentum carried them out of optimal firing range. Then they swung around and did it again.

  The jackal-things weren't the only demons to arrive unexpectedly. The two units of the Home Guard meant to clean up the remnants of the battle found themselves instead under full attack by five different types of demon. The cavalry stayed on the move, making pass after pass, firing at things Kirel had no name for. Bat-things, small and vicious with teeth all out of proportion to their heads, fluttered about overhead, dodging arrows with contemptuous ease. Big, hulking jelly-monsters quivered and oozed, trying to absorb anything living. They just squished when pierced with arrow or sword.

  "Fall back!" Kirel called, just as traditional man-shaped demons with claws, horns, and wings appeared right in the midst of the battles.

  The riders followed them, harried by the bat-things. A coordinated wave of excrement hit the riders and horses, sticky and foul.

  "What the hell!"

  The situation wasn't funny. Anyone could see that. But the sheer ludicrosity of the attack left many of the riders, Kirel included, trying to contain laughter.

  "Looks like we've been shit-bombed, Commander," someone called out, as the horses slowed and their riders took aim at the bat-demons from their more steady perches.

  "Just be glad those things aren't modeled after cows. Right, people, break out the fire arrows. We're going to have to do something to affect those jelly-blob things."

  "Gurati," Hern corrected.

  "Whatever. Let's see 'em absorb fire."

  While every other cavalryman covered the others from the bat attack, people broke out their supply of arrows with oiled rags wrapped around their heads. Due to their bulk, each rider only carried six of the things, along with a firestarter.

  After a brief moment to rest the horses, the cavalry went into action again, this time trailing fire behind it. The jelly-things, gurati, had a very satisfying response when struck by fire. At first, it looked like nothing happened. The blobby demons had flaming arrows sticking out of them, but continued oozing and absorbing freely. Then first one, then another, then three at once, all of them burst into fierce balls of flame.

  Inside the castle's outer walls, Riallen led the Old Guard to the support of the Anarillians. Part of him wished he'd seen their faces when Iona released them from their stasis. The rest of him remained focused on the Nameless Ones, their black-armored human keepers, and the demons they'd called up to sow chaos. He let his Generals direct the battle and focused on what he did best, killing shadowspawn.

  The ground shook with the force of a massive explosion. Startled, Ri lost his concentration for a brief instant and nearly got stabbed by a Nameless One's toxic blade. Must have been the Warrior, doing something. The blade glanced off the sleeve of his mail shirt, and Ri hurriedly yanked his attention back where it belonged.

  Then something happened that made even the Nameless Ones pause. A wave of pure terror rolled out of the castle itself. Into its wake stepped a Darklord, wearing a black robe, with long black hair lifting in a private breeze raised by the green-black-red energy crackling about him. He raised a hand as if to spellcast, but before he could, the Great Raven shrieked and came in for a landing right in front of him. As it landed, it transformed into Iona, the Warrior.

  She looked furious.

  "Filth!" Iona shrieked, her voice very similar to that of the Great Raven. "How dare you set foot on My lands!"

  Then Ri turned away from the imminent conflict, because the Nameless One he'd been fighting stirred back to life and resumed his attack.

  He caught glimpses of the conflict as he fought. The Darklord, unsurprisingly, attacked with magic. The Warrior countered with Her sword. If he hadn't been so focused on keeping that poisoned blade away from him, Riallen would have loved to see how the goddess fought magic with Her sword. Clearly, the weapon was made of some extraordinary material with capabilities well beyond those of good steel.

/>   The Nameless One weakened suddenly, staggering back, away from Ri's blade. He drove forward, instantly pressing the advantage, and managed to finally slay the soulless husk of a man. He scanned the courtyard quickly for danger.

  Iona cackled as she transformed back into the Great Raven. She hopped awkwardly into the air, flapping frantically, then snatched the fallen Darklord off the frozen flagstone courtyard and flew away, repeatedly crowing her victory.

  "Into the castle!" Riallen yelled, seeing most of the enemies fallen or fled. "Find that traitor Queen!"

  He bolted for the main castle doors at a full run, dodging wounded and corpses alike. Ice coated the stairs. He had to slow, or risk falling. Behind him, his men rallied and followed him at their best speed.

  He skidded to a halt as soon as he entered the doors. Blood coated everything. But he couldn't stop and stare at the horror, he had to keep moving, had to find the Queen in this immense fortress made to hold two thousand people.

  The residents of the castle hadn't had an easy time of it. Looked like the whole place had become a battlefield. judging by the destruction and the remains of both human and shadowspawn. He raced around the interior, looking for the Queen, then slowed his frantic hunt when he ran short of breath. Wouldn't do to be gasping and panting like a dying fish when he finally caught the traitor. Especially since he really wanted to punish her for inviting evil into her home. Demons lay mixed in with the dead humans, more proof than he needed to condemn the Queen in the eyes of her peers a thousand times over. In the end, for all his searching, Riallen wasn't the one to find the Queen. Maddon did it, then sent a runner to find the King, so he could deal with the problem.

  When Riallen walked into the servants' bathhouse, he stopped in shock yet again. There she was, Queen Tilda of Anarill, backed into a toilet stall and snarling furiously at General Madden. The Queen held a sword like she knew how to use it. Madden, meanwhile, laughed, leaning on his sword for support.

  "Madden, let the lady out of the toilet," Riallen called, recovering from his shock. He noticed maybe a half-dozen other fighters in the large room.

  The General glanced over his shoulder, saw his King, and sighed.

  "Very well, Majesty. But you'll probably want to stuff her in it yourself once you've met."

  "No doubt." Riallen approached the row of toilet stalls warily. The traitor burst free of the stall, glaring all around her.

  "I demand you people remove yourselves from my castle immediately!"

