CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
The Art of War
The best way I can describe that day was like watching the world end with enough time to take notes—because it was, and I did.
—THE BOOK OF BRIN
The smithy had a cot, water, and tools enough to do anything. Better than Roan’s roundhouse in Dahl Rhen, it had more space, a big forge, anvil, trough, worktable with all sorts of tools, and no ghosts. That last amenity was particularly nice. Iver had never set foot here, and no part of Alon Rhist reminded her of him. Nevertheless, Roan still never slept on the cot. The cot had been mostly for show, a concession to Gifford and the dwarfs. Roan never knowingly used it. She worked until she dropped, sleeping wherever she collapsed, which luckily had not yet been while working the forge. She always woke up on the cot. The little men put her there, saying she was in the way. She believed them the first few times, then realized she always woke up covered with a neatly tucked blanket and with her shoes off.
The foursome—whom everyone referred to as the Smith and Her Little Crew, the Lady and the Three Dwarfs, or most often, She and They—had grown close. All of them diligent, single-minded workers, the four never talked much, but that didn’t mean they didn’t understand each other. When they did communicate, it was in grunts or gestures. A tilt of a head meant add more coal, and a nod said pump the bellows. The little men slept as infrequently as she did—not because they didn’t want to sleep, but because if Roan worked, they did, too.
The labor was hard and all-consuming but never enough. In the past, all Roan had to forget about was Iver, and hard work was normally enough to manage that. She hadn’t thought about the old woodcarver once, but it wasn’t because of her workload. For the last two days, Roan hadn’t touched her hammer—which she had named Banger the Heavy, and which she swore had developed wear marks that fit her hand. Since Gifford had left, she hadn’t stoked the furnace, hadn’t polished metal. Mostly, Roan sat in the corner holding the crutch he had left behind. Much of that time she spent crying. The rest she spent twisting her hair, biting her nails, or simply rocking in place.
Most of Roan’s life had been spent in fear. In many ways, terror had become a familiar reassurance. She wouldn’t call it a friend, but certainly fear was a visitor she could always count on to show up. With Iver’s death, everything had changed. She now had the war, but that was as faceless and distant as worrying about famine or disease. Such things paled compared to being trapped in a small house with a huge man who had a propensity to torture. After that, she felt as if half of her life was missing. Part of her was gone, and that vacuum of fear had been filled with guilt.
She had killed Iver. No amount of justification made that right in her head, no matter how hard she tried. From this seed came thoughts that she must have helped make him what he was. Iver was never cruel to anyone else. The rest of the Dahl loved him. So it must have been her. She brought the evil out. And if she could do it to him, she might do it to others.
You’ll be a curse to anyone who cares about you, Roan. That’s what you really are, Roan, a curse, an evil curse, and you deserve what I’m going to give you now…
Then, just as she was beginning to think she might be able to live without the throat-clenching anxiety that drove her to beat Banger the Heavy senseless, the fear returned. But this time it was different.
She had watched from the parapet as Gifford rode across the bridge and through the Fhrey camp. She’d prayed to every god there was, and a few she invented, to keep him safe. And then he was gone. As horrible as it had been to live each day in dread of physical pain, worrying about Gifford was worse. There were precautions she was able to take with Iver. He wasn’t always predictable, but most times she knew how to steer clear of real trouble. She knew to keep things clean, which items never to move; she knew not to speak, but to answer quickly when called; and never, never to protect herself from a beating—that always made him hit harder. And when he slept, she was free to relax, to breathe free air. But she could do nothing to help Gifford, and there was never any pause, no relief from the smothering terror that he might already be dead, and if he was…one and one makes two, two and two makes four, four and four makes eight…
She kept counting. The numbers distracted her, keeping her mind from wandering. When she lost focus, she started problem-solving. The challenge before her was the conundrum of how best to end her life. There was a vast array of possible choices, and picking the optimal solution wasn’t as easy as might first appear. But if there was one thing Roan knew she was good at, it was solving problems. She’d already worked out a dozen excellent choices. Poison was the best, but she was far from isolating the perfect one. All she needed to do was…eight and eight makes sixteen, sixteen and sixteen makes thirty-two, thirty-two and thirty-two makes—
The smithy shook with a jolt. Dust kicked out of the corners, and all three little men stopped in mid–hammer swing to look at each other. A moment later, a second blast shook the place, and all of them ran out into the courtyard in time to see part of the Frozen Tower shear away.
