39.
It was in the dead of the night when they finally reached King Kel’s camp.
For hours, Grace clung to the back of a charger that had belonged to one of the slain Onyx Knights. The horse was so huge she couldn’t sit astride it, but instead simply bounced atop the saddle, and its gait was rough and yawing, heaving up and down like the deck of the
Fate Runner
. After a time she slipped into a half dream in which she was running across an empty plain, trying to get to Travis. Only the land buckled and cracked beneath her feet, tossing her about like a pebble on a drum.
A lonely howl rose on the air, the call of a wolf, startling Grace awake.
“That’s one of my wildmen,” said a deep voice. “This will be the place where my people made camp.”
At first Grace thought she had fallen off the charger into dry grass, only then she realized her face was mashed down in the beast’s mane. She spat out horsehair and sat up, and for a moment she wondered if her dream hadn’t been true. The gibbous moon sailed low in the western sky, illuminating a jumbled rockscape marred by crevices and softened only slightly by wind-stunted bushes.
“You can come down now, lass.”
One of Kel’s warriors, still clad in black armor, reached a hand toward her. She started to swing herself down from the saddle. Only there was no way to control her descent from the massive horse. She started slipping, then falling. The warrior caught her in strong arms, and he bared crooked teeth in a grin as he repositioned his hands, moving them to new locations which were not, she suspected, chosen out of a simple desire to better support her weight.
“Let her go,” Beltan growled, sliding from his charger and marching toward them. Blood crusted his right shoulder. “I said let her go, man. You aren’t worthy to lay your hands upon a queen.”
The warrior started to curl his lip back, but King Kel made a sharp motion with his hand. At once the man released Grace, and she barely got her legs beneath her in time to keep from sprawling to the ground. The warrior stalked off, throwing down pieces of his armor as he went.
“Are you all right?” Beltan said, steadying her.
Grace lifted a hand to her throat. “I’m fine, really. I think he was just being...friendly.”
“A little too friendly I would say.”
“Well, they did just save our lives. How’s your shoulder?”
Beltan touched the wound Leweth had given him and winced. “I’ll live.”
Vani and Falken climbed down from their horses with more skill than Grace. Kel and the other men stripped off their black armor, throwing it clattering to the ground as if they found its touch distasteful. Beneath they wore rough tunics. Grace caught the flickering light of a fire not far off.
“This way,” Kel said, gesturing for them to follow. “My men will take care of the horses. Let’s go get warm. Some
melindis
berry spirits should help us in that regard.”
Vani frowned at the shaggy king. “You mean for us to drink hard liquor? But it is nearly dawn.”
“Very well, wench, we’ll hurry then,” Kel said, slapping Vani on the back with a gigantic hand.
The assassin stumbled, and her eyes bulged, although whether this was due to the king’s friendly bludgeoning of her bruised ribs or the fact that he had just called her
wench
, Grace couldn’t say. Beltan started to laugh, but Vani shot him a molten look, and he quickly clamped his mouth shut.
“Where are we?” Grace murmured, as they walked.
“Near the edges of the Barrens, I think,” Falken said. “I can see why King Kel told his people to hide here. In the entire history of Falengarth, no one has ever lived in this place.”
They reached the campfire, which was nestled in a hollow out of the worst of the wind. A dozen or so forms lay huddled in blankets around the fire, and they stirred groggily as the king stamped among them. He gave an affable kick to what looked like a bundle of rags. The bundle let out a yelp, then scurried on all fours at the king’s heels.
“It’s not right to kick a dog,” Grace said.
Falken let out a low chuckle. “Trust me, Kel would never kick one of his hounds. He loves them more than anything. Except maybe ale.”
“But then—?” Grace’s question faltered as the ragged dog looked up at her, and she saw that it wasn’t a dog at all, but a man. His hair was caked with mud, and he smiled at her, baring teeth that had been filed into points. Beneath the grime, she could make out the swirling tattoos that covered his arms, his neck, even his face.
“That’s one of Kel’s wildmen,” Falken said in answer to her unfinished question. “They live in the remote highlands of the Fal Erenn. Mostly they avoid civilization and keep to themselves, but Kel has a way with them.”