  "You're in no position to demand anything, traitor," the King said coldly. "Other than, perhaps, your choice of executioner."

  "I'm the Queen of Anarill. You don't have the authority to execute me."

  "Oh, don't I?" Riallen smiled, although he felt no amusement. "You abdicated your throne when you switched sides. Madden, get someone in here to tie this traitor up. Has anyone seen her daughter?"

  "I have her," a new voice said, one with blood dripping from its edges. The Warrior strode into the bathing room, making the ample space seem suddenly tiny. The Princess followed behind, by far the cleanest person in the room, although she wore a distant, dreamy smile that said louder than any words that the young lady's mind wasn't present. "Bitch. On the floor now, like the dog you are."

  She pointed, and Tilda dropped facedown on the floor. She immediately started struggling to get up, but the Warrior wouldn't allow her to do more than raise her head.

  "How dare you break the Covenant, cur?"

  "How dare you ignore me?" Tilda fired right back, uncowed.

  "I was busy," Iona muttered, then glared even more fiercely. "Lack of Divine response isn't enough to warrant betrayal. My affairs are My own, and must be tended to before I can attend mortal needs."

  "I got better treatment from the Darklords than from my own folk." Tilda writhed again, straining to move more than her head.

  "Sounds like a personality problem to me. Now. Up." Iona crooked a finger in a beckoning gesture, and Tilda's body obeyed. "Follow me. All of you."

  Iona led the way to the Great Hall, and people followed. They came from everywhere, all of the people that could move, Larantynians and Anarillians alike. They filled the Hall, although Riallen felt terribly sad to notice that everyone, his own people included, fit handily into a space that should have been bursting at the seams with just the Anarillians.

  Iona moved slowly, with a carefully measured and deliberate stride, into the Great Hall. When she reached the spot right before the dais, she casually waved her hand, and the traitor prostrated herself on the floor again. Iona continued up the stairs to the dais and turned to face her people.

  "My Guardians, witness the fate of the betrayer of the Covenant!"

  The Warrior raised her arms, head thrown back, long raven-wing hair streaming freely down her back. "Maiden, Mother, Crone! I call upon Myself and demand I answer!"

  There's something just wrong about the way that sounds, Kirel thought as he worked his way through the crowd to stand beside his cousin. Then he forgot to worry about grammar as the air around Iona shimmered.

  When the shimmer cleared, all four faces of the goddess stood in front of the awed crowd, although they didn't look entirely happy to see each other.

  "What is it, Warrior?" the Crone snapped, leaning on a gnarled walking stick. "This had better be good. I've still got a half century of kinks to work out of My back."

  "Be quiet, old hag, and attend. This piece of refuse on the floor before Us sold out to the Dark One. You know what We do with traitors."

  The Crone cackled heartily, while the Maiden and Mother both looked faintly ill.

  "Woman," the Mother called out. "Is this true? Have you broken the Covenant?"

  "I spit upon your Covenant and all who hold it! Worthless words, sworn to a worthless goddess."

  The Mother blinked, taken aback. "Well."

  "There You have it," the Warrior crowed. "Admission of guilt from her own mouth. But wait, it gets better. Traitor! Tell them what you did to your own daughter!"

  "Sacrificed her for the greater good," Tilda replied promptly.

  "Ha! For your own twisted desires, more likely. Go on, tell us more."

  "I gave her soul to the Dark One," Tilda snarled, somewhat hindered in her ability to project outrage by the floor pressed to her face. "She bought me eternal life."

  "So that's what those bastards are promising people these days," the Crone said. "Well and good. You want eternal life? Here's a trick I learned from watching an outlander mage."

  The Crone raised her walking stick, suddenly appearing less feeble.

  "No!" the Maiden cried out, leaping to block the Crone. "Mother, stop Her! She'll do something truly evil!"

  "Out of My way, child! I'm a goddess, ain't I? So what I do is justice, not evil."

  "Don't You dare, Crone," Iona snapped, even as Awenn stepped to the Crone's side with soothing words. "I know what You want to do, and little priss-face is right. It's bloody evil, and I won't have it."

  "Come now, dear," Awenn said, in a gently chiding manner. "You know the traditional punishment for traitors. No need to go breaking tradition, right?"

  "I set it, I can break it," the Crone muttered. "Fine. Whatever. You want to do things the same boring old way, go right ahead."

  The four parts of the goddess stepped back into their former neat alignment, arranged in an arc there on the dais.

  "Guardians of Life," the Mother began, making people feel as though Her eyes touched on each of them, piercing through the very depths of their souls. "This woman on the floor here before us has—"

  "Oh, get on with it already!"

  The Crone raised her walking stick again. It crackled with energy. "Traitor, feel the pain of My displeasure. Let it be done."

  The energy zapped from the end of the staff into the body of the prostrate, forsworn Queen, who shrieked in utter agony as her body burst into incredibly intense, white-hot flame.

  "Bit hasty, that, but it'll do," the Crone commented, eve
n as the former Queen's scream echoed away into nothingness and her body collapsed into a small pile of very fine ash.

  "Really, dear, You could have waited for the rest of Us."

  "Bah! Nonsense. Needed to—"

  "Enough!" the Warrior shouted, drowning out the voices of Mother and Crone. "Let's take care of the daughter. You," she pointed at Kirel. "You know what she looks like. Bring her here."

  Kirel's heart flipped unpleasantly at the sudden attention from the Warrior, then started pounding. He looked around quickly. Princess Tiana stood behind Ri and a bit to the side. He reached for her hand, skin crawling when he felt the lifeless cold of it, and led her forward to face the goddess in all Her glory. Then he dropped that cold, cold hand and got the hell back into the crowd, where he felt marginally safer.

  "Look at the poor thing," the Maiden said, one hand reaching out to touch the Princess. "She's all hollowed out!"