Massive blocks of stone, sliced at an angle, just slipped and fell—mostly to the outside—but a few tumbled and rolled, smashing into the courtyard. One bashed through the roof of the woodshed, spitting a handful of split logs into the air.
A crowd rushed into the yard, everyone in nightshirts. This confused Roan until she realized it was early morning, and only the dull suggestion of the light to come was in the sky.
“What’s happening?” someone asked.
No one answered.
Roan guessed it was magic. She’d seen it before and had concluded that such things worked on different principles than ropes, pulleys, and wheels. Roan began wondering if magic wasn’t just another methodology. People thought the bow and arrows she made were magic. Maybe magic was just something people couldn’t understand. Perhaps, if she studied it, she might learn how magic functioned, how to harness its power in a practical, calculated manner. What a thing it might be if anyone, by the simple flipping of a lever, could illuminate a home with magic light.
“Roan!” Padera called. The old woman hobbled up, pointing at the damaged tower. “Get your bag and follow me. Now!”
Roan reached for her panic bag—a small satchel she kept filled with the most commonly needed emergency items—an extension of her pocket idea. Inside, she’d placed needle and thread, string, rope, a small but sturdy stick, salt, clean cloth cut in strips and some in squares, a tiny chunk of pure silver, willow bark, her bound knives, a tiny hammer—this one named Banger the Light—a cup, and a small saw. She grabbed it from the corner of the smithy and ran after Padera.
“Arion and Suri were in that tower,” the old woman said as they hustled across the courtyard. A small cluster of men stood outside the Frozen Tower peering in at the open door. Roan and Padera pushed past those at the entrance. Then Padera stopped and grimaced at the steep stairs. “Go on, I’ll wait here.”
Roan climbed the shattered remains of the spiral steps. She only had to go a short way before finding both Suri and Arion, lying together.
“Arion? Suri?” Padera shouted from the bottom of the stairs. “Are they dead?”
“Well, they look…bad,” Roan replied. She drew closer and bent down. “Suri is still breathing. Arion isn’t. Yes, Arion is…Arion is…” She didn’t want to say it.
“How is Suri?”
Roan shook the mystic’s shoulder. “Suri?”
She didn’t respond.
“No wounds but she’s not waking up.”
“Damn her,” the old woman cursed. “She’s tried it again.”
“Tried what?” But Roan wasn’t really paying attention to Padera anymore. She stared at Arion as she lay on her back, awkwardly bent, her eyes still open, staring up at the sky where the top of the tower had been. The Fhrey was thousands of years old, bald, and absolutely the most beautiful thing Roan had ever seen. Even in death, in that awkward position, she was still lovely. Roan reached over and closed Arion’s eyes. That was better. Now she looks like she’s sleeping.
“You there!” Padera shouted in her ragged voice. “Go up and carry them down. Bring them to the smithy.”
“Is it safe?” someone asked.
“Safer than not doing what I tell you! Both of ya, get up there!”
Roan recognized the two men who came up. She thought their names were Glen, and Hobart, or Hubert. They were from Clan Menahan, as was obvious by the pattern of their rich blue, green, and yellow leigh mors. They approached the two Artists, looking terrified.
“Just pick her up! She won’t bite,” Padera shouted as if she could see them.
The two men looked at Roan with pleading eyes, searching for assurance or at least sympathy.
She nodded whatever approval she could give.
