2

A thousand miles and more from his city of Ethalden, Marith Altrersyr, King of the White Isles and Ith and Illyr and Immier and the Wastes and the Bitter Sea, King of All Irlast, Amrath Returned, King Ruin, King of Shadows, King of Dust, King of Death, King of All, stood on the brow of a hill looking across toward the city of Arunmen.

It was still early morning. Frost silver on the grass. Soft pale light pink and golden. In the valley the scent of woodsmoke, the smoke rising to blur the light. Birds wheeled in the sky, turning, twisting like outstretched fingers. Reminded him of Thalia’s hair. They called harsh and lonely. Hungry, cold, fragile things. Moved in the sky turning and turning. Their cries muffled a moment by the ringing of a blacksmith’s hammer. Wheeled and called, flew off to the east.

The sun caught their wingbeats. Black and white in the sky. The hammer rang out loudly. Then silence. Waiting.

Waiting.

“Marith!”

Marith turned. Looked down the hillside. Osen Fiolt, the Lord of Third Isle, the Lord of the Calien Mal, Death’s Lieutenant. His best friend. Osen rode up toward him. A young man, dark and handsome but for the scar on his face.

“Marith! They’re waiting for you!”

Marith rubbed his eyes. From across toward the city came a distant rumble. A flash of white fire against the city walls. The birds rushed back overhead, black and silver. Singing. He took a long drink from the bottle at his belt. Watched the course of the birds across the sky.

Ah, gods.

Osen pulled up his horse beside Marith. “Beautiful morning for it.”

“I think it might snow.”

“Do you?”

“Thalia would like that.”

“The men wouldn’t.”

“No. No, I suppose not. But it would be beautiful. Snowfall. Don’t you think?”

Osen said, “Are you ready, then?”

Looked back over the winter landscape. The hammer rang again. Smell of woodsmoke. Another distant flash of light against the city’s walls. Dark cloud twist of birds, rising afraid.

He drank from the bottle. “I suppose I’ll have to be.”

Swung himself up onto his horse. A white stallion, saddled in red and silver, red ribbons plaited in its tail, gold on its hooves, sharp bronze horns decorating its head. Osen brought his own horse to fall in beside him. Reached out and their hands touched.

“Third time lucky?”

“Third time lucky.”

They kicked their horses into a gallop.

“Amrath!” Marith shouted. “Amrath and the Altrersyr! Death! Death!”

Before him, on the plain, the Army of Amrath stood to attention. Bronze armor. Bronze swords. Long iron-tipped ash wood sarris spears. Their helmets plumed in red horsehair. Dark-tempered bronze over staring eyes. Horses armored and masked, heads like skulls, blinkered, blind to everything. Red standards fluttering. Raw and bloodied. Dripping screaming weeping over the army’s lines. In the sky above, two dragons circled. Red and black. Green and silver. Huge. Shadowbeasts danced around the dragons, formless faceless long-clawed.

The Army of Amrath.

Waiting.

All of them.

Waiting for him.

Marith rode along the front of his army, Osen at his side. He drew his sword. Raised it, shining, the morning sun flashing on the blade. White metal, engraved with rune signs. The rune letters burned in the sunlight. The ruby in the sword’s hilt glowed scarlet. Blue fire flickered down the length of the blade.

Henket. Mai. Eth. Ri.

Death. Grief. Ruin. Hate.

He shouted to the men, his voice loud as the sword’s light. “Soldiers of Amrath! My soldiers! Twice now, this city has resisted us! Resisted us and betrayed us! Now, today, it will fall!”

An explosion shattering against the black walls of the city. White fire, silent as maggots. White fire, silent, and then screams. The wind caught his cloak and sent it billowing out behind him. Dark red, scab-colored, tattered into a thousand shreds like fine lace. Dried blood flaked off it. Fresh blood oozed off it. It stank of blood and shit and rot and smoke. He wore his silver crown but was otherwise bareheaded, the morning sun bright on his black-red hair. His skin like new-spun silk, smooth and perfect, gleaming. His gray eyes, soft like a child’s eyes, soft pale gray like moths.

“Destroy it!” Marith shouted to his army. “Destroy it! Tear it down! Let nothing be left alive!”

“Amrath!” the army screamed back at him. “Amrath and the Altrersyr! Death and all demons! Death! Death! Death!”

Columns of soldiers began to move forwards. Siege engines hurled rocks running with banefire. Mage fire, white and silent. Dragon fire, glowing red. The beat of war drums. Clamor of trumpets. Voices chanting out the death song. Slowly slowly moving forwards. Slow and steady, the drums beating, fire washing over them, rocks and banefire loosed from war engines on the city’s walls. Falling dying, trampled by those behind them. Slowly steadily marching on. Slow long ranks marching toward the city. Destroy it! Destroy it! The only thought in all the world in all their minds. The dead zone between the city and the encircling army. Broken bones and ruin and dead men. Banefire. Mage fire. Dragon fire. War drums and war trumpets. And now, loud and urgent, the thump of battering rams against the city’s gates. Warships in the harbor, grappling. A storm rising. Towering huge dark waves.

“Amrath! Amrath! Death! Death! Death!”

Waves of men breaking against the city. Waves of water. Waves of fire. Waves of death and pain.

Snow began to fall.

White flakes caught in Marith’s shining hair.

“Break it! Break it! Down! Down!”

The ram smashed into the Tereen Gateway. Again. Again. Again. A tree trunk thicker than a man’s arm span, carved at its end into a dragon head snarl. Covered with bloody ox-hides, to keep it from catching fire. Obscene. Comic. Pumping away in out, in out, in out, steaming dripping bloody battering pounding raping iron wood meat. Three huge siege engines hurling rocks and banefire. Machines on the walls hurling rocks and banefire back at them.

Marith circled his horse, making it rear up. Gilded hooves sharp like knives.

“Break it down! Now!”

A shower of boiling sand poured down from the battlements. Soldiers collapsed screaming, clawing at their skin. Inside their armor, burning. In their hair. In their mouths and eyes. The bloody hides on the ram hissed. Cheers from the Arunmenese defenders above.

The ram swung again. Off to the left, a blinding white flash and a dragon’s roar. The gate groaned. Splintering. Shadowbeasts gathered, a clot in the air. Shapes twisting, forming, dissolving, huge shapeless dark beating shrieking wings. They dived together, claws and wingbeats, jaws opening faceless, clawed limbs tearing down the stones of the wall.

“Now! Now! Break it down!” Marith’s horse reared, trampling snow. Red-hot sand showered down around him. His horse screamed in pain. Fire arrows thudding into the battering ram. His soldiers’ bodies piling on the ground.

The sky roared at him. A thousand screaming raging mouths. Another flash. The dragon howled. The men fell back shrieking in fear. White light rising up before him. Spear-shape. Cloud-shape. Shining. Grass-green eyes opening, staring; hands reaching for him, numberless beyond counting, and in every hand a sword with a blade of silver light.

God thing. Life thing. A demon conjured up to protect the city. The great high holy god of Arunmen whose temple was gold and green bronze.

Bastard thing. Twice now, it had beaten him off.

“Get the gate open! Now! Now! The ram!”

Marith charged his enemy. So tiny, a man shape on horseback, throwing himself headlong toward this towering raging maelstrom of light. Behind him the ram started. Drumming on the gateway. Break it down! Break it down! His siege engines loosed all together. The machines on the walls showering sand and rocks and banefire back at his men. Mage fire. Dragon fire. Dying.

Marith King Ruin met the light god with a crash.