The Gates of Winter - Mark Anthony [247]
Sir Tarus's grin vanished. Teravian and Aryn stared, eyes wide. An unseen hand squeezed Grace's heart.
She was a fool. How could they believe they had fought all of the Pale King's army when they had not seen the Pale King himself? Her hand sweated around the hilt of Fellring.
He's coming, Grace. He's coming for you.
The army that marched toward them made all the others that had come before it seem no more menacing than a swarm of flies. It advanced across Shadowsdeep like a black wave, stretching from wall to wall of the vale. There were not ten thousand creatures, but ten times ten thousand. And still they kept coming, pouring out of the Rune Gate, as though it were a mouth breathing a fog of darkness.
A hundred siege engines jutted up from the churning sea, fire spurting in gouts from their summits. Feydrim, trolls, and men all marched under the black banners of the enemy. The sound of drums shattered the air, and the gloom was sundered by the light of a thousand wraithlings.
The Warriors of Vathris stared, unmoving. The cheers had turned to silence. No orders were given, no swords and spears were raised. It was they who had been caught this time, between army and keep, between hammer and anvil. Already the vanguard of the dark force had come level with the entrance to the secret passage. There was no retreat, and against this force they could not prevail.
The prophecies were true. The Warriors of Vathris would fight gloriously in the Final Battle. And they would lose.
“What do we do, Grace?” Aryn said beside her. Her voice was not panicked. Instead it was quiet.
Grace shook her head. There was nothing they could do, save die. We're coming, Durge! she called out in her mind.
A fear such as she had never felt before pierced her. At the head of the army, on a black mount twice the size of a horse, rode a terrible figure. Spikes jutted from his armor, and on his snowy brow was a crown wrought into the twin shapes of antlers. In his hand was a scepter of iron.
The scaly mount tossed its head and snorted fire. It stamped its hooves, sending off sparks as it turned in Grace's direction. So it had seen her. The Pale King rode toward Grace, his eyes two hot coals in his white face. An iron necklace hung against his breast, and in it was embedded . . .
. . . nothing.
A note of confusion sounded in Grace's mind. Shouldn't there have been a stone in his necklace? A Great Stone?
Fear dulled her brain; she couldn't think. Fellring. She had to draw the sword—it was her only hope—but she couldn't move. Beside her, the others were frozen. Even the horses stood still. The dread majesty of the Pale King paralyzed them all.
The dark army jabbered and jeered. The beast the Pale King rode drew near. Berash raised his iron scepter. His crimson eyes burned into Grace, and she bowed her head. Who was she to stand against one so great?
There was a booming sound, like a clap of thunder. The sound struck Grace, ringing in her head, and for a moment she wondered if that was it, if the Pale King's scepter was shattering her skull.
New shouts rang out: the terrified cries of men. And of monsters.
Dazed, Grace raised her head. The Pale King still held the scepter above her, but now he gazed up at the sky. Grace looked up as well.
Above Shadowsdeep, the clouds boiled, then parted, revealing a cold blue sky. Dawn had come at last—only there was something wrong. A dark line ran across the sky from east to west, like a jagged crack. Men cried out. Feydrim barked and whined. The Pale King's eyes blazed with a new hatred.
Grace didn't know what it meant. All she knew was she had one chance. With his scepter raised, his steel breastplate had pulled upward a fraction. Beneath its lower edge was a narrow chink in his