  "Yes," the Warrior said briskly. "And I intend to fix that. But I need all of Your help to do it, so let's get busy."

  "What!" The Crone rocked back in shock. "You get pissy with me over my plan, while all along you're thinking of this?"

  The four faces of the goddess dissolved into a fight at that point. Kirel could hardly believe his eyes, or his ears.

  "Somehow, it doesn't seem right for our goddess to fight with Herself like this," Ri said, leaning close so his words would remain private. "Not dignified at all."

  "Not a bit," Kirel agreed. "Do you even know what They're fighting about?"

  "It kind of sounds like they want to giver her a new soul," Ri said, nodding towards the eaten Princess. "So she can take over here as Queen."

  "They can do that?"

  "I guess," Ri shrugged. "I hope they can, at any rate. Tiana's the last of her line, just like you and I are the last of ours."

  "Poor girl. The same bloodlines have held the castles for three thousand annums, haven't they?"

  "Yes," Ri began, then the goddess apparently reached a consensus with Herself.

  The four of them stepped down from the dais, ignoring the way their people shrank back. They formed a circle around the vacant-eyed young woman and raised their arms high overhead, then drew down a shimmering curtain, blocking the view.

  People all through the Great Hall stared mindlessly at that shimmering curtain, mesmerized into an instant trance state. Nobody ever knew how long they stood there, because to them, no time passed in that Hall.

  But then the curtain came down, and people started stretching, and yawning, and rubbing at cramping legs and sore feet.

  "What happened?" Kirel asked, only to have Ri wave him silent and nod urgently at the goddess circle in front of them, even as he dug a fist into the small of his back and stretched around it.

  "Guardians, meet the new Tiana Ashkabath," the Crone announced, waving her walking stick at the Princess. Tiana smiled at her people, and it was such an utterly different expression, filled with character and strength, that Kirel felt a jolt of disbelief. Surely that can't be the same woman! "Now I'm leaving, before these youngsters get all feisty again."

  Then, suddenly, only three faces of the goddess remained, and every human in the Hall felt a great sense of relief.

  "Welcome, Queen Tiana," the Maiden said, smiling.

  "Tiana has promised to be a good Queen to her people," Awenn said.

  "And she won't defect to the other side," Iona added for good measure.

  "Treat her well," the Mother commanded, then vanished.

  The Maiden faded out much less dramatically. Iona, predictably, had something more to say, directly to King Riallen.

  "This one has properly sworn the Covenant. You'd better get busy and reaffirm all the old treaties immediately. But don't listen to your damn Council! She's meant for another, not you. Got that?"

  Without waiting for an answer, she transformed into a somewhat large, but mostly ordinary raven, and flapped her way out of the Great Hall.

  Aftermath

  "Well," Kirel said, back in the command pavillion. "Now what?"

  "Now we provide support," Riallen replied, stretching his legs out under the table, "because sure as we're sitting here, the Darklords are going to make a move on Anarill."

  "I suppose that makes sense." Kirel kept his disappointment hidden. He'd naively assumed they'd just go home. Fight over, new Queen in place, job well done, right? "Any idea how long we'll be out here?"

  "Correction," the King said, with a grin. "How long you'll be out here. I can't leave poor Sylvan saddled with the Council much longer. I'm taking half the men home. Those selfish bastards'll try to run him over day after day until he gives in, and then there'll be a mess."

  "Possibly," Kirel said, around a sinking feeling in his gut. Don't whine. No matter how horrible it would be to stay out here alone, in command of half Larantyne's army, in the cold. Just don't do it. "More likely you'll find the worst of the Councillors hiding in their rooms, afraid to be seen in public, lest people start singing the wildly popular satirical ballad Sylvan just finished about them."

  The King laughed. "There's a nice scenario. But truly, when we rode out, I decided that the Council's just got to go. My position is more secure now than it was this time last annum, so I think I can get away with removing the folk I can't stand and replacing them with more intelligent, practical types. Like your Captain Tenyk."

  Kirel nodded. "He's got a good head on his shoulders, now that I've knocked some sense into him about the whole cavalry thing. So what's your plan? Abandon us all to freeze until spring?"

  "Certainly not. Just a few weeks more, that's all. We'll split the forces, because we stripped the home front pretty bare coming out here, and I don't want anyone making a move on Larantyne while our defenses are down. You stay here long enough to make sure Queen Tiana's got everything under control, probably just three or four weeks. Get the men busy building snow caves. It won't be so bad."

  Damn. Three to four weeks of cold, because apparently, it just wasn't polite to move your fighting force into someone else's castle. Kirel could kind of understand that, as he wouldn't want a large, well-armed force moving in to his territory under someone else's command, but at the same time he knew damn good and well Anarill had suffered heavy losses in this whole fiasco and had plenty of empty barrack space available. Maybe the snow caves, whatever those were, would help.

  "Do you really think the Darklords will try anything?"

  "I know I would," Riallen shrugged, "and I know they're at least as intelligent as I am, so I can't see any reason why not. But you'll be able to handle it. I'll leave Koll for you."

  "I'm sure I will," Kirel said, although he felt anything but sure. "I just have this feeling all of us are going to turn into icicles."

  "Nah, you'll see. The snow caves will make things more bearable. You'll need to move into one of the smaller tents, though, because the pavillion's too big to cover over."

  Cover over? Sounded interesting. "I hope you're right. When are you heading out?"

  "Early tomorrow. If nothing else, the men have earned a rest."

  "Indeed. Well, when you get back, say hello to Sylvan for me, would you?"

  "Of course," the King smiled. "You're so lucky to have someone waiting for you back home."

  "Yes," Kirel said softly, seeing Sylvan's smile in memory. "I know."

