The Gates of Winter - Mark Anthony [97]
“Lir!” the runespeakers chanted, and a half dozen spheres of light burst into being behind the feydrim. The spheres were large and silvery—just like the orbs of lights in which the wraithlings always came.
The runespeakers continued their chant, and the spheres of light drifted closer. Fresh squeals of terror rose from the feydrim. The creatures scrambled away from the lights, coursing on all fours down the hill, running past Grace and the witches. Still the lights followed, driving them on, though Grace saw that the spheres were starting to flicker.
“Don't stop!” she called to the runespeakers, and despite their haggard faces they kept up their harmony, chanting the rune of light.
The shining spheres drove the terrified feydrim on, down the slope and past the grove of trees. Grace waited until the last of the creatures had passed the grove, then she gave the signal. The runespeakers ceased their chant at the same time the witches plucked apart the threads of the spell they had woven. The illusion unraveled, and the trees vanished, replaced by an army of nearly five hundred men.
Grace was so tired, she had no more strength to shout. Instead, she sent a single word spinning along the Weirding, hoping it would be enough. Attack!
With the call of trumpets, the army rushed forward, attacking the fleeing feydrim from behind. Scattered and terrified as they were, the creatures had no chance. Warhorses pounded over them, trampling them into the ground. Others fell with arrows in their humped backs, and more squealed on the ends of pikes.
It was over in moments—fifty feydrim lay dead and broken on the ground, their bodies gray as ghosts in the twilight. Grace shut her eyes, probing along the Weirding, then opened her eyes again. A feeling of elation rose within her, and she gave a satisfied nod. Not only had her army not lost a single man, none bore a wound greater than a scratch.
Below, the men let out cheers. Tarus raised his sword in the air, and Paladus let out a victory call on his trumpet. A black charger pounded up the slope toward Grace. It was Durge, Tira on the saddle before him. Shandis pounded behind.
“That was well-done, Your Majesty,” the Embarran said as he reined Blackalock to a halt before her, and to her astonishment, the consistently solemn knight grinned. “Well-done indeed. These men will follow you anywhere now, even into the dark gates of Imbrifale itself.”
His words sent a chill through Grace, but they couldn't completely counter the jubilant feeling of victory. True, this had been but a small force, but they had faced it, and they had survived.
Grace sheathed Fellring and swung herself up into Shandis's saddle. The stars were bright, and she was not ready to stop for the night.
“Come on, Durge,” she said, returning his grin. “Let's ride to Shadowsdeep.”
25.
The next morning, for her official first act as a newly reinstated Seeker, Deirdre was late to work.
She shielded her eyes from the glare of the fluorescent lights and glanced at the wall clock as she stepped out of the elevator—9:32 A.M. That wasn't so bad, especially given the scotch-induced headache she had awakened with. After all, it wasn't as if anyone would be expecting her.
“Director Nakamura is expecting you,” Madeleine said, peering over the top of her computer. “Didn't you say you'd be in by nine?”
Deirdre worked her face into what she hoped was a jaunty smile. “My train was hijacked by tube gnomes.”
“I thought as much.” Madeleine picked up a pencil that looked sharp enough to pierce Kevlar and made a precise tick on a sheet of paper.
“What are you doing?” Deirdre said.
“Putting you on my list.”
The receptionist turned her attention to her computer and began typing as if she were trying to start a fire by generating friction with the keyboard. Deirdre slung her satchel over her shoulder and hurried down the corridor to Nakamura's office. Why did he want to see her again? He had given her an assignment just yesterday. She found him behind his desk, face furrowed in concentration as he tried to make