Within the Hollow Crown (28 page)

But Jareld walked forward as though he had the force of a god behind him. He kept walking forward as though nothing could harm him.

Gerard knew his time was running out, but he had plenty of time to deal with the leftovers. They wouldn’t last long.

He lifted his sword over his shoulder, and starting the chopping motion that would have gone through Jareld’s shoulder and ended somewhere in Jareld’s liver.

Which is when a sword came flying out from a side door and chopped Gerard’s hand off at the wrist. It was a huge fucking sword. It was Vye’s sword.

She charged into the hallway and tackled Gerard. She threw him hard into a wall. The look in her face would have turned a Medusa to stone.

Gerard was down a hand, and without a sword, but he still had some fight in him. He tried the death spell, even though he had learned she could usually absorb it. He was hoping her magical reserves were depleted.

They were, mostly. As Gerard tried to punch her with the death light in his hands, Vye caught the light, and they had what looked to outsiders like a bizarre, free form, arm-wrestling competition. The light stayed perfectly balanced between them as their hands forced one way and another. Vye took some cheap shots with her free hand. Gerard tried to stop her with his stump.

“I hope your master, your precious Argos, reads your memories when you die,” Lady Vye said to Gerard’s face as they struggled. “I hope he knows that I killed you, and that he is going to die.”

“Silence!” Gerard yelled, and used the full might of The Beyond to push the flame into Vye’s body. Vye was airborne for a moment, landing hard against the wall. The light from the death spell crackled over her body, but she did not move. When the energy subsided, she remained still.

Gerard turned to Jareld again. The Turin-Sen soldier knelt down quickly and picked up his sword. One hand. One sword. One historian. No problem.

He stepped forward to strike Jareld down, once and for all...

That’s when he ran out of juice. That’s when he had to pay the debt of The Beyond. That’s when the space-time continuum realized that he had borrowed from his future self, and now sapped his life energy to pay his former self.

Those that have used The Beyond have sometimes tried to explain to neophytes what it is like when the spell stops. They usually equate it to being in front of a Frost Giant when it sneezes, wiping out on a pair of skis, and suffering from a massive hangover all in the same seven seconds.

Seven seconds, by the by, is the same amount of time it took Jareld to raise his sword, match it to Gerard’s neck, and sweep across his jugular.

Gerard gargled and gurgled, flailed and staggered, and finally collapsed into a useless pile of dead Turin-Sen.

Jareld spat on his body, then tossed his sword aside.

Michael went running to Lady Vye. She was still lying against the wall, her head dangling on her shoulder like an abandoned puppet.

“Vye!” he called, kneeling beside her and propping her up. “Vye, wake up!”

She didn’t move. He couldn’t hear her breath.

“Julia,” he whispered in her ear. She coughed.

“Master,” she said, her eyes opening. “Oh, I’m sorry, Your Grace. I thought you were someone else.”

“Are you alright?” Michael asked.

Vye opened her hand, which had been holding the energy of death. It was necrotic, as though the hand had died. The skin was cracked and dry. Her palm was black, as though burned, but she felt no pain.

“Mostly,” she said.

Chapter
78: The New Assignments

At the Lunapera, the Crest of the Moon, Argos gathered his remaining soldiers. He had sensed the deaths of Halmir and Gerard hours ago, and it had taken him most of that day to get everyone in one place.

Finally, he had Eric and Sandora there. Also present, for the first time at the Turin-Sen’s sacred place, was the Regent Filerane. Argos couldn’t help but think that Filerane was pleased with their current progress. The Regent had sent out an army of thirty thousand, and by their latest calculations, they had lost less than one thousand of their force. The Regent would soon have the entire continent under his control.

But to Argos it was a different matter. To Argos, the losses were unacceptable. Three dead Turin-Sen. A betrayal. And the historian still lived. Gerard could not have comprehended the importance of his mission, but Argos knew it all too well. He was angry at the loss of three of his great warriors. But Gerard’s failure worried him even more.

“Well,” Filerane said, “Let’s get to it, shall we. I have a meeting in an hour about supply routes.”

“Your schedule has been noted,” Argos said. “Please, do not desecrate our meeting place by speaking out of turn.”

If Argos were any other servant of the Turin government, the Regent would have voiced his offense at this remark. But talking back at Argos was something even the Regent would never consider. Argos’ voice put the Regent to shame.

“My pupils, Your Highness,” Argos said, “Welcome. We have suffered heavy losses in our ranks, but our purpose remains unchanged, and our victory draws nearer.

“However, our enemy has managed to keep their heads above water, so we cannot raise our f
lags of conquest yet. They have gathered a standing army large enough to give us pause, and in the bowels of the earth, another force moves against us that I have so far been unable to extinguish.”

