The Gates of Winter - Mark Anthony [95]
There was no way they could fight the wraithlings, not directly; even a single pale one was enough to lay waste to an entire host, and there were two of the things coming. Grace knew they had to find another tactic, and it was Paladus's own words that had shown it to her. Her mind raced, fitting the last pieces into place.
“We won't stand here. Instead, we'll ride over the top of the ridge and down the other side.”
Tarus's eyes went wide. “Your Majesty, we must not do such a thing. Higher ground is our only advantage.”
Grace waved his words away. There was no time to explain. “Master Graedin,” she said, turning toward the young runespeaker, “how skilled are you and your brothers at speaking the runes of stone and light?”
The hardness of her words seemed to snap him out of his fear. He sat up straight. “Those are two of our very best runes, Your Majesty. Speaking together, we can cast a bright light and command even a large stone.”
“You're going to have to command more than one.” Grace turned to summon the others she needed, but twelve women clad in brown and gray already rode toward her.
“We are here, sister,” Lursa said, resolve on her plain face. “What would you have us do?”
“You must weave a spell,” Grace said. “A spell of illusion.” Words were too slow. She gathered up all of her thoughts and sent them humming along the strands of the Weirding.
Senrael let out a cackle. “And a fine spell that will be, sister. But our coven must be complete in order to weave it. You must join us as Matron.”
“I will.” She glanced at Tarus and Paladus. “Gather all the men and go a hundred yards down the other side of the ridge. You must get them all, mounted and foot, to stand in as tight a circle as possible.”
“But that is no proper formation,” Paladus said, sputtering. “We'll be flanked in moments.”
Tarus shook his head. “Your Majesty, I—”
“You heard the queen,” Durge growled, maneuvering Blackalock between Grace and the two soldiers. “Carry out her orders. Now.”
Tarus and Paladus stared at Durge, then at her, then at one another. For a terrified moment Grace thought they would defy her. Then both whirled their horses around and began barking orders.
“Down the other side of the ridge!” Tarus shouted.
“Keep close together!” came Paladus's stern voice. “I don't care if you have to stand on top of each other—let there be not space enough to slide the blade of a knife between you.”
Grace wavered in the saddle, but a strong hand steadied her. “Durge,” she said, her voice thick with gratitude.
“What are my orders, Your Majesty?”
“Keep Tira safe.” She slipped from the saddle, took the small girl, and held her up toward Durge, who caught her in his arms.
“I will guard her with my life,” Durge said.
He placed Tira in the saddle before him and caught Shandis's reins, then Blackalock pounded down the far side of the ridge, Shandis following. Grace found herself atop the ridge with only twenty runespeakers and twelve witches, all of them on foot.
“I must admit, this seems an interesting tactic, Your Majesty,” Oragien said, leaning on his staff. He surveyed the small band of men and women—some elderly like himself, others woefully young.
“We're not going to fight them, All-master.” Grace drew in a breath. “At least, not with swords.”
Snarls rose on the air, along with a metallic humming. Grace saw a gleam of light to the north, coming up the line of the ridge. They had mere moments.
“Follow me, everyone,” she said, moving just over the top of the ridge to a bare patch of granite.
“What are we to do, Your Majesty?” Graedin said, panting.
Grace touched his shoulder with one hand and rested the other hand on Oragien's arm. Words flowed from her, along the threads of the Weirding. By their startled eyes, both runespeakers—young and old—heard her.
“Instruct your brothers,” she said. They turned to murmur swift words to the other gray-robed men.
What of us, sister? asked Lursa's voice in her mind.