Suri and Arion were both tiny things, and the two men had no problem carrying them down, clutching the two like babies, heads slumped against their chests. By the time they were out of the tower and crossing the courtyard toward the smithy, the bells were ringing again. Day two of the war was about to start.
Once more, Persephone cursed her lacerated stomach, the bed, the raow, and anything else she could think of as she struggled to sit up and suffered for it. Stabbing pains jolted her from gut to toes.
“We don’t know exactly,” the young man said. His name was Aland, a soldier from the Third Spear—Harkon’s Clan Melen battle group. Short, young, and thin, he had been assigned runner duties and become the official voice of the war for Persephone. “I got reports of flashes of light near the north tower, explosions, and….”
“And what?”
“The top has been ripped away, gone like the Spyrok.”
“How many hurt? How many dead?”
“Ah—two I think, one Fhrey female and a Rhune girl.”
Persephone, Moya, and Brin looked at each other.
“Well, which is it? Hurt or dead? Are you saying Suri and Arion are…are they all right?”
“I don’t know their names, but one is dead and the other can’t be woken up.”
Tears were filling Brin’s eyes, while Moya stood stiff, her jaw clenched.
“Anything else?” Persephone asked the young man standing at attention at the foot of her bed.
“Just that the men have formed up inside the gates, and the archers were ordered to the walls. Lord Nyphron has decided not to engage them today.”
“And the Fhrey army?”
“Lined up on the far side of the ford, but they aren’t advancing yet.”
“Fine. Get me details on the two who were hurt in the north tower.”
The young man started toward the door then paused. “Do you want me to tell Lord Nyphron you wish to see him?”
“Nyphron?” Persephone shook her head. “No.”
Brin crossed the room. In her hands, she still held the cup of water that Persephone had asked her to get before Aland had come in. Brin’s hands were trembling, making the water jiggle. “Suri and Arion?” She looked down at the cup as Persephone took it from her. “What do you think happened?”
Persephone shook her head. She’d learned through painful trial and error not to shrug.
“I should go,” Moya said.
Persephone nodded.
“I’ll send someone to watch the door again.”
“Okay.”
Moya lingered a moment longer, looking at her. “It doesn’t end. It just doesn’t end, does it?” Then the beautiful woman with the big eyes and the longbow named Audrey left.
“You killed her?” the fane asked for a second time.
Mawyndulë nodded, disappointed his father had put so much emphasis on the word you.
“Are you sure? How can you know?”
“I saw her.”
“Saw her?” His father was still in his tent, standing in the light of three freestanding candelabras as two servants strapped on his armor. The sun was rising, but too weak and too slow to illuminate the tent’s interior. “How could you have seen her?”
Tell him the truth. He won’t believe a lie, and he’ll find out eventually anyway.
“Kel Jerydd helped me. He’s using Avempartha.”
Since the start of the battle, Synne had been constantly searching for danger, but now she paused to stare at him. Even the servants stopped their work to look over. Both of Lothian’s brows rose.
“He taught me how to talk with him before we left.”
“You’re in communication with Jerydd?” his father asked.
“Yes.”
The fane continued to stare at Mawyndulë for several seconds, trying to digest this. Then he began walking around the tent in thought. The servants followed, struggling to finish their tasks. Sile, who was in his path, was forced to take a step back, pressing his massive size against the canvas. Another step and he might have brought the whole place down. “So that explosion was Jerydd channeling Avempartha’s power through you?”
Mawyndulë nodded but was quick to add, “Yes, and I nearly died.”
His father continued to walk in a circle, trailing his servants, showing no sign of having heard him. He stopped. “Ask Jerydd if he can do more.”
I can do whatever my fane wishes.
“Yes, he can,” Mawyndulë replied.
“Good—excellent. Come with me.” The fane walked out of the tent.
The captains of the Shahdi—the Erivan military—had assembled around a bare patch of exposed stone where a small fire burned. Each was outfitted in full battle gear of bronze armor, blue capes, and helmets with bristled crests of horse hair, color coded to their regiment. Some were tall, some short, most old.