“Argos,” Filerane said, “I think you’re making things seem a little bleak. Sure you’ve lost a couple of good guys, but things are moving forward. And if the next battles go as well as the previous, we shouldn’t have a problem.”

“Regent,” Argos said, “If I want to hear your voice, I will let you know what to say.”

Filerane swallowed.

“Now,” Argos continued, “I have done all I can, but we must expect the worst. I cannot give the Rone-scum time to put it all together. For that reason, I am going to join the battle. I am going to lead the army to a quick and decisive victory. The enemy must not have time to heal, to prepare, to fight.”

“Master,” Eric said, “We cannot let you leave the Turin lands again. Gerard and Selikk were both killed out there. And Halmir was turned. It is this woman you spoke of. She has done more damage to us in a month than we have suffered in our centuries of union.”

“Your fear is noted,” Argos said, more accusatory than accommodating, “She will not be a problem on the field. Gerard may have done us some good, even in his death.”

“Still,” Sandora said, “You must recognize the danger. This Vye, I do not wish to face her.”

“If we strike quickly, we will not have to,” Argos said. “Sandora, you will come with me. Eric, you will stay here and watch out for our interests. You will make sure that the Regent does what is required of him.”

“Master Argos,” Filerane said, “I don’t mind saying that I find the idea of being watched like a child to be a little insulting.”

“It took a lot of effort to convince you to join the Redemption,” Argos said. “I don’t trust your resolve.”

Once again, Filerane regretted having spoken.

“My children,” Argos said, “You have your orders. We must go.”

Chapter
79: Memories and Dreams

Jareld and Vye were inconsolable for many hours. Jareld finally came out of it, and spoke at length to Corthos and Michael about the death of his friend and colleague, but it was still hard to convince him to burn Thor’s body. In the depths of the Caves, they couldn’t realistically perform burials as needed, and so cremation was the only affordable solution.

Michael performed the Final Rites for Thor and Halmir. Eye-Patch was also given a proper sendoff, though no words were spoken. The bodies of Gerard and the other Turin soldiers were piled together and burned with no thought.

Their next problem was injuries. Corthos had taken a hard hit, but his resolve seemed commendable. He would recover, with time.

Vye was in an ugly situation. She had taken a few whoppers, but even worse, she was unable to heal herself. The burn in her hand had done something to her, and for whatever reason, she couldn’t make anything work. She hoped, as did her companions, that she would recover with rest. In the meantime, she had some scrapes and bruises, and a
bruised shoulder, and a gash in her torso.

With only traditional methods available to them, Michael and Jareld had to bandage them as best they could. But it had been almost two days, and it didn’t look as though Vye was getting her healing back.

Flopson turned out to be a great help. He would disappear for hours at a time, then return with some item that Michael and Jareld had just realized they needed. He had found roots growing into the walls of the Castle Zenith. He had found small tools, alcohol, and even fresh bed sheets that had been in an airtight linen closet since the construction of the castle.

The five travelers had taken up residence in one of the abandoned rooms. For the most part, Michael and Jareld would check in on the injured, then take turns standing guard outside the room.

It was the morning of the third day of their recovery when Michael relieved a weary Jareld from his watch.

“We’re running out of water,” Michael said. “We didn’t bring much ourselves, and even with the waterskins from the Turin soldiers... What’s wrong?”

Jareld’s expression had given him away. He had hoped not to burden anyone with his thoughts, but there was a feeling in the pit of his stomach.
It was a combination of the time he had asked Olivia Watkins to the
spring manuscript reading
a
nd the time he broke Gallar’s favorite
walking stick
.

“I’ve never killed anyone,” Jareld said.

Michael was silent for a moment. He was trying to remember the first time he had killed a man. He wasn’t responsible for a great change in the population, but he had led some battles, and in those battles, he had killed some people.

“Did you enjoy it?” Michael said.

“No,” Jareld said.

“Good,” Michael said. “Then we’re OK.”

“I should be getting to bed,” Jareld said. “But tired as I am, I don’t think I could sleep.”

“You’ll sleep,” Michael said. “I can see it on your face. You’ll sleep.”

“I’m going to have bad dreams,” Jareld said.

“Welcome to the club,” Michael said.

“Well, good night,” Jareld said.

“Good night, stinky,” someone said.

“Did you call me stinky?” Jareld asked.

“No,” Michael said.

“Yes,” Flopson said, emerging from the shadows, having just returned from another scouting mission into the Caves.

“Flopson, where have you been?” Michael asked.

“Turns out there’s a leak,” Flopson said, holding up two waterskins. “Freshwater.”

“We’re about four hundred feet below sea level,” Jareld said. “There shouldn’t be any.”