  They went off to their solitary bedchambers then, both feeling lonely, but only one knowing that he'd receive a warm, loving welcome whenever he returned home.

  The next morning found the camp a scene divided into excitement and gloom. Naturally, the men going home rubbed the noses of the others in their good fortune mercilessly. The ones staying stoically ignored the gloating and set about consolidating the camp and digging in for the long haul.

  Snow caves turned out to be ingenious constructions made of blocks of compressed snow. Many of the cooking supplies came in boxes of a peculiarly uniform size, something that looked like simple convenience for travel. The boxes loade
d and stacked very well. But they turned out to have another use. Dump out their contents and the simple wooden boxes became forms for creating snow bricks, which the men then used to build solid, domed shelters over each tent. Once he saw how the snow caves worked, Kirel pulled a few men off cave construction and set them to building a snowy windbreak for the horses. Nowhere near as much protection as a stable, of course, but anything that broke the prevailing east wind's icy chill was certainly a good thing.

  The King and his half of the army left shortly after eating breakfast. The camp seemed much smaller without them. Kirel awaited the response from a messenger, sent to the castle to ask if his men could use the indoor arena to work their horses, when the alarm sounded. A clarion trumpet call pierced the subdued activity and sent the entire remaining army scrambling into full armor and swapping snowforms for weapons.

  A messenger, but certainly not the one Kirel anticipated, arrived from the outer sentries, red faced and short of breath in the cold.

  "Demons, my lord!" He took shallow, careful breaths, seeking oxygen without the pain of the cold. "They're coming in from above. Winged ones, may be agontiri, but I'm not certain."

  "Thank you, soldier," Kirel said. He looked around for someone else to send as a runner, only to see General Koll sliding to a halt on the packed snow. Good. "General. Have you any advice for me? I know nothing of these winged demons, although my riders will do good with their bows."

  Between them, Kirel and the General got a response organized and took on the demonic force, only to find the winged agontiri constituted a distraction from the main attack. Agontiri represented a minor class of demon, not especially good at anything except howling and eating. But the clutch of kelafas that flew over Castle Anarill presented a much more significant danger. Small, fast, and about as intelligent as demons could be, the kelafas could spit poison and their claws caused fire wherever they struck.

  And, of course, most of the Magicmen were gone from Castle Anarill, having fallen through treachery to the Nameless Ones.

  Not that that made much difference to the Larantynians. They'd been living without Magicmen for many annums by that point, and did not despair. Between the cavalry and the foot soldiers, the two allied forces managed to muddle through the battle somehow. For all their intelligence, the kelafas were still vulnerable to a well-placed arrow, and they still had to come physically close to cause damage, bringing them right into sword range.

  The skirmish with demons set the tone for the next few weeks. Within days, Kirel no longer minded the necessity of camping out when there was a perfectly good castle right there. Because, of course, being outside already shaved precious minutes off the response time when the alarm sounded. They needed every advantage they could get to survive the near-constant harrying attacks. Demons. Nameless Ones. Humans gone willingly over to evil. Even an occasional Darklord. The constant stream of attackers made life very active and unpredicatble. As the winter dragged slowly on, the soldiers of Castle Anarill put themselves back together, recruited new younglings, and got busy training. But they still needed and welcomed the help from Larantyne. Messengers flew regularly between camp, Anarill, and Larantyne. Kirel met with the Anarillian cavalry commander so many times they became fairly good friends.

  Then the constant stream of attacks slowed to a trickle, then a halt, for several days approaching midwinter, allowing all the soldiers a much-needed rest.

  Kirel lay in a compact bundle in his bedroll, although still wearing his mail shirt, drifting between a light sleep and a sluggish sort of consciousness, when yet another messenger woke him.

  "What is it this time, Ren?" he asked, emerging from beneath his blanket with much reluctance. True, it was only mid-afternoon, but he'd adopted the experienced soldier's habit of catching sleep whenever possible.

  "I think you'll want to see for yourself," the messenger replied, with a grin that held amused anticipation.

  Kirel sighed and put on his now well-worn cloak. He didn't want to go back out in the cold. The spell on the small tent he used now, although nowhere near as effective as thick stone walls and a good fire, kept a vast quantity of the cold at bay when combined with its companion snow cave, and he'd been enjoying the warmth. But he could hear voices and activity outside, so out he went.

  The activity seemed clustered around the western edge of camp, where the magic road led off to home. Kirel could see horses and humans milling about and picked up his pace. Then the crowd parted a bit and he saw a familiar horse that made him miss a step and nearly stumble. Thunder!

  Kirel shoved his way through the people and horses, heart in throat. Then he saw the shapeless bundle of warm clothing attached to Thunder's reins and paused for a moment.

  "Sylvan?"

  The bundle turned, and Kirel saw Sylvan's lovely hazel eyes light up with joy. The Bard tossed his reins to the nearest empty hands and held out his arms. Everyone cheered as their Prince and their Bard met in a joyful embrace.

  "What are you doing here?" Kirel asked, once past the first ecstatic moment of greeting. Part of him knew that they still stood out in the cold, surrounded by people, but for the most part he couldn't have cared less.

  "The King decided he'd be a good neighbor and loan out his Bard for Midwinter," Sylvan said, smiling. "That's the official reason. But the real reason is that I love you, and I missed you dreadfully."

  "Yes! Me, too." Kirel couldn't take his eyes off Sylvan's face, the only part of him visible under the protective outerwear. "I'm so glad you're here! Come with me."

  He grabbed Sylvan's hand and set off for his tent, blushing a bit at the laughter and more cheering that followed their progress. But he didn't care about that in the slightest. He only cared about getting Sylvan into what passed for warmth out here so the Bard could come out of all that thick fur and fabric.

