The Gates of Winter - Mark Anthony [264]
The feydrim, the wraithlings, the ironheart wizards and witches—even, it seemed, the trolls of the Icewold—all had been created by the dark magic of the Necromancers, who themselves had been forged by the will of the Pale King. When Berash perished, so did everything he had created.
A thousand years ago, in this same vale, when King Ulther plunged Fellring into Berash's chest, shattering the Pale King's iron heart, the Necromancers had been there; they had managed to pour some of their essence back into Berash, sustaining him until his heart could be reforged.
This time, there were no Necromancers to save the Pale King. Shemal was the last of her kind, and wherever she might be, she had not shown herself in this place. When Fellring shattered his heart, Berash had died—truly, finally—and so did everything he had brought into being with his dark enchantments. Only the bones remained.
Tarus moved to a jumbled heap of armor. It was forged of black metal; spikes jutted from it. “You did it, Your Majesty. You slew the Pale King.” With the toe of his boot, he kicked at a helm crowned by antlers of iron. The helmet rolled over; it was empty.
Grace stared at the fallen armor, pressing her aching arm against her chest. It seemed impossible. He had been a figure of dread majesty, and she was a skinny mortal woman. All the same, she had defeated him. She should have been relieved, only she wasn't. Something nagged at her. Then, as the sun touched the tips of the mountains, she had it.
“Mohg,” she said, staring at the dying sun. “The Pale King wasn't the real master of these creatures. Mohg was. He created Berash, just as Berash made the Necromancers and they made the feydrim and wraithlings. These things shouldn't have died when the Pale King did.”
Teravian shrugged. “Maybe Mohg's power couldn't sustain them. After all, he's still banished beyond the circle of the world.”
Grace looked up at the sky. Cerulean had deepened to cobalt. “Beyond the circle of the world,” she murmured.
“Can you walk, sister?” Aryn said, touching her arm. “It's growing colder. We should return to the keep.”
Tarus nodded. “Sir Paladus and Sir Vedarr are in charge of things there at the moment, but I imagine they'll be more than happy to turn command over to you, Your Majesty. There are many who are wounded, and the sight of you alive will lend all the men heart. I know Master Graedin and All-master Oragien in particular will be glad to see your face.”
“Wait a moment,” Teravian said. “We won't want to forget these.” He took off his cloak, then laid the broken shards of Fellring on it. He wrapped them up in the cloak and held the bundle toward Grace.
She gave him a wan smile, then gestured to her right arm. “Would you do the honors, Your Majesty? I don't think I'll be carrying any swords, broken or not, for a while.”
The four of them moved slowly toward the passage that led back to the keep. Though the light was beginning to fail, men still combed the battlefield, looking for any survivors they might have missed, and gathering the bodies of their comrades who had fallen. The Spiders Aldeth and Samatha were directing the search, and the witches Senrael and Lursa assisted them, seeking out the life threads of any who still lived.
It was grim work, but according to Tarus it was nearly done. Of the five thousand men that had marched to Gravenfist Keep, over a thousand were lost forever, and many hundreds more would never fully recover from their wounds, but that they were not all dead was a miracle Grace still could not comprehend.
They had nearly reached the door to the secret passage when a massive figure strode over the battlefield toward them. It took Grace a moment to realize it was Kel. His bushy red beard had been shaved off, and without it the petty king looked younger and jollier—more like an overfed