“My fane!” they all shouted, snapping to attention at his approach and clearing room around the fire for his father’s entourage. Several eyes glanced at Synne. Most of them had been introduced to her in the usual fashion. As a result, none of them made sudden moves in the presence of the fane.
“Assemble the troops but don’t advance,” his father ordered. “We’re going to do things a little differently today.”
Tell him about the other one, about the Rhune.
“They have another Artist. She’s still alive,” Mawyndulë said. His father looked at him, confused. Mawyndulë found it nice that his father finally listened when he spoke, listened with real interest, but he felt it wasn’t his words so much as Jerydd’s he was listening for. “There’s a Rhune Artist in Alon Rhist.”
His father looked puzzled. “Did you say a Rhune?”
“We think she’s freakishly powerful.” He used the word we preemptively, knowing that his father would ignore any speculation of his.
She’s not that powerful. I was just caught off guard. Now that I know she’s there, things will be different.
“A Rhune? How is that possible?”
Mawyndulë shrugged for both of them.
“Does Jerydd think he can beat her?”
Not a problem.
Mawyndulë nodded.
“Well”—the fane began finishing the buckle on his breastplate himself—“tell Jerydd to warm up the tower. We’re going to do some damage today.”
Moya reached the parapet above the front gate. It was lined with her archers, Tesh among them.
“Are you supposed to be here?” she asked.
“Raithe didn’t say I couldn’t.”
“You didn’t ask, either.”
“You don’t know that,” the kid said, adjusting the tube packed with arrows that was slung over his back.
He had twenty, maybe twenty-five in there—a bristling bouquet of white, black, and gray feathers. The other archers had a similar number. Moya remembered how she had fought a demon with only six, back when arrows had stone tips, and arrow meant a tiny spear with a row of markings. Now everyone had unmarked iron-headed shafts with three feathers placed to align properly with the notched end, and no one had any idea where the term arrow came from. Maybe one day if someone else learned to read Brin’s writing, they would know.
Out across the ford, she could see the Fhrey army. Such straight lines.
“Don’t let fly until I tell you,” she shouted, and the order was repeated up and down the line. “Wait for my signal.”
“How’s Brin?” Tesh asked.
“You know, if you weren’t here with me, you could go up to the Kype and ask her yourself.”
“But then I wouldn’t be able to kill elves.”
Moya bent her bow, hooked the loop of the bowstring, then looked over at the kid. “You hate them, don’t you?”
“Don’t you? They slaughtered my family, my whole village, the entire clan. I just want to return the favor.”
“We live with them, you know. I’m even—sort of—with one.” She didn’t know how else to put it. “Don’t repeat that, by the way—not even to him.”
“Tekchin?”
“Yeah, the ugly one.” She tested the weight of the draw. “Not all of them are bad.”
She caught a glimpse from Tesh that wasn’t the look of a child. Too cold, too hard, too ruthless to be the eyes of innocence.
“C’mon, even you have to agree with that—you saved Nyphron’s life.”
That look again. He wiped it away and didn’t answer, but in his eyes, she spotted something he sought to hide, something dark—an awful, pitiless hunger that had no place in the face of a man much less a boy. For that brief instant, Moya was reminded of the raow. They all had the same famished look, and for the first time, Moya felt frightened of this barely ex-child whom she’d taught to kill from a distance.
She was still staring at him when the world began to shake.
They had Suri on the cot, a blanket pulled up to her neck. Padera listened to the mystic’s heartbeat while willow bark stewed on the furnace. At first, it was just Roan and Padera. The little men waited outside with the rest but came back in when Roan asked them to stoke the fire. Tressa came with them. She was the one who had filled the bucket with water for boiling the bark.
