The Gates of Winter - Mark Anthony [244]
“We've created a salve that soothes the burns and helps them heal,” Lursa said.
Senrael clucked her tongue. “But we can hardly brew it quickly enough. I have blisters from stirring the pot!”
Lursa sat Aldeth down and examined the wound on his head, while Senrael started to lead Grace away toward a private chamber.
“No, treat me here, where the men can see me.”
Senrael gave her a sharp look. “As you wish, sister.”
Grace didn't want the wounded men to think she was getting better treatment; there were no finer healers on this world than these witches, and Grace wanted her followers to know that. However, she did allow Senrael to raise a sheet as a curtain while she unlaced Grace's gown and dressed the wound in her shoulder.
“Don't bind it too tightly,” Grace said, and though Senrael gave her an odd look, the old witch did as instructed.
When it was done, Grace asked how Oragien and Graedin were doing. The All-master slept now, but Graedin was conscious. The young runespeaker sat up on his cot as Grace approached. His face was pale, but his eyes were clear.
“Your Majesty,” he said. “I've been trying to go to you, but they wouldn't let me leave.”
“For good reason, I'm certain.”
“No, you don't understand, Your Majesty. The key to the magic of Gravenfist—I know what it is. It's the rune of blood in—”
“In the hall in the tower.” She smiled at his shocked expression. “I know, Graedin. Durge showed it to me.”
He frowned, then winced and touched his head. “There's something I feel I should remember about Sir Durge, but it's all so foggy. I can't quite recall what happened after I saw the rune in the floor.”
There was no need for him to. “Rest now,” she said.
“But I've heard the trumpets. The enemy comes.”
She pushed him back down to the cot. “Your part in this battle is done, Master Graedin. Without you, we'd have no hope at all, but your only duty now is to rest.”
He started to protest, but whether it was something the witches had given him, or some power in Grace's voice, his eyes fluttered shut. Grace rose and saw Aldeth approaching, a bandage wrapped around his head.
She touched his arm. “Are you sure you're well enough to go out there?”
“No, the blow to my head has clearly knocked me silly.” He bared his rotten teeth in a grin. “I should be terrified at the thought of fighting the Pale King. Only I'm not.”
Grace wasn't either. “Don't worry, Aldeth. I think we've all gone a bit mad. I think it's the only thing that gives us any sort of a chance.”
55.
It was the most terrible day of Grace's life; it was the most glorious day. The glint of fire on steel, the banners bright against the dark sky, the sharp tang of smoke, the call of trumpets echoing off the mountains—all of these things were clear and vivid. It was as if she had never really seen, had never really lived, before that day.
She stood upon the wall and watched the enemy march toward the keep—a force far larger than those of the previous five assaults combined. There were feydrim, and pale wraithlings, and lumbering creatures like gorillas, only larger. Their fur was thick and white, and yellow tusks curved down from their jaws.
The beasts were trolls, King Kel said. He laughed and raised his bow—a massive weapon as tall as a man, and which none besides Kel had strength to pull—and released an arrow. It flew with such speed that it struck one of the trolls two full furlongs from the wall. It passed through the beast, felling it. The army trampled over the corpse as it advanced.
There were men among the army as well—wizards in crimson robes who conjured the blazing orbs of fire and sent them up and over the wall. There were women with them, witches in black who had learned to twist the power of the Weirding, to pervert it to their cruel will. All of them, men and women alike, were dead, hearts of iron in their chests.
Like a dark tide surging toward a shore, the army marched toward the keep. Then, just when Grace was certain there could be nothing more, the stones of the wall shook beneath her feet, and a rumbling noise drowned