The cloud hung low over a landscape of bare hills studded with clumps of gorse, as the army moved on once more.
Inside the supply wagon, Lilia spent most of the morning pressed up against the tarpaulin, peering outside. She longed to be out there, walking next to Dain. After days of being cooped up, she wanted to stretch her legs and feel the wind on her face. She and Ryana had run out of conversation. Both of them tried to sleep, but it was near to impossible with the wagon shuddering and jolting every few yards. This section of the Great Road was in a sorry state. Rough, badly rutted and strewn with sharp pieces of shale, it was slow going.
The road hugged the edge of Harrowmere for a long while and it was near noon when Lilia spied a fortress up ahead. It perched upon a rocky hill overlooking the dark, still lake.
“Ryana.” Lilia reached out and plucked at her companion’s sleeve. “Come and look at this.”
Ryana obliged, squeezing in next to Lilia and peering outside. “Shadows, that must be the ruins of Dûn Maras,” she murmured, awed.
High crumbling walls of granite and schist greeted them. An empty causeway curled up the hill, entering the ruins through a great arch. The gates had long disappeared. The keep inside had partially disintegrated; only one lonely tower remained. A large curved window near the top stared down at them like a single blind eye.
“It’s so desolate.” Lilia craned her neck, her gaze taking in the ruins. She was glad they were passing by and not going inside, for the fortress had an ill-favored look. It was a boil on the landscape; a reminder of Serran’s brutal past and the man who had once brought its people low.
“Why does Dûn Maras still stand?” she asked Ryana. “Surely, it should have been destroyed after Valgarth retreated north?”
Ryana sighed. “Scavengers and outlaws looted the castle after it fell,” she replied, “but most folk were too scared to set foot inside Dûn Maras let alone destroy it. The fortress is said to be cursed.”
Lilia frowned, her own gaze flicking back to the dark tower that now rose directly overhead. It was a relief when they left the forbidding shadow of Dûn Maras behind. The horns announcing the noon rest did not blow until the army was much farther north.
Lilia leaned against the wagon, gnawing on a piece of griddle bread and hard cheese. There was an odd atmosphere today, as if passing Dûn Maras had unnerved the troops. This time of day, the rumble of voices and the occasional burst of laughter usually surrounded them, but today the mood was subdued.
Dain stood next to Lilia, his arm casually slung over her shoulders. Over the past few days he’d been the one to bring them food and let them out of the wagon at noon. Asher rode far ahead with the other enchanters at the front of the main army and only joined them in the evenings.
Lilia swallowed a mouthful of bread and gazed north. The outline of the Shadefells, at first little more than a faded purple silhouette, had drawn steadily darker and more defined. The mountains were huge, with sheer sides and knife blade peaks. The ridge stretched as far as the coast to the east, and to the Wild Pass many leagues to the west. However, up ahead Lilia spied a deep cleft in the mountain chain.
For the second time that day, she tugged at Ryana’s sleeve to draw her attention. “What’s that?”
Ryana frowned as she followed Lilia’s gaze. “That’s the Chasm.”
Lilia sucked in her breath. The Chasm was folklore, legend—and part of her found it hard to believe it actually existed.
Dain let out a low, awed whistle. “My Nan used to tell me stories about The Chasm. She said Valgarth used to throw his enemies into it.”
“I’ve heard of folk throwing stones in and never hearing them hit the bottom,” Ryana added. “Some have even tried climbing down into it with ropes, but they gave up when it got too deep.”
Dain’s gaze remained upon the gap in the mountain chain, his expression thoughtful. “Nan said that The Chasm was formed long ago, when the earth split open and fire, ash and stones spilled forth—that at its very bottom there is a lake of molten fire.”
Ryana cast Dain a surprised look. “Your Nan must have been a learned woman. I’ve never heard that story.”
Dain gave a wistful smile, one that reminded Lilia how much she had to learn about him. “Nan wasn’t like most Orin folk,” he replied. “She’d travelled Serran in her youth … and she used to tell me all sorts of stories.” His smile faded then. “Or she did until Ma told her off for filling my head with nonsense.”
Brand arrived at his journey’s end just before nightfall.
He limped up the last stretch; a long slope toward the Vale of Barrows—the shallow valley that spread out before the foothills of the Shadefell Mountains. His feet throbbed with every step. The muscles in his back and legs were cramped and knotted. Yet now he’d almost reached his destination, Brand pushed his physical discomfort aside.
He had managed it, although it felt as if he dragged a sack of rocks behind him.
Brand reached the crest of the last hill and stopped for a few moments, swaying, as he gazed on the vale below. Hundreds of stone mounds carpeted the arid soil for a league in every direction on either side of the Great Road. These were the cairns of the slaves that had once labored for Valgarth in the Shadefells; those who had carved out tunnels and chambers for his mountain lair. Centuries later, these barrows still bore silent monument to The Shadow King’s power.
Brand’s gaze slid over the cairns. They were an eerie sight, but he was not here for the dead.
At the other end of the vale, an army gathered.