Roan had grown up three houses away from Tressa. Her primary memory of the woman was the parties held at Tressa’s home; at least they sounded like parties. She had listened to singing and laughter late into the night and would lie awake imagining what it might be like to laugh like that. Roan was never invited. Tressa hadn’t been the sort to mingle with the slave of a woodcarver the way Moya, Padera, Brin, or Gifford had. Roan always wondered why—not why Tressa had refused to acknowledge her existence, but why Moya, Padera, Brin, and Gifford hadn’t.
Everyone hated Tressa because her husband, in his ambition to become chieftain, had killed Reglan, and he’d tried to kill Persephone, too. Tressa had steadfastly denied knowing about her husband’s plans, but no one believed her. Moya despised Tressa. Brin hated her, too, and as a result, Roan felt she should as well; but she didn’t. Roan understood what it was like to be the outcast, to be the one who didn’t count. As a result, Roan smiled even while Padera scowled at Tressa.
Tressa drew back. “What are you grinning at?”
“Thank you for the water.”
“I didn’t bring it for you. I brought it for her.” Tressa pointed at Suri.
“Since when do you do anything for anyone other than yourself?” Padera asked.
“Why do you care? Needed the water, right? Need it to make your witch’s brew, so there, you got it.”
“Fine,” Padera said. “Now leave.”
Tressa frowned and turned toward the door.
“She doesn’t have to go,” Roan said.
“She doesn’t have to stay, either.” Padera rinsed a folded cloth in the bucket.
“This is my smithy.” Roan spoke with unaccustomed firmness.
This brought a sidelong squint from Padera and an incredulous look from Tressa.
“This isn’t your smithy,” Tressa said. “All of this belongs to the Fhrey.”
“Which right now belongs to Persephone.” Padera placed the cloth on Suri’s forehead. “You remember Persephone, don’t you, Tressa? The one you and your husband—”
“I don’t care whose smithy it is,” Roan said in a raised voice. “She! Can! Stay!”
Padera and Tressa and even the three dwarfs looked over, surprised.
The old woman went back to mopping up Suri’s face without another word. Tressa continued to stare a moment longer. She ran her tongue along the full width of her teeth, then sucked like she had something stuck between them. Finally, she drew in a breath through her nose and gave a little nod. “Thanks.”
Right about then Roan felt a little lightheaded—she got dizzy sometimes from not eating or when she went too long without sleep—but when she noticed ripples in the bucket resting on the ground, she realized the feeling wasn’t coming from her. A moment later, the tools hanging from the overhead crossbeams began to clank against one another. Dust spilled down, and the shaking got worse.
Malcolm came running in. He looked at Suri, then at the rest of them. “We need to wake her, and fast.”
Raithe was lying on his cot in the barracks when the rumblings began. He’d heard the bell, watched the others scramble, but didn’t even pull back his blanket. No one stopped or asked why. He was wounded and wouldn’t be expected to fight unless the Fhrey breached the gate. Only that wasn’t why. At least, it wasn’t the wound they knew about that kept him in bed.
It would take a man like Gath. Someone renowned, someone who everyone could agree was the bravest, strongest warrior among them. Someone who all the chieftains could kneel to and not lose the respect of their people. It would take a hero.
That’s what Persephone wanted. Used to be him—now it was Nyphron.
When he closed his eyes, he could still see Persephone as she once was, climbing the creaking ladder to the top of Dahl Rhen’s wall, wearing her black dress. That’s how he best remembered her, how she used to be. The wind was in her hair on the night the Fhrey had arrived, the day after Konniger tried to kill her and they had all jumped off the waterfall. She was so lovely, and she had needed him. He had been her protector against the Fhrey, against Konniger. He had been her hero.
I wish I hadn’t asked her to leave with me.
That had been a mistake—a huge one. Back then his mind was possessed by the lush fields that he and his father had found across the two rivers. He couldn’t imagine that she wouldn’t want to go. Her own chieftain hated her, and the Fhrey had invaded. His idea to find a better place should have been embraced with repeated thank-yous. But he hadn’t understood Persephone’s devotion to her people.
