The Gates of Winter - Mark Anthony [154]
Before Grace could move, Samatha was there. “A band of knights in black armor ride up the valley,” the Spider said. “There are about thirty of them—at least that we can see in the darkness.”
Master Graedin shot Grace a frightened look. “Maybe it's just a small band then. A patrol like we saw in Embarr.”
Or maybe it's the vanguard for a larger force, Grace thought. Maybe Kelephon has found you after all.
“What should we do?” she said, looking at Durge.
“We cannot hope to hide from them, Your Majesty. Our fire will have given us away. They know we're here.”
“Then I'll talk to them.”
“You might want to fight first and talk later, Your Majesty,” Samatha said, hand on the dagger tucked into her belt.
Despite her fear, Grace gave the Spider a sharp smile. “I find people are much harder to talk to you when their heads aren't attached to their bodies. And I need to find out what these knights are up to.” She stood and handed Tira to Master Graedin. “Keep watch over her.”
Tira sleepily coiled her arms around his neck. The young runespeaker nodded.
Grace moved swiftly through the camp, Durge, Samatha, and Oragien beside her.
“All-master,” she said to Oragien, gently but firmly, “you should stay behind.”
The elderly man shook his head. “It was ever the purpose of the Runelords to serve and protect the lords of Malachor, Your Majesty. We Runespeakers trace our lineage back to the Runelords, just as you trace yours to Ulther's heirs.”
Grace's instinct was to order him to stay back. Instead she gritted her teeth and nodded. Warriors rushed around her, falling into place as Paladus barked orders. Grace reached the entrance of the courtyard. There was no gate; it had rotted away long ago. Dim shapes moved in the valley below, coming closer, like black moths drawn to the light of their bonfire.
Sir Tarus approached. “Should we attack, Your Majesty? We have every advantage—numbers, a fortification, the slope.”
She shook her head. “I want to talk to them. I have to find out what Kelephon is planning. If the Onyx Knights are massing in the valley, we could be fighting a battle on both sides.”
“That would cut us off from King Boreas and the Warriors of Vathris,” Durge rumbled. “We could not win such a battle.”
“Here they come,” Samatha said. “There still must be only the thirty of them. Were there more, Aldeth and the others would have seen them by now and warned us.”
Unless the Spiders had been captured. Grace stepped forward, chin high, as the troop of Onyx Knights brought their black horses to a halt a dozen paces away. Both men and beasts blended with the night, like things of shadow.
“You are not welcome here,” Grace called out.
“Oh, I beg to differ, Your Majesty,” said a booming voice. One of the closest knights climbed down from his horse and stalked forward, spurs clinking. He was a huge man—their leader by the three stars on his breastplate. “I think we're welcome here indeed. In fact, I imagine you'll be breaking out the ale for us. You do have ale, don't you?”
Oragien raised his gnarled staff. “Lir!”
Silver light rent the darkness to tatters. The massive knight halted, raising a gloved hand before his visor. His black armor was scratched and dented, and not all of the pieces seemed to match.
“Blast it, runespeaker,” the knight growled. “Now I can't see a thing. How am I supposed to drink my ale if I can't find the cup?”
As Grace stared in wonderment, a shapeless figure appeared from behind the knights and shambled forward on sticklike limbs.
“Well, don't just stand there like a village idiot,” the old hag said, holding out bony arms. “Give old Grisla a hug.”
“Get back, witch,” roared the enormous knight in black. He tugged off his helm, releasing a wild profusion of red hair. His bushy beard parted in a grin. “If anyone's doing any hugging of beautiful queens, it's going to be me.”
Before Grace could move, King Kel caught her in meaty arms, picked her up off the