The Gates of Winter - Mark Anthony [246]
Two figures rode at the fore of the army. One was a grim-faced young man on a black horse, but it was the young woman the warriors looked to. She shone in the gloom on her white horse. A shield was strapped to her right shoulder, and in her left hand she held a sword. She pointed the sword at a knot of feydrim, and the creatures flew back as if tossed by invisible hands.
Shouts rose on the air, louder than the din of battle. Aryn! Queen Aryn!
Again the trumpets sounded. The army of warriors pressed forward, pushing the Pale King's slaves back toward the wall. Once the creatures touched its stones, the keep's magic took them, burning them to ashes. It was like a hammer crushing the enemy against an anvil.
Wave after wave of monsters were pushed against the wall where the magic consumed them. Some of the warriors fell, from claw or arrow or deadly spell, but more marched through the secret entrance to take their places. Sir Tarus rode with them, and Grace watched the three fight together. Tarus was skilled with his lance, using it to drive the feydrim before him. Teravian was not unskilled with his sword, but he gave it up in favor of wielding the power of the Weirding. He and Aryn wove a net of power between them, using it to force the enemy back against the walls.
Finally, the heap of ashes before the wall was a drift ten feet high. Soot choked the air. Still the warriors pushed the enemy back against the wall, and still the monsters perished, thousands upon thousands of them.
The end was in sight. Shadowsdeep was empty; all of the enemy lay in the defile between keep and warriors. There were but a few hundred of them now. The siege engines stood empty, their fires burnt out, their gears still. The call of trumpets sounded again as the men realized victory was at hand.
Weary, dizzy, Grace pulled her hand away from the floor. Her vision collapsed back inward; she was a woman again. Before her, the rune of blood still shone. The magic of Gravenfist had been awakened from its slumber; it would not cease until the enemy was no more. Grace staggered to her feet.
“What will you do now, Your Majesty?” one of the men who had stood guard asked her.
“I ride into Shadowsdeep.”
Grace made her way to the secret passage, where a horse was waiting. She rode down the tunnel and out into the vale. She glimpsed the silver-and-blue banner of Calavan and urged her mount into a gallop, pounding across the battlefield. Cheers rose up as the men saw her. One of the guards rode behind her, bearing the banner of Malachor.
Grace reached Aryn and Teravian. Tarus was with them, a grin on his face. The young king and queen were more somber; all the same, their eyes shone.
“We've done it, Your Majesty!” Tarus said. “The Pale King's army is no more.”
It was impossible, but it was true. The warriors circled around the last knot of feydrim. They didn't bother to drive the creatures against the wall, but instead slew them with lance and sword. It was over. The blue sheen faded from the wall of the keep; the magic of Gravenfist was quiescent again. A great roar rose from the army, echoed from the keep above.
“Your plan was a sound one, Your Majesty,” Teravian said. His gray eyes were thoughtful. “King Boreas would have been proud of you.”
Aryn glanced at Teravian. “He would be proud of all of us. And so would Durge.” She looked older than Grace remembered. All traces of the mild, tentative girl she had been were gone. She was a woman now, a queen. Yet she was still Aryn.
“So now what do we do?” Teravian said.
If she hadn't been so exhausted, Grace might have laughed. For so long, all her thought, all her being, had been focused on fighting this battle. Only now did she realize she had never expected to survive it, for she had no idea what came next. She opened her mouth, unsure just what she would say.
It didn't matter. A deafening sound rent the air, like the call