Lying on the cot, he stared at the ceiling. He could picture the two of them across the Urum, up on that hill. He saw a beautiful log house with an actual door, a field of wheat growing next to a field of rye, and a split-log corral filled with grazing sheep. The two of them happy and safe, far from the beat of drums, the claws of raow, the peal of bells, and the—
A crack ripped up the side of the stone wall of the barracks. Pieces of stone chipped and spat across the room, skipping off the wood floor. The ceiling rattled, and the floor shook so hard, Raithe no longer needed to get out of bed. The bed did the work for him.
Standing up, he found the shaking more noticeable, more alarming—as if he were in a little boat rolling over waves. He grabbed his sword belt and jogged for the door. He arrived in the courtyard just in time to see the remainder of the Frozen Tower collapse.
“Get off the wall!” Moya shouted as everyone watched the north tower crumble.
The massive stones came straight down, imploding and giving birth to a massive cloud of dust, dirt, and crushed rock. Below her, spider-web-thin cracks spread through the stone. Soon, the whole front wall of Alon Rhist began to waver, and Moya screamed.
Whether the archers had heard her or not, they ran for the stairs. Then the tower collapsed. It didn’t implode; it toppled. Listing to one side, the stone staggered, then keeled over and fell across the upper courtyard, crushing the barracks and the kitchens, narrowly missing the smithy.
Moya was shoved from behind. She bounced off Filson’s back and lost her footing on the steps. She would have fallen if there had been room. Too many bodies prevented her from going all the way down. A hand caught her by the wrist and drew her out of the crush. She pressed against the outer wall, letting the others run by, which they did without a glance. The stone she leaned on was shivering.
Stone shouldn’t shiver.
The hand that had caught Moya belonged to Tesh. He waited beside her for the mob to rampage past while the wall they stood on quaked and quivered.
We’re above the main gate. This is their target!
The idea was slow in coming but finally arrived. The Fhrey were trying to bring down the front wall, to lay the fortress bare. Moya heard the crack and snap of stone and the screams of more than a dozen men as the stairs disintegrated.
We’re next.
Moya braced for the fall. She grabbed the ancient parapet, despite knowing that it, too, would fall. The stairs and the primary supports for the massive wall were gone. The whole thing was going down. It had to, but it didn’t. The wall continued to shake and jerk back and forth. Tesh and Moya wrapped their arms around the merlons, clinging to the bucking wall. Still, it didn’t fall.
Across the chasm, Moya spotted the Fhrey troops lined up at the foot of the bridge. They were waiting for the front of the fortress to come down. But the front wall of Alon Rhist refused to fall. Bewilderment filled every face as the great stones danced like a stack of juggled plates. Looking inside the courtyard, Moya saw why.
Standing amidst the rubble of the toppled tower, just outside the smithy, Moya saw the small figure of Suri flanked by Roan, her dwarfs, Malcolm, and Padera. She stood with arms outstretched, hands moving, head thrown back as if singing to the sky.
Not knowing if Suri was winning or losing, or just buying time, Moya didn’t want to wait to find out. The stairs to the south were gone. The only way off was the steps on the far side.
“Up for a crazy run?” Moya asked Tesh and nodded toward the long expanse of crenelated parapet that wiggled like a snake.
“Always.” Tesh turned his body and knelt like a sprinter. “Ready.”
“You first. Go!” she shouted.
The kid took off and got several strides across before being buffeted between the battlements. He staggered and fell, got up, and ran again. Once he was three merlons down, she started her run. She could have been sprinting across a bobbing log in a rushing river for all the stability the wall was providing. A jerk nearly sent her out a crenel.
Not a log at all—I’m running along a rope used in a tug-of-war!
While remaining vertical, the wall was faring poorly from the struggle. Stone blocks were jiggled free and fell. Whole merlons were missing, and the parapet was no longer anywhere close to straight. While it changed from moment to moment, the wall had warped into an S shape. About the time Moya was in the very center, she heard a terrible clang. Fearing she was about to fall, she sucked in a breath, but the wall stayed up.