“That’s why I bring Flopson with me wherever I go.” Michael handed Jareld the skin. “You should take a sip and then get some rest.”

Jareld went in the room and closed the door. He could smell the sick in the room. Sheets stained with sweat and blood. Vye and Corthos lying uneasily. But as soon as he was inside, and nobody was there to see him, he cried. He wasn’t sure if it was because his friend was dead, or because he kept seeing Gerard die, over and over, in his head.

Michael was right. After changing the sheets for Corthos and Vye, Jareld slept. But Jareld was also right: He had a bad dream. In it, he was back at the Towers, but he couldn’t find Thor anywhere. He kept running from room to room, asking people where he was, but they all gave him a curt response. Finally, he found Gallar.

“Please, Master Gallar,” Jareld said in his dream, “Where’s Thor?”

“Last I know he was with you,” Gallar said in an accusatory tone, “I trusted you to make sure he came home safely.”

But even this imaginary accusation couldn’t match the burning in Jareld’s heart at the thought that he was responsible for killing his friend. When he woke in a cold sweat, barely remembering the dream, that guilt felt so strong that he couldn’t imagine how it would ever go away.

Chapter 80: Incoming

Landos was also having a dream.

In it he was the Count, and he was married to Sarah, and they were in love with one another. And while they walked through Hartstone Castle, their domain, they encountered Gabriel, and Vye, and Michael. And everybody was getting along--

Then there was a hard knock on the door.

“Come in,” Landos said, groggily lifting himself from his cot.

“Sir,” Calvin said, from the door, “You wanted me to wake you when the armies arrived from Avonshire and Brimford.”

“They’re here?”

“Our watch towers just spotted them coming over the western hills.”

“Alright,” Landos said. “I’ll meet you at the West Gate.”

“Sir,” Calvin said, closing the door.

The reality sunk right back into Landos’ chest. Gabriel was dead. Sarah had been kidnapped by a powerful villain. Michael and Vye were on a hopeless mission to rescue her. Worst of all, if they did find Sarah, she would come back to live with Michael, and Landos would be banished.

But before that, he had a job to do. Avonshire and Brimford were going to provide some ten thousand soldiers. Landos had put the word out to Ralsean and Arwall, who had sent a total of four thousand soldiers. Landos had then gone to each of Deliem’s barons and raised an army for themselves. After convincing Lord Endior that Argos had called his daughter a slut, Landos was able to gather three thousand men himself.

Bringing their grand total to seventeen thousand. Landos spent the next few days organizing the army into ranks, establishing a hierarchy, and getting the captains to work out unified codes.

Emily Rone took up the Count’s chambers at Deliem, and the war room at Hartstone became their headquarters.
On the field, Duke Avonshire, Sir Calvin, Lord Kelliwick, and
Lord Eric Brimford
led the major ranks of soldiers. Landos helped Emily understand the various fortifications in the land of Deliem so they could arrange their forces accordingly.

---

For three days after the armies took positions, they waited. No news had come from Trentford, where the Turin army was believed to be.

Until finally a single rider came running frantically out of the woods, on the Trentford-Deliem border. He emerged right at Fort Sanders, the northern buffer of the County. He was immediately taken to Duke Avonshire.

“Your Grace,” the rider said, still on his horse, “Trentford has been razed. There’s nothing left!”

“What about the Turin?” Avonshire asked.

But the rider did not need to answer. From the woods behind him, Avonshire could see movement. It didn’t look impressive at first, but then he saw that the numbers were masked by the trees. There were thousands of them. Tens of thousands...

“Son,” Avonshire said to the rider, “If your horse has any heart left in it, I need you to ride south, immediately. I need you to ride to Hartstone. Tell them we’ve engaged the enemy.”

The rider went straight through the Fort and left by the south gate. Avonshire went to the watch tower for a better view of the incoming enemy. Even by the time he had reached the parapet, he could see the thousands of Turin emerging from the woods. But then he saw one of the enemy in particular.

He was one of the few on a horse, leading the charge. He was wrapped in a dark green cloak, but his hair was a mane of white, and he seemed to be ten feet tall.

The rider stopped his horse and allowed the ranks of his soldiers to march around him. Then, he lifted a hand and made a fist. Holding the fist in the air, Avonshire thought he could see sparks coming from his hand.

Then Avonshire became aware of a low, roaring sound. He couldn’t figure out what it was until one of the watch guards pointed to the sky.

A ball of fire, a meteor, was bearing down on the tower. Avonshire called some orders, as quickly as his mouth could form syllables. But he barely had time. The meteor impacted on the middle of the tower, causing the rest of it to crumble around the impact.

Avonshire was thrown from the high windows, and plummeted to his death. In the two seconds it took him to reach the ground, he had time for only one thought: “We’re doomed.”