  "Welcome to my humble home," he said, ducking through the low opening into the snowcave that surrounded his tent. Sylvan glanced around curiously. The snowblocks arched overhead, keeping out the frigid cold and blocking every bit of wind except the few wispy breezes that snuck in through the entrance.

  "Interesting. I've never actually seen a snowcave before. It's surprisingly warm in here."

  "It's better in the tent," Kirel prompted, holding the flap up. "Come in, make yourself at home."

  Sylvan smiled. "I'm always home, as long as I'm with you."

  Inside they both peeled off their outer layers quickly. Kirel chuckled when he saw what lurked beneath the outerwear.

  "What's this?" he asked, fingering the glittering adamantium mail shirt. "Have you finally grown some sense?"

  Sylvan laughed. "Hardly. The King insisted. He's remarkably like you in that respect. Wouldn't let me leave unless I wore armor, and insisted that the ordinary steel you made me wear before just isn't good enough for a Bard like myself."

  "Good for him." Kirel smiled, stroking Sylvan's hair. "It's not safe out here."

  "I have no fear you'll protect me, my brave warrior," Sylvan said, then moved closer for a kiss. Neither of them thought for even an instant that maybe it wasn't such a good idea to hold each other close while wearing mail.

  "Drat!" Sylvan broke away from the kiss, tugging at his arm. "I've gotten snagged in your damn armor somehow."

  Kirel snickered. "Well. Guess that'll show us."

  He twisted around, trying to see the problem. That didn't work so well, so he slipped out of the mail shirt, a process which required much creative squirming. Finally free, he got a look at the tangle.

  "Oh, this isn't too bad," he said. "Out of the armor, you. I need more flexibility than I've got now."

  "Whatever you say, my Prince."

  "Knock that off. I get enough of that stuff from my men, I don't need it from you, too."

  Sylvan smiled as he removed the mail shirt, while Kirel kept hold of his and made sure the tangle didn't worsen. With both of them out of the armor, it was a simple matter to release the tangle. Kirel laid the freshly separated
mail shirts carefully aside, then gathered the Bard back into his arms.

  "Much better," Sylvan sighed, running his hands up and down Kirel's back. "Now I can feel you. My Prince."

  Kirel sighed and shook his head. "I missed you."

  "I can tell."

  "So quit picking on me."

  Sylvan laughed. "I'm not picking on you, love. I enjoy having my very own Prince."

  "Then quit talking and enjoy me already!"

  "I knew you had a reason for hauling me out of sight immediately."

  "Of course," Kirel agreed. "I told you, I missed you."

  They kissed again, then reality intruded.

  "Prince Kirel?" a voice called from outside.

  "See? What'd I tell you?" Kirel sighed and let Sylvan go. "What is it?"

  "Messenger from the Queen, my lord."

  "Send him in."

  The messenger turned out to be a her, not a him, but that didn't matter much. She bore a written message inquiring after the arrival of the Bard, and inviting both of them to the castle for the evening meal.

  "Well," Kirel said to Sylvan, "looks like you rate far higher than I do. I've not been invited to the castle yet. But you arrive, and suddenly—"

  He stopped himself before he could say anything else that could be taken the wrong way in front of the messenger.

  "Of course we'll be happy to join the Queen this evening," he said to the young woman, who looked a bit uncomfortable. So he smiled, hoping he hadn't stepped in it too badly. "And of course I understand why I haven't been invited to the castle. It's fairly obvious that both Queen Tiana and myself have been outrageously busy. What time are we expected?"

  "At the evening bell, my lord."

  "Wonderful," Sylvan spoke up. "By all means, tell the Queen we'll be there."

  "Me and my big mouth," Kirel sighed, after the messenger left. "Will I ever learn to just keep it shut?"

  "Certainly," Sylvan replied. "I harbor no doubt, given how much you've changed since you've been away."

  "Changed?" Kirel raised a curious eyebrow. "How so?"

  "Just look at you! That armor fits you now."

  Kirel frowned and cocked his head to the side, now thoroughly puzzled. "What do you mean? You know as well as I do it was custom fit for me, and adjusted shortly after we got here."

  Sylvan shook his head. "I don't mean physically. I mean you look like you've seen a lot, come through unscathed, and grown from the experience. There's confidence in your eyes I've never seen before."

  Kirel smiled. "Thanks. Fighting demons will do that for you. Now get back over here, back to the part where you were telling me how much you missed me."

  "I thought it was the other way around?" Sylvan teased, as he slid into Kirel's arms.

  Evening bell found them standing together outside the Great Hall in Castle Anarill, both mildly apprehensive. The last time they'd come here to meet a Queen hadn't gone at all well. Hopefully this time would be different.

  At least the mood inside the Hall was different, as they both noticed immediately upon walking through the doors. Still filled with glittering courtiers, the Hall held none of the forced gaiety of before, with little underlying tension. And this Queen smiled when her Herald presented them.

  "Welcome to my Hall," Queen Tiana said, as they approached her throne on its dais. "Prince Kirel, I must apologize for not bringing you here sooner."

  "Thank you, Your Highness," Kirel replied, the steady glow of magical lanterns striking sparks off his adamantium armor as he bowed. Even here, at a social occasion, he still had to be prepared for demonic attack. He wore a fancy red surcote, though, with the Larantyne crest and the family heraldic shield. "But I truly understand. Both of us have had our hands full, after all."

  "I appreciate all you and your men do to protect my people. And Bard Sylvan, you are well come, indeed. It is long since this grim castle has heard joyful music."

  "I shall remedy that situation tonight, Your Highness," Sylvan replied, and made his own bow. Kirel noted with envy how gracefully he moved. "You have only to say the word, and music such as you have never heard will fill your Hall."

  "Wonderful. But first, let us enjoy the fabulous feast prepared for us this night."