The doors! The great bronze gates are right beneath me. They must have been shaken off their hinges.
Ahead of her, Tesh reached the stairs, and once more he stopped. Turning back, he waved frantically for her and waited.
Kid has more balls than brains.
The wall jerked again, and she was slapped from one merlon to the other. She slammed one shoulder hard enough to make her cry out, then the other side of the walkway hit her in the chest, knocking the air out of her.
Tetlin’s tit!
She forced her legs to keep moving. Moya wasn’t sure where the strength came from—maybe Suri had buoyed her up, or Mari was lending support, or just plain old-fashioned fear fed her efforts—but she finished the crossing, and she and Tesh raced down the steps to the courtyard.
They were fifty feet away when at last the wall came down.
Suri used to try to catch fish with her bare hands. She’d seen the bears do it, so she thought it was worth a try. Tura had explained that her lack of claws was an insurmountable obstacle. Suri tried anyway. She had stood knee-deep in the stream where the fish swam in the shallows—the same place where the bears hunted—and she scooped up a nice river salmon. The scales were slick as oil, and the creature wiggled, fighting hard. She could feel the muscles thrashing back and forth as the fish struggled. She pulled it to her chest, but the thing was just too slippery, too heavy, too strong. After a titanic battle, it flew from her hands and back into the river, leaving her disappointed and realizing that she couldn’t do everything. Suri felt the same way when the wall was finally torn from her grasp and shattered into a heap of broken stone.
You just don’t have the claws.
The land continued to shake. There were no runes on the ground to stop it. The Orinfar protected the primary walls, which was part of the problem in holding them up. She couldn’t grab them with the Art. Instead, she was forced to use the air around them and anything else that wasn’t rune-marked. No sooner did she stop one tower from falling, then another began to wobble. She tried to calm the ground but couldn’t.
Where is all that power coming from?
All Suri was doing was holding things together, and she felt exhausted. The struggle over the front wall had drained her, the runes on it acting against her efforts, and the continued fight to withstand the impacts that shuddered the rest of the fortress was a marathon she couldn’t finish.
Maybe it’s because there are more of them. But Suri could only sense the one, a young Fhrey. She could almost see him, and there was something familiar in that connection. She knew this person. He’d been in Dahl Rhen. He was the one—
“The bridge,” a voice said in her ear. “Forget the walls. Destroy the Grandford Bridge.”
If the words had been screamed, she might not have listened, but the calm confidence was something one looked for in emergencies.
The bridge.
She felt them coming across—hundreds. They were in a hurry, afraid she would notice and terrified she wouldn’t be distracted enough. Worried she might—
Suri let go—let the tower fall. Then, with all her remaining strength she reached out toward that delicate span, that thin vulnerable sliver of stone that crossed a very deep chasm. The bridge was just as protected with runes as the walls, but she didn’t need to touch it any more than the elves needed to touch the walls of Alon Rhist to topple them. Destroying was so much easier than preserving. All Suri needed was to shift the cliffs.
Suri moved the east cliff just a bit to the south, and the west cliff a bit to the north. Like unraveling a string weave, or opening a knot, the bridge disconnected from both sides and came free. The span fell. She couldn’t see it with her eyes, but she sensed it, felt the weight give way and heard the screams as hundreds of Fhrey plummeted to their deaths.
Suri whirled and reached out, looking for the next calamity. There wasn’t one. The ground stopped shaking. She sensed nothing. The world returned to stillness.
Suri opened her eyes and saw the devastated remains of the fortress. The entire front of Alon Rhist was a ruin of crumbled stone and shattered wood. Malcolm laid his hands on Suri’s shoulders and gave a gentle, reassuring squeeze. Roan was there, too, and the old woman Padera, and Tressa, and Moya, and Tesh, and Raithe. They were all with her, including dozens of men and Fhrey she didn’t know, everyone looking relieved.
Everyone was there…everyone except Arion.