The Gates of Winter - Mark Anthony [113]
Her voice seemed to snap the knight out of his torpor. He stepped over the bodies, using gloved hands to push aside the brambles. His work revealed a stone column about five feet high, the three planes of its sides glossy and black, carved with jagged symbols.
Durge looked back at Grace, his face gray. “It's a pylon, Your Majesty.”
Paladus and Samatha stared in confusion. Tarus held a hand to his head and staggered. “What's a pylon?”
“Evil,” Grace said through clenched teeth. “Get away from it—all of you. We can't make camp here. We have to leave this place. Now!”
As if they were a spell—and indeed, she wasn't certain she hadn't unconsciously woven some magic into them—her words seemed to dispel the dark cloud that fogged their minds. Paladus and Tarus exchanged stunned looks, then both were striding toward the camp, shouting orders. Aldeth helped Samatha to her feet.
“We have to bury them,” Aldeth said, gazing at the fallen Spiders.
Samatha looked at Grace, her cheeks wet with tears. “Only we can't, can we?”
Grace hesitated, then shook her head. “Their bodies are tainted with the magic of the pylon. We must not touch them. I'm so sorry, Sam.”
“Then we'll use fire,” Aldeth said, eyeing the dry bushes surrounding the dead men and the pylon.
Samatha gave a grim nod. “I'll get torches.”
“Come, my lady,” Durge said, his voice hoarse. “Let us get away from this thing.”
They pressed on as night cloaked the world. Thankfully it was clear and there was a quarter moon; otherwise, they would have ridden right into one of the ravines that crisscrossed the landscape. As it was, they went slowly, stumbling their way over heath and stone, relying on the Spiders for their eyes.
As they rode, Grace could not stop thinking of the pylon, and how it had spun its black tendrils out over the world. Last year, they had unwittingly camped near a pylon, and it had driven them all to the brink of despair and madness. However, that stone had taken hours to affect them, while this pylon had seemed to work its terrible effect in mere moments.
It's no longer dormant like the other was, Grace. It's awake, and it's working.
Falken had said the pylons were created during the War of the Stones a thousand years ago, and that the Pale King had used them to communicate with his slaves. Had this one been watching them even as they argued before it?
The horizon had begun to glow with faint silver light when Durge rode close and told her they had to stop. The foot soldiers were exhausted from marching so long without rest and food, and some of the horses were on the verge of collapse. Grace was so tired herself she couldn't manage spoken words, so she simply nodded her assent.
It was dawn by the time they had finished setting up camp, and much as she hated the delay, Grace knew the army would not be going anywhere that day. After a cold breakfast, Durge stopped by her tent to report that all was well, though tempers had been flaring. There was some fighting among the men, and a few had even come to blows, but without serious injury.
The violence was a residual effect of the pylon, Grace knew. She could still feel its presence, like a slick of oil on her skin she couldn't wash off. Leaving Tira in their tent, Grace went in search of Senrael and Lursa, and together they wove a spell that allowed them to gaze for leagues along the Weirding, but they sensed no trace of another pylon.
After that, Grace paid a visit to All-master Oragien and young Master Graedin, and in short order all of the runespeakers were wandering through the camp, speaking the rune of peace. This had the calming effect Grace hoped, and after that the camp grew quiet as the men finally rested.
When she returned to her tent, she found Durge waiting for her with a handful of men. Some stared at the ground, their faces blank, while others could not stop sobbing.
“These foot soldiers were the ones working closest to the pylon,” Durge said quietly to Grace.
She nodded, then examined each of them in turn.
“I don't know what's wrong with me, Your Majesty,