They fell into the slow-moving line.
Once more, Gwen was cloaked in black, her face hidden in shadow, while Gareth was wearing a simple cloth shirt and trousers. They’d left his armor in a bush off the road. He’d seemed glad to see it go, like it was his final act in relinquishing the crown to his brother. Roan had encouraged Gwen to work her magic to get rid of her own armor, but she refused. Plus, she’d explained, removing ore was more difficult when outside of Ironwood, and once she did, she wouldn’t be able to get it back.
Roan hoped the gate guards wouldn’t ask to check beneath her cloak. They shouldn’t, he thought. A woman’s modesty is respected here.
They approached the gate. “Let me do the talking,” he said. Gwen nodded and Gareth smirked.
One of the guards eyed them as they came near. “State your business,” he said.
Roan smiled easily. “We are seeking sanctuary and work in the city.”
“Sanctuary from what?”
“Birds,” Gareth said. Roan fired daggers from his eyes.
“Birds?” The guard’s natural scowl deepened.
“I’m only japing,” Gareth said. “The Western Road has grown dangerous these last days. Outlaws. Vagabonds. Scoundrels. We fear for the life of our sister.” He motioned to Gwendolyn, who bowed rather stiffly.
“Yes,” Roan interjected, trying to regain control of the situation. “We are brothers, though many don’t believe us.”
“What is your trade?”
“Entertainers,” Gareth said, once more interrupting. “Puppet shows, mostly. But never fear, good man, our japes are of the clean variety. After all, we are Wrath-abiding citizens.”
Roan held his breath as the man stared them down. Then, to his utter surprise, the guard waved them through. “We could use more entertainers in this crusty old city.”
When they were out of earshot, Roan said, “That was a big risk.”
Gareth shrugged. “Not really. We are pretty entertaining, wouldn’t you say? And anyway, sometimes a bit of absurdity goes a long way.”
Though Roan was somewhat annoyed, the feeling was eclipsed by his relief that Gareth was beginning to act more like his normal self.
Knight’s End was like a thousand Restor’s stacked on top of and next to each other. The streets were full to overflowing. Sights, smells, and sounds assaulted Roan’s senses, and he quickly became overwhelmed. Gareth seemed less so, buying small trinkets and foodstuffs from merchants, trading quips and smiles. He had a way of blending in while still seeming larger than life. It was a quality Roan envied.
Gwen, on the other hand, just seemed bitter. “Look at how the women are dressed,” she said. “It must be a thousand degrees. I’m swimming in sweat.” Roan had noticed the women, most of whom were dressed in what his guardian had called purity dresses, shapeless white frocks that covered all but their hands and faces.
“It is tradition,” Roan said.
“Aye, a foolish tradition.”
A spike of anger rose up in him. “And they think the Orians are a bunch of godless witches,” he said. “So you both think the other’s traditions are foolish. And everyone wonders why this war will never end.”
Though he couldn’t see Gwen’s face, he could sense her silently fuming beneath her cloak.
Thankfully, Gareth broke up the tension. “I don’t know,” he said. “There’s something enticing about beauty hidden beneath folds of cloth, don’t you think?”
Roan rolled his eyes. Leave it to his charming friend to see something lustworthy in a purity dress.
“And what of those women?” Gwen whispered, pointing to a few gathered together, discussing something quietly.
“What about them?” Roan asked. Then the women turned and Roan had to force himself not to stare. Their faces were freshly scarred, deep lines cut into their flesh, forming what appeared to be a W across the whole of their faces.
“Do you think that is a noble tradition?” Gwen asked harshly. “Self-mutilation?”
Roan almost hoped the scars were self-inflicted, the only other option being a much worse one. Still, he’d never heard of westerners carving their own faces. “All I’m saying is we should keep an open mind.”
They moved on. Gareth asked a female merchant—whose face was, thankfully, not scarred—where the Western Archives were, and she directed him toward the castle at the top of the hill. “But you need special permission to visit them.”
“What’s your plan to get into the Archives?” Gareth asked as they walked.
“I don’t have one,” Roan said.
“Fantastic. My favorite kind of mission, an ill-planned one.” The sarcasm was heavy in his voice.
“We could sneak in,” Gwen suggested.
“If the Archives are in the castle, they’ll be heavily guarded. I’m sure many of the texts are priceless.”
“Then how?” Gwen asked. “We came all this way. We can’t just accept that getting in will be impossible.”
“No,” Roan said. “We’re not accepting anything. My sister is the queen, remember?”
Gareth laughed. “I don’t think she’ll remember you.”
Gwen lowered her voice. “And have you forgotten your mark? And mine? They will burn us at the stake like the demons they think we are.”
“Maybe,” Roan said thoughtfully. “Maybe not. We need to gather more information on just who my sister is.”
They’d asked more than three-dozen people about Queen Rhea. And all of them agreed, she was the most holy woman to ever rule Knight’s End. In fact, they called her Rhea the Righteous. She’d even carved a W into her own face to mark her as Wrath’s servant, which explained the numerous similarly scarred faces they’d seen throughout the city. According to everyone they spoke to, Rhea’s purity was so bright she’d singlehandedly defeated the largest northern army to sail against the west.