The king pulled a gristled scrap of dried meat from a pocket. He tossed it down, and the wildman caught it in his jaws before scurrying off to gnaw at it.
“So I see,” Grace said dryly.
All the members of Kel’s motley band had awakened and were staggering to their feet. Most were rough-looking warriors like the ones who had helped defeat the Onyx Knights, but there was another wildman, as well as several buxom women with frowsy hair, saucy smiles, and rosy cheeks. Grace had a feeling none of them would object to being called
wench
. On the contrary, given the way not one of them had bothered to lace the bodice of her dirty gown, that seemed to be precisely the look they were going for.
The atmosphere around the fire was lively and boisterous, like that of a revel. Cheers and laughter went up as Kel ordered the aforementioned spirits to be brought out. Hands pulled at Grace, seating her near the fire, and someone pressed a wooden cup into her hand. She drank, then nearly coughed the liquid back up; it tasted a good deal like extraordinarily bad gin. However, someone gave her a hearty slap on the back, and she choked it down.
Instantly, warmth spread through her. Beltan and Falken accepted cups of the crude but effective liquor, and even Vani did not resist the offering of their host. After giving her cup a suspicious sniff, the
T’gol
downed the liquid in a single gulp without so much as batting an eyelash, eliciting whoops of approval from all around the fire.
Grace stared into the flames, watching as wood was turned to ash. Had everything in Seawatch been similarly consumed? She thought of the touch of Elwarrd’s lips on her own. Part of her wanted desperately to believe the earl was still alive; all the same, she knew he wasn’t. He had stayed behind so they could escape—the first and final noble deed in his life.
And what did it gain him, Grace? His mother was mad, but
in her way she was trying to help him, to protect him. Instead
you killed him.
Except that wasn’t true. Grace didn’t know if she had loved Elwarrd—she wasn’t certain that was something she was even capable of. But he had brought to life feelings she had thought long ago dead and buried. And in return she had given him a way out of shadow where there had been none before. No matter what happened, she would not let herself regret meeting Lord Elwarrd of Seawatch.
Nestled between Falken and Beltan, Grace listened as Kel told his people—in a bold and bawdy fashion—what had happened in the time since he last saw them. In deference to the newcomers, he also spoke of how he had come to be in that part of the world, for the king and his people were far from their home.
Grace vaguely remembered Kel’s name from the Council of Kings a year earlier. As far as she knew, he didn’t rule a Dominion, which was why he hadn’t been invited to the council. The other rulers had referred to him as a petty king, which meant he wasn’t a true noble at all, but rather a self-styled monarch ruling over a small band of people. More like a chieftain, really. Except looking at the gigantic bear of a man now, it was hard for Grace to think of him as
petty
.
Kel had ruled over Kelcior, which Grace gathered was an old keep north of Eredane, on the western slopes of the Fal Erenn. It seemed that about two months before, a troop of men in black armor had ridden into Kelcior. They carried a standard no one had ever seen before—a black crown encircling a silver tower against a crimson field. Kel’s wildmen saw them coming, and at once the king knew there was no hope of fighting them. The knights were two hundred in number, clad in tempered armor, riding heavy warhorses. Kel’s warriors were only half that in number, with no armor and only stout ponies (better suited for the rocky terrain). Kel was bold, but he wasn’t stupid. Quickly, he gave the orders. His people gathered what things they could, then hurried into the mountains, following hidden trails the black knights and their horses would never be able to traverse.
Periodically over those next weeks, Kel and some of his men would creep down from the mountains and watch the dark knights who inhabited the fortress, trying to determine their purposes. Kel particularly seemed to relish describing the various surprise raids and midnight sorties he and his people launched against the knights. They caught mice and let them loose in the granary, poured salt in the well, or banged their swords together just out of arrow shot and shouted insults. The wildmen would steal among the horses and tie their tails together. And once they used makeshift catapults to launch flaming, liquor-soaked heaps of horse dung over the walls of the keep.
Their actions infuriated the knights, but by the time they rode forth on their horses, swords drawn, Kel and his people had vanished once more into the maze of the mountains. No matter how the knights searched, they could never find the hiding place of their enemies.