  Fabulous indeed. Kirel had existed on trail rations for so long now that food, real food, seemed like something out of a fondly remembered dream. The kitchen staff had created an amazing feast in a hurry, since they surely hadn't had much notice of Bard Sylvan's arrival. Riallen sent him without much warning, after all. But even at short notice, the folk in Anarill's kitchens produced a mind-boggling array of food that promised to taunt Kirel with its memory every time he gnawed upon a piece of dried meat or a hard trail biscuit.

  He made an effort to be polite and pay attention to the people around him, of course, but Kirel found himself utterly captivated by his Bard. They'd not been apart since Sylvan's aborted journey with the now-defunct group New Sound Rising, and he'd missed his lover like he'd miss a hand or a foot. He peripherally noticed a few disapproving glances from assorted nobles, but he truly didn't care what they thought. Rather, he cared what Sylvan told him, as he described the events of the lunations they'd been apart.

  But then, after the feast, and after Sylvan's performance for the adoring, music-starved residents of Castle Anarill, a verbal shit-bomb dropped. And it was just as sticky and smelly as anything produced by a flying bat-demon.

  "The night grows late," Queen Tiana mentioned, as the final haunting chords of a ballad died away. "Prince Kirel, perhaps it is time you returned to your camp. My folk have brought the Bard's luggage up from your camp by now, all should be settled for the night."

  Sylvan and Kirel exchanged startled glances. Kirel had, of course, worked his way as close as possible to his Bard, without interfering with the performance. They'd both assumed Sylvan would stay in the camp, where he belonged.

  "Ah. . . Thank you," Sylvan said, recovering first. "We had assumed I'd be staying there, in the camp, with my folk."

  "Our honor will not allow us to turn away a Bard," the Queen said, a hint of a frown creasing her forehead.

  Sylvan gave Kirel an apologetic glance. "I meant no insult, Queen Tilda. I would be delighted to stay here, in the comfort of your wonderful castle. Thank you."

  "Prince Kirel, a word," the Queen said, as Sylvan followed the housekeeper away into the depths of Castle Anarill. Kirel quickly got control over his roiling guts. Memories of the guest quarters at this castle weren't all that pleasant. He moved towards the dais, ignoring the courtiers as they filed obediently out of the hall.

  "Yes, Queen Tilda?"

  "I must ask you a personal question." The Queen looked uncomfortable, yet defiant, like she knew she was about to do something rotten and meant to do it anyway.

  "Go ahead," Kirel said warily.

  "The relationship between you and the Bard seems very close, more so than is acceptable here in Anarill."

  Kirel's guts sank down into his boots.

  "So I must ask. Is it. . .Are you. . .Is your relationship as close as it seems?"

  "This is a very personal question you ask, Your Majesty," Kirel said coolly, stalling for time, while his brain raced around in frantic little circles. Damn and blast! Just what he didn't need right now. Somehow, he'd managed to go and do it again, thtock everything up. Only this time, the bloody Alliance lay on the line. Fine thing if, after these weeks of freezing his and all his men's arses off in the snow and cold, they wound up breaking the Alliance irreparably, rather than saving it. "May I ask why it matters?"

  The Queen gave him an uncomfortable look. "You may ask. These people of mine hold very firm and unyielding beliefs on propriety outside of the kurill."

  Kirel blinked. "I beg your pardon?"

  "Within the confines of the kurill, all is allowed. But when the masks come off, people expect certain behaviors to be left behind."

  "I see. Whereas in Larantyne, folk have a completely different attitude. If such a thing i
s true, then what effect would it have on the relationship between our peoples? Speaking hypothetically, of course."

  Another long, uncomfortable look. "Our people have worked together for many centuries," Tilda said eventually. "During which time each has managed to ignore the personal foibles of the other. I do not believe anything should stand in the way of the Alliance, unless it becomes an issue. If, for instance, my people should notice and comment on anything amiss, there could be a problem."

  Kirel felt a very strong urge to make a problem. Honestly, he shouldn't have to deal with this! The people of the Northern Alliance were supposed to be united by a shared culture and history, all sprung from the very same seed. And Larantyne came first, damn it! Not Anarill. Why should he have to hide away from his own blasted people?

  But diplomacy won over his streak of rebellion. Instead of throwing a Princely fit, he gave the Queen a guarded nod. "There will be no reason for your your people to comment on the behavior of myself or any of my soldiers," he said, words burning like acid. He knew the outrage showed in his eyes, but couldn't quite quell it all. "Cultural differences, however disturbing they might be, should not interfere with the Alliance. The Dark One is a threat to us all."

  "Agreed," the Queen nodded. "After all, clearly our ancestors had the ability to work together, so we should continue the trend. But at the same time, I believe it is time for your force to return home, once the Midwinter festivities are complete. My sadly depleted forces cannot provide a suitable escort for the Bard on the road."

  "As Your Majesty wishes," Kirel said, bowing. Then he excused himself and returned to the camp outside the walls, fuming. His distemper kept him warm as he stomped over the snowy ground with more force than necessary. The snow squeaked underfoot. He certainly hadn't expected to encounter prejudice here, despite the hints of it he and Sylvan encountered on their first visit. Then, the castle had been under the influence of a Darklord. For some reason, the sheer unexpectedness of finding the prejudice stemmed from culture, not mere evil influence, got right under his skin and made him really angry. Not to mention worried. Sylvan was off in that castle all alone, and without the unwelcome knowledge Kirel had gained. Not that the ever-diplomatic Bard was likely to cause a scene, but information always helped. Besides, just look what happened the last time they'd spent a night apart here at Castle Anarill!

  By the time he reached his tent, crouched snugly under its snowcave, Kirel managed to put enough of his anger and worry aside to relax a bit, although he still felt a sense of deep unhappiness and regret as he laid down in his woefully empty bedroll.