That news had rocked all three of them. The north had been defeated? How? When? Evidently it had been recently, within the last few days.
My sister, Roan thought, as they stood without the castle gates, which, strangely, stood wide open. She rules differently. She invites the commoners into her stronghold.
And hundreds of the people, if not thousands, were accepting her invitation, marching through the gates and into the large inner courtyard. “She will accept me,” Roan said, glancing back at Gareth and Gwen. “I know it.”
They’d discussed their options, and agreed to risk Roan revealing himself to his sister. If she was truly the good, honorable woman the westerners believed her to be, certainly she would speak with him.
“Just don’t show her your mark,” Gwen muttered, after grudgingly assenting to the plan.
He nodded. “Remember, stand outside the castle gates at dusk each day until I come find you,” he said.
Gareth said, “Be safe.” It was the most normal, serious thing he’d said to Roan in days, probably since they were trapped in the wood nymph’s enchanted locket.
“I will.” He longed to embrace them both, to hold them close, to let this moment linger a bit longer. Instead they clasped arms briefly and then Roan slipped into the throng.
He pushed and forced his way toward the front of the crowd, as close to the raised dais as he could get. There he saw her:
Her white purity dress flowed around her body covering much of her skin, but her face and hair were visible. Her hair was almost the exact color of his, her features soft, with high cheekbones, a delicate nose, piercing turquoise eyes, and…
Though he’d known to expect it, the scar on her face made him gasp, and several people gave him strange looks, moving away. The W carved into her face was the same as the ones he’d seen on so many faces throughout the city.
Sister, what have you done? he thought.
His next thought was similar, because that’s when he realized why the people had been invited inside the castle, what they were gathering to watch.
It was an execution.
Thirty-Three
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The Northern Kingdom, Castle Hill
Annise Gäric
Annise’s breath was short, her heart beating too fast. This was different than the last time she’d commanded her army. The last time was a rushed, frantic burst of orders while they faced a stone-faced giant that was already killing her men at will.
Today, however, with the sun poking along the edges of the horizon, their enemy was not yet visible, hidden somewhere behind the tall, white walls of Castle Hill. Hundreds of soldiers stared at her, waiting for her to say something inspiring, something to get their blood pumping.
Tarin’s voice was a deep whisper meant only for her. “Truth,” he said. “Speak the truth.”
She smiled thinly at him, nodding her thanks for him being there, for being her rock. She tried not to think that the night before may have been their last together, and though it was full of passion, she felt empty in its wake, like her soul had been sucked out.
She didn’t want it to be the last time she felt his warmth beside her.
She took a deep breath. Truth. Yes. That is the right way.
“I am not my father,” she said. A sea of eyebrows went up, dark arches beneath gleaming helms. It wasn’t what they had expected her to say. “I will not force you to fight. I will not use fear as a weapon. For any who do not believe in our cause, you may go without repercussion, without punishment, without judgment.” She gestured to the walls of the castle, which were dusted with snow. “On the battlefield, I am your queen commander, and you will obey me without question. But here, in the before, you have a choice. Behind those walls is an enemy of nightmares, ninety-eight monsters that will test our mettle to its breaking point.”
Her voice changed, softened. “I am scared—I will admit it.” Silence fell, and Annise swore she could hear each snowflake as it landed. The fear inside her felt supercharged, until it became something else. Excitement. Energy. Truth.
She lifted her voice, infusing it with strength, power. “But this is my home, and I will not abandon it, not to the likes of the Imposter King. That is my choice. Now it is time to make yours. Leave now, and go in peace. Or”—she paused again, letting that single word sink in—“fight with me. Stand with your brothers, your fathers, your sons! Stand for our great kingdom, a kingdom that has been shamed by my father’s brother, by the unnatural army he has raised against us! Stand for me, your queen, and I will fight with you, side by side! What say you?”
Nothing. Snowfall. Sun breaking the horizon, shimmering across the falling flakes and gleaming armor. A pale city on a snowy hill, its impenetrable walls cloaked in years of mistrust, oppression and fear. Ranks of soldiers, some who’d fought in numerous battles, while others who’d never experienced a single one, joined in this shattered moment of truth, of choice, of—
“I will stand,” a voice rang out, as clear and crisp as the morning. “I will fight.” Sir Metz stepped forward, his armor as pristine as always, his sword raised in a sign of loyalty.
Silence fell upon his words as they floated away.
But then the echo came. “I will stand. I will fight. My sword is yours, as is my life.” Sir Dietrich stepped forward, blade raised to the heavens.
More voices appeared, melding together until they were a single voice, a shout hammering like a drumbeat. “Stand! Fight! Stand! Fight! Stand! Fight!”
Annise turned away, her eyes meeting Tarin’s for one bare moment. He nodded. Beside him, Zelda was smiling, and, for once, not eating. The expression on her face was unmistakable, filling Annise with warmth: pride.
She basked in the moment for three breaths.
And then she led her men into battle.
