The Gates of Winter - Mark Anthony [219]
“How many?” he said. “How many have we lost so far?”
Tarus's smile vanished. “In all the attacks, fourscore and eight. We've gotten better at dodging the orbs, but not perfect, and the ravens have made it all the harder. And I think the enemy has other spells at work as well. I've seen men drop dead without a mark on their bodies. All-master Oragien says they may have runespeakers uttering the rune of death down there. It's a long way for their magic to reach all the way up to the wall, but apparently some of their wizards have succeeded.”
“Fourscore and eight gone,” Durge said. “And how many wounded and unable to fight?”
“At least twice that number, though the witches are working on that, and Queen Grace herself. She's in the barracks, healing those with the gravest wounds. When she's near, it's like a light shining in the dark. The men love her. They would give their lives for her.”
“I imagine she would rather they keep them,” Durge said. He considered the knight's words and made the calculations in his mind. “So we cannot hold out much longer, then. Two more assaults, perhaps three. After that our defense of the wall will go thin. We're already out of naphtha to rain down on them, and we cannot cast enough stones to crush them all. We'll not be able to push their ladders back as fast as they raise them. When that happens, all is lost.”
Durge knew he had a reputation, like all Embarrans, for being overly gloomy, but he did not think he was overstating the facts, and from his expression neither did Sir Tarus.
“Commander Paladus and Sir Vedarr have said much the same thing. If King Boreas and his warriors don't arrive soon, the enemy will swarm the keep. The Pale King will ride across all of Falengarth. There'll be no stopping him.”
As if to punctuate Tarus's words, more flames erupted into the sky, igniting the clouds with sickly light. It was hard to be sure, but for a moment Durge thought he saw spindly shapes casting long shadows across the vale.
“Come,” he said, “let us obey the wishes of our queen.”
However, as Durge lay on his cot in the darkness of his cell, he could not shut his eyes. Instead he stared at the darkness, and it seemed he could see things there. He saw the livid green fires, and the shapes of ravens swooping, and in their midst a tall figure clad in black steel. Spikes rose from his armor and from his great horned helm. Around his neck was an iron necklace in which shone an ice-blue stone. Eyes like coals burned in a lifeless face. The figure reached out a pale hand. . . .
Durge sat up, sweating despite the bitter cold. It was a dream, it had to be. He must have fallen asleep. His pulse thudded in his ears. He groped beneath his tunic, feeling his chest. His heartbeat was rapid, but strong and even. Only for how long?
“It is time, Durge of Embarr,” he whispered to the dark. “You should do as that man from Calavan did. You should throw yourself over the wall before it is too late.”
Lady Grace believed he didn't know about the splinter of iron in his chest. However, old as he had gotten, his ears were still sharp. He had heard Grace speaking with the witch Mirda in Calavere; he knew what had been done to him two Midwinters ago, though all these leagues he had done nothing that might cause Grace to think otherwise.
This duplicity gnawed at him, but she had never asked him what he knew, and so he was not bound to tell her, and it seemed to ease her mind to think he was unaware of what was happening. That was reason enough to keep it from her.
Or was it something else that compelled him to keep silent?
What a fool you are, Durge of Stonebreak. What a prideful old fool.
Two Midwinters ago, he had allowed himself to believe he had slain the feydrim which attacked him that night while he waited alone in an antechamber—even though afterward he couldn't fully remember how he had done it. However, it wasn't his memory that had failed him that night; it was his heart.
You should have died that night, Durge. Perhaps you even did, before they put