  But that wouldn't last much longer. Whether the Anarillians were ready or not, the Larantyne branch of the Old Guard would move out in three days' time, at the end of Midwinter. And personally, the end of the festivities couldn't arrive fast enough for Kirel.

  The rest of Midwinter passed smoothly. Kirel and Sylvan remained more apart than was their usual wont, and Kirel passed the word among the soldiers to avoid looking at all affectionate if Anarillians were around. He knew full well many people shared bedrolls out in the camp, more than just a few lucky men sleeping with the few female soldiers. In fact, two of his female cavalry riders shared warmth, not to mention at least some of the men, and plenty of the regulars as well.

  At any rate, the entire Larantynian contingent made it through the three-day Midwinter Festival without any major incidents. The forces of evil continued to hold off any major attacks, allowing people to actually relax and enjoy the festivities.

  On the fourth day, well before the sun rose, the Larantynian camp transformed into the site of frantic activity. Everybody, soldiers, General, and Commander alike, wanted to get the hell out of the snowcaves and back to their own home. Sylvan showed up even before the full camp arose, packed and ready to go, leading a magnificent red chestnut Great Horse stud behind Thunder.

  "Who's this?" Kirel asked, around a stretch and a yawn, perfectly willing to leave his snug bedroll to greet Sylvan in the early morning.

  "His name is Galliant," Sylvan replied, rubbing the massive nose. "He's a gift from the Queen to our King."

  "Excellent!" Kirel grinned, looking the Great Horse over. "It's about damn time the King will have a worthy mount. His hunter tries hard, but come on, the poor thing is only suited to riding over fields and fences, not carrying a warlord into battle."

  They moved out shortly after sunrise. Kirel attached Galliant to Dapple's saddle, so the big stud wouldn't have to worry about overrunning a smaller horse. The two full males indulged in a little bit of studly display, with pinned ears, mock snaps, and some pawing, but settled when Kirel corrected them firmly. By the time the Larantynians moved out, the two studs ignored each other thoroughly.

  The return trip to Larantyne passed uneventfully, which really bothered Kirel. Things had been quiet for nearly a complete week now, what if the Darklords were cooking up some kind of large attack against Anarill? But that hardly mattered anymore. He and his men had done their duty. Anarill would send word if they needed help.

  They didn't, and the rest of the winter passed uneventfully, the way a winter ought to pass. Minor, ordinary crises sprang up, common winter ailments and occasional calls for supplies from outlying settlements. Unbelievable amounts of snow fell, burying the Northlands under mountains upon mountains of white, and Kirel kept working with both horses and riders in the indoor arena. He no longer doubted, after the miserable weeks defending Castle Anarill, that his charges would be ready to fight come spring. They didn't know everything, true, but the cavalry riders transformed into an effective fighting force through simply doing it. Nothing taught quite as well as experience, after all.

  And so passed the winter into spring, with the people of Larantyne settling into their normal routines, unaware that something amazing waited for the thaw to rock their cozy little world.

  Revenant

  "My lord, my lord! Come quick! Oh, my lord, this is such wonderful news!"

  Sheldon the pageboy burst into the War Room without ceremony, interrupting the King's meeting with his commanders.

  "What is it?" Riallen scowled, although he kept his voice mild. This was not shaping up to be a good day. His scouts had brought back loads of information, not one bit of it good. Castle Anarill had not been the only scene of activity over the fiercely long winter.Now he could see why the attacks on Anarill slacked off near Midwinter, and the reasons all looked bad.

  "You have to come and see them, my lord! There's so many of them, and they're all riding big horses like you and my lord your cousin, and they've all got red feathers in their caps, too!"

  "Where?" Riallen's interest suddenly sharpened. Red feathers!

  "The courtyard, my lord."

  The King dropped his dignity and ran, for a moment looking like any ordinary young man in grey pants and thick wool sweater. He reached the main doors only slightly out of breath, thanks to his cousin's merciless riding lessons improving his general fitness, and emerged onto an astonishing scene.

  There in front of him sat perhaps twenty riders, all mounted on Great Horses. Seven of them out front wore battle armor, and indeed, each carried a red plume at the crown of his or her helm. An old man sat his horse slightly ahead of the others, watching the yowering castle doors with a curious mix of longing and impatience, leavened with frustration, filling his face. Riallen froze in shock, then descended the staircase slowly.

  His herald, somehow present and thinking coherently, announced him in a loud, clear voice.

  "His Majesty Riallen, King of Larantyne, and Lord of the Outpost Keeps!"

  The old man grimaced, wrinkling the skin around his grey eyes.

  "Greetings, King Riallen," he said, his voice deep and firm despite his annums.

  Riallen reached the courtyard and strode up to the stranger's horse. "Greetings, traveller," he said, concealing his impatient curiosity with the ease of long practice. "Whom do I have the pleasure of addressing?"

  "My name is Argentin, l
eader of House Verbrasian in exile. These," Argentin gestured to the riders around him, "are my sons and daughters. We have heard that a new King holds the reins in Larantyne, one who does not cleave to the foul treacheries of his father and grandfather, and have returned to reclaim our places in this family."

  Riallen almost gaped. "Lord Argentin, I bid you welcome indeed. May I suggest that you and your children attend me in my Inner Council chamber while my staff arrange accommodations for your followers? Refreshments will, of course, be provided."

  "That is acceptable," Argentin nodded. He dropped his reins. At that prearranged signal, one of the women dismounted her Great Horse and helped him dismount, followed by the rest of the adult children.