The city outside the castle was empty, or at least it appeared to be, though the occasional dark shadow could be seen peeking through a curtained window. She wondered whether the citizens were hiding because of Annise’s army, or because of her uncle’s monsters. Perhaps both, she thought.
A sea of foot soldiers marched ahead of her, armed with grappling hooks and rope ladders. Annise and her various cavalries rode behind, not in superiority to the foot soldiers, but because they would be like a spear thrust in the event the soldiers managed to breach the wall and open the gates.
As it turned out, none of that was necessary, for, just as the first line of soldiers reached the castle wall, the gates shuddered, snow cascading from the stone parapets above them.
Beside her, Tarin said, “They come to us.”
Another shudder. And then another, the thick wooden doors cracking in the middle, where they met. There was a final crash, and the doors swung open, though the way was blocked by something as dark as night, a broad panel of flesh that was almost snake-like in appearance.
Several of the soldiers fell backwards, but were held up by the rest of the men. Frozen hell below, Annise thought. What is that thing?
Something shot out from the entrance, a long black rope, snapping at them from a fanged mouth. A man screamed as the tendril grabbed him by the leg, dragging him away. A brave young man leapt forward and hacked at the monster’s limb, but it was already gone, the man sucked inside the castle, his scream cut off abruptly.
Annise’s head spun, her thoughts scattering like sticks in a child’s game of Pick ’em Up. This is impossible. We are the walking dead. I have sentenced all these souls to death. Despite the “choice” she gave them, she knew they would’ve followed her to frozen hell and back. Which might’ve been better than where they were now, the demon they were facing.
Tarin said, “Annise. Your command. Give it now.”
The calm in his tone was like a warm broth pooling in her mind. I can do this. I will die for this cause if I must. “Sir Dietrich,” she said. “Lead the assault.”
Dietrich, who was no stranger to battles from his time defending Raider’s Pass, didn’t need further urging. “Men!” he shouted, raising his sword in the air and pointing it toward the black-fleshed beast. “Attack!”
The sea churned forward, an ocean of weapons and armor and lives. As planned, the foot soldiers swept to the sides, opening up a space for the cavalries to charge through. Annise spurred her horse forward, aware of Tarin at her side, his Morningstar already cutting wide circles around his head.
Grasping the reins with one hand, she drew her own weapon, the Evenstar Fay had given her. Nearby, she saw Zelda and Sir Craig raise their weapons together. Sir Craig leaned down to embrace his wife, pecking her quickly on the lips. The moment of tenderness was so out of place next to the monster blocking their path that it took Annise’s breath away. Steeling herself, she refocused.
Up ahead, a dozen fanged tendrils shot out from the castle gates. Men hacked at them, slicing several off, but not before four other men were dragged away. Shouts of war surrounded her as the first cavalry rode through the gates, directly into the wall of black flesh. Sir Dietrich slashed at the skin while Tarin hammered it with blows from his Morningstar. Annise looked up to see what sort of monster they faced, and immediately wished she hadn’t. The creature was like a black worm, with no arms or legs save the fanged tendrils that spilled from its eyeless, noseless, earless crown. Several were stumps, spitting dark fluid—those that had been severed by her soldiers—but there were still plenty intact. They shot down toward the riders.
Annise swung her Evenstar, hitting one just before it slammed into her face. The short chain wrapped around the tendril and the barbs sunk deep. The maw screamed and then flopped free, slapping at her horse’s hooves with a wet thud that reminded her of the time she and Arch had been ice fishing in Frozen Lake and he’d landed a particularly large boarfish.
One of the other riders hadn’t been so fortunate. He screamed as his horse was grabbed by two snake-like tentacles, carrying them both upwards to the other snapping mouths, which quickly pulled him apart. Sir Morley, Annise remembered, the name of the rider she’d forgotten during the previous battle.
Bile rose in her throat as her muscles threatened to freeze up. “No,” she growled
. She had to be strong. For her men. For her kingdom. For herself.
“How do we kill it?” she asked no one in particular. It had no eyes to blind, and the surface of its skin all looked the same. The only things they could fight were the fanged tentacles, and killing one of them seemed to have no effect on the overall beast.
Nearby, Tarin swept his Morningstar across another tentacle, cutting it off. Dietrich, his sword a maelstrom of slashes, severed two more. If nothing else, the monster was running out of tendrils.
Another rider pulled up beside her. “Even a worm has a brain,” Sir Metz said. “If we can get to it, we might have a chance.”
Annise nodded. “I’ll do it.”
“What?” Tarin said. “No.”
So many were dying, and this was only the first of ninety-eight monsters they would face on this day. But Annise had already made up her mind. When the next tentacle launched itself toward her, she waited a beat longer and then wrapped her chain around it, clinging to either side as it lifted her into the air.
A weight clung to her heels, and her first thought was Tarin! but when she looked down it was Zelda clinging to her, grinning like a banshee. “You thought I would let you have all the fun?” her aunt shouted.
Something swooped from the side, drawing her attention away from her aunt. The tendril’s jaws snapped at Annise as if it had a mind of its own, but she managed to kick it away. They rose higher and higher, until they were dangling above the monster’s “head,” which reached almost to the top of the castle’s walls.