“Did you ever learn anything?” Grace asked, when Kel paused in his telling. “Did you ever find out what they wanted?”
The merriment drained from Kel’s visage. He looked serious, and menacing. “That we did. From time to time, when they rode out from the keep, my wildmen would hide in the bushes and catch some of their words. For one thing we learned they come from the far west, from a place called—”
“Eversea,” she murmured.
Kel raised a bushy eyebrow. “How did you know that, lass?”
“A lucky guess,” she said, gritting her teeth.
Beltan set down his empty cup. “Do you have any idea why they’ve come to the Dominions?”
“As a matter of fact, I do,” Kel said. “Their general—they call him Gorandon—wants to restore the kingdom of Malachor.”
Falken let out an oath, then recovered his composure. “I suppose in a way it makes sense. If they’re truly from Eversea, then they’re descended from people of Malachor. They might see it as their right—even their destiny—to restore the kingdom. And Kelcior was once part of Malachor.”
Vani’s eyes shone in the firelight. “But what of the other Dominions? If what I have learned is true, they were never part of this Malachor, but instead came after. So why do the Onyx Knights seek to conquer them?”
Beltan grunted. “That’s easy. There’s nothing left of Malachor but ruins and rubble. Even the better part of Kelcior has fallen down. That doesn’t leave much to build a kingdom out of. But in a way the Dominions
are
descended from Malachor. At least, most people can trace at least one branch of their lineages back to the kingdom. So the knights will just take over the Dominions, raise their standard over all seven of them, and call it Malachor reborn.”
“Except the standard they carry isn’t the standard of Malachor,” Falken said. “With that tower, I suppose it must be the flag of Eversea. Although I suppose the crown tells us something: This Gorandon means to rule.”
Vani shook her head. “But that makes little sense. If these knights truly wish to restore Malachor, then why is it they seek to slay the last remaining heir?” She glanced at Grace.
King Kel let out a low whistle. “So that’s why they want your hide, lass. I thought Sir Beltan was just being a gentleman when he said you were a queen. So you truly are the heir to the throne of Malachor?”
Grace reached up and touched her necklace, a bitter smile on her lips. “That’s what they tell me.”
Kel continued his tale, his voice gruff. “It was about five days ago that we saw one of them come pounding hard to Kelcior. His horse was ragged, and my guess was he had been riding long leagues without a rest. Well, almost at once a band of eight knights rode out from the keep, spurring their chargers at a gallop. From what we overheard, they were supposed to meet four knights waiting for them on the banks of the River Fellgrim, and then be off on some important mission. I figured this was a good chance to get closer and learn what they were about, so I took a band of my folk, and we hurried to get ahead of them.”
Beltan frowned. “They were on chargers. How could you get ahead of them?”
“Good question, lad,” Kel said with a grin. “We knew the knights would have to ride north around the tip of the mountains. So we went through.”
“That’s impossible,” Falken said. “There isn’t a pass through the Fal Erenn. Folk have looked for centuries, but they’ve never found any. Because there isn’t one.”
“Actually, there is,” Kel said. “We learned about it from the Maugrim.”
Falken was openly incredulous. “The Goblin People? I’m sorry, Kel, but I haven’t drunk nearly enough to believe that. The Maugrim vanished a thousand years ago, when the Old Gods and the Little People retreated into the Twilight Realm.”
The king shrugged monumental shoulders. “I don’t care one mouse turd whether or not you believe me, Falken. We’ve never seen the Maugrim, but we know they’re still there in the deepest reaches of the mountains. Sometimes we leave food for them, and it’s always gone when we go back. And we know it’s not animals that take the food, as the Maugrim leave things they’ve fashioned in its place.”
From beneath his tunic, Kel drew out a stone knife hanging from a leather cord. The knife was crudely made from a piece of flint. One edge had been left rough to provide a handhold, and the other appeared to have been shaped by using another stone to knock off large flakes. Grace had seen arrowheads in museums that were far more delicately made.
“So we called out to them,” Kel said, “and let them know what we needed, and before long we started seeing the signs— a knotted branch here, or a pile of pinecones there, and we followed them, all through the mountains to the headwaters of the Fellgrim.”