  Riallen escorted the new arrivals to the Inner Council chamber, a comfortable room filled with overstuffed chairs around a low, heavy table, the perfect location for dealing with the truly difficult decisions that tended to take all night. As he opened the door, an unobtrusive but thoroughly relieved sigh escaped him. Someone had anticipated his desires. Kirel stood waiting to greet their new family, and Bard Sylvan, in a gleaming red and gold spiderweave robe, strummed the great harp from the ballroom in the corner. How that got there in such a short time, he had no idea, but he wasn't about to argue with it. The Bard winked at him, then returned his attention to the lovely cascade of music he drew from the harpstrings.

  "Welcome, my lords and ladies. Please take a seat, and tell us your tale."

  Riallen held the door open as his guests entered, an excuse to inspect each one up close. They all bore a distinct family resemblance. Kirel helped seat them, no doubt taking the opportunity for closer inspection as well.

  With all the visitors settled, Riallen introduced his cousin and waited.

  Argentin named each of his children, two sons and four daughters, then sat forward in his chair.

  "With the introductions out of the way, I have a story to tell. As you have no doubt noticed, I am an old man. In fact, I am older than your grandfather, may he rot in hell." Argentin watched Riallen's face for any sign of upset, then nodded with apparent satisfaction. "Drogue was my younger brother. Neither of us was the heir. King Melosian had five sons, an embarassment of males in this land where females are so precious. Lerrim came first. I was the second. Drogue was the middle son. Elvar and Karis were our baby brothers."

  Kirel and Riallen exchanged puzzled glances. Not only had they not heard of Lerrim and Argentin before, but neither of them had pictures in the family gallery.

  "But Drogue was greedy. He wanted the throne for himself, and he would stop at nothing to get it. He arranged a trap, somehow. I've never figured out how he did it. But somehow he delivered our older brother, Lerrim, to the enemy and his soul was lost. Then, while Father was grieving, he poisoned the old man. Again, I know not how he did it, but the effects of belladonna are hard to disguise, and our father died of belladonna poisoning the day after Drogue spent some time alone with him.

  "That left me the heir apparent. That night the Crone spoke with me in the chapel, as I meditated. That was traditional in those days, when the heir was about to be crowned. Drogue was treacherous, she said, and she did not intend for me to fall to his treachery. I was to make ready to leave with anyone I could trust. I would know, she said, when it was time to go, and she would guide my journey.

  "So I made preparations in secret after the ceremony. I hid supplies in the stables and kept tack in with the best of the horses.

  "The signal that it was time to leave was indeed unmistakable. It came on the night after my coronation ceremony. I went down to the Covenant Room to renew the Covenant, only to find Drogue in there already. He'd worked some kind of foul magic, desecrating the place and scrawling something blasphemous on the kingstone itself. I didn't pause to read the desecrating words, just challenged him immediately.

  "Drogue just laughed at me. He was filled with his new power, I could see it crackling at the ends of his hair, and he tried to blast me with a fireball. I managed to duck it, because I was lucky and he'd never thrown a fireball before and his aim was pretty bad.

  "Now, the Crone said in my mind, and I ran. Yes, I ran, like a whipped cur with tail between legs, straight to the stables. It was the work of maybe half an hour to gather up my loyal followers and load our horses. We snuck out the stableyard gate, and to this day, my pride burns with shame that I did not stand and fight for my throne.

  "We sought refuge in a long-deserted keep out in the Wild Lands, fifteen of us with the cream of Larantyne's bloodstock for company. We survived out there these last fifty annums, living off the land and trading crops and young horses for what we couldn't create on our own, including people. We brought in new blood, new women to bear children and carry on the traditions. We followed the goings on down in the Northlands, saw how everything deteriorated from the old cooperation into the constant squabbling and rivalries you've got now, watched Drogue rule our homelands with iron fist and no compassion.

  "Then Drogue's son took over and dispersed the bloodstock. We sent in agents, but were too poor to buy more than three of the horses. We cheered when the new King's sister packed up the best of the stock and ran for the south, because it's not right that the lines of Larantyne leave the family entirely.

  "Then something happened, none of us know what for sure, but I suspect more evil magic. Suddenly these lands were closed to us. We could approach Castle Omwald with ease, although the folk there were unfriendly to us outlaw Wilders, as they called us, but we could not cross the boundary into Larantyne.

  "Then word came of a new King some lunations ago, one who despised his father and strove to repair his damaged country with good will. And in the depths of winter, something happened, an event of great power, that sent ripples through the entire Northlands, and the Crone came to me for the first time since I'd left the castle. She explained that She hadn't been angry with me, as I'd thought, but bound into the kingstone, and Her other faces were bound into the chapel, until the new King freed Her. She called you a worthy successor to my father and bade me come home, with all of my family.

  "And so, here we are. What sort of welcome will we receive?"

  Riallen, who'd been leaning forward, listening intently to Argentin speak, sank back in his chair. "Well. That's some story." Kirel nodded his own agreement. "I can hardly deny you're all relatives," Riallen continued, a wry smile lighting his eyes. "Anyone with sight can tell that. And so you get the same welcome the last relative that wandered in with an incredible tale got: rooms on the family level, servants to suit your station, meals at the high table, and a great deal of work. There's always something here that needs doing, and never enough hands to do it. I expect you, Argentin, will be the most help of all, as I'm trying to return this topsy-turvy government to what it once was, and you know intimately how things should be here in Larantyne. What say you?"

  Argentin smiled slowly. "You are a wise young man indeed, Riallen. I thank you for acknowledging the blood relationship without question. It is a good thing, is it not, that our family bears such distinct characteristics? And I assure you, my sons and daughters, as well as their children, are well used to working and problem solving. We will assist you, for it is all of our lifelong dream to see Larantyne restored to the glory that I alone now remember."

  With those words, House Verbrasian rose anew, and settled into the task of rebuilding the Northlands.

  * * * *

  look for other titles in this series:

  Warlord

  Dragonborn

  Closer To The Stars

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