Relief swamped Brand, and his legs nearly gave under him. They had managed it—everything was going to plan. And he’d done what he’d promised: brought them the missing piece of the puzzle.
He thought then of those he’d left behind at the capital. He’d lived among the order for years, and made friends with the other enchanters. But in the end he’d wielded the Dark against the young enchanter, Rina, and snapped her neck. He would never forget the fear in her eyes as she turned to face him in the hallway outside Lilia’s chamber—the surprise.
A wolf in sheep’s clothing had lived in their midst for years, yet none of them had suspected him.
He’d been waiting for his moment to attack Lilia, cultivating her trust, but Saul’s move had forced his hand. Thrindul was never going to allow Lilia to keep the stone, so he’d had to take it first.
Brand staggered down the hill, his breathing ragged.
It was deathly still. Low clouds hung overhead, so thick today it was impossible to make out the glow of the setting sun through them. Ahead, he could see the southern flanks of the amassing army. It was huge, stretching from one side of the wide vale to the other.
The odor of hot iron reached him, burning his nostrils. Nervousness rose within Brand when he realized that it was not just the ranks of The Shade Brotherhood that awaited him, but a far more unnatural host.
Brand slowed his gait. Chattering, howling and shrieking reached him, the feral sounds turning his bowels to ice.
Up ahead, he spied Nightgengas prowling the outer perimeter. From a distance they resembled bent, naked men, their flattened faces covered with lank hair. As he approached, those nearest stopped their patrol and watched him, their predator eyes devouring.
Shadows, they looked like they wanted to rip him to pieces.
Keep walking, he counselled himself. Just one step at a time.
Closer still he encountered the ethereal, ghostly forms of Hiriel, their antlers silhouetted against the gathering dusk, their lacy capes fluttering in the breeze. Nearby, he spotted those tiny, dark imps with long, rat-like tails. There were also tall thin figures shrouded in grey, standing head and shoulders above the rest.
He walked on, forcing himself to put one foot in front of the other. He’d come too far to falter now.
Gradually, the throng thickened and the shadow creatures were forced to move aside to let him pass. Hundreds of gazes fixed upon him, none of them friendly. The raucous din they’d been making had quietened, although this change just scared him all the more.
Brand stopped, his courage almost failing him. His guts cramped, and he wished the others had warned him. He’d been running from these creatures the whole way here—he couldn’t believe he was walking through their midst now.
In the distance he could make out the conical shapes of tents in the heart of the encampment—but a horde of shadow creatures separated him from his destination.
His mind scampered. How are they even here? Who’s controlling them?
“What’s wrong?” A voice whispered in his ear. “Have you pissed your pants?”
After a day’s merciful silence, his shadow had awoken. However, its taunt galvanized him. He’d not prove it right; he’d show his worth to all who depended upon him. Brand squared his shoulders, fixing his gaze on the tips of the tents up ahead, and pressed on.
Halfway through the ranks, he made the mistake of glancing left, meeting the eye of a Nightgenga. It leered, reaching out its strangler’s hands toward him. Brand fought the urge to cringe, sweat now pouring down his back. Behind the Nightgenga one of those tall grey-shrouded figures looked on. Brand peered into its shadowy hood, his pulse accelerating when he saw nothing but a blackness beyond.
They were the longest three furlongs he’d ever walked—worse than the entire journey here. By the time Brand reached the tents he was shaking.
The crowd of shadow creatures closed up behind him, their jabbering, hissing and intermittent shrieks resuming once more. Brand now walked amongst men—tall, broad soldiers with hard faces, clad in leather and chain mail. Many of The Shade Brotherhood Brand passed greeted him; some with brusque nods, others with grins. Yet none tried to stop the young man, or slow his path through their midst.
They all knew why he was here.
The ring of charcoal-colored tents, a black flag bearing two linked red circles fluttering from the top of the largest, loomed before him. A fire pit sat in the clearing before the tents, and men were loading it with chunks of peat. Few trees grew in these parts, and so the men were forced to use other sources of fuel to warm the long, dark nights. Peat stank but it burned hotter and longer than wood.
Two men stood a few feet back from the fire pit, watching its preparation.
The elder of the two was clearly a soldier. He was bald, with a craggy face and a rangy, muscular frame. The man beside him was slightly taller, with dark good looks that marked him a man of Anthor. Like that scheming southern princeling who’d nearly succeeded in stealing the stone, Gael hailed from Mirrar Rock.
The two men had been conversing, but upon spying Brand they abruptly ceased.
His exhaustion, fear and desperation forgotten, Brand hobbled across to them—a grin splitting his tired face. This wasn’t the time to keep them in suspense. They’d all waited too long for this. “I have it!”
Gael smiled, his dark-brown eyes gleaming. “Show us.”
Brand stopped before them and reached under his shirt, pulling the stone free. “Here it is—the second half of The King Breaker.”
The smile froze on Gael’s face. When he spoke his tone was low, accusatory. “I told you not to wear it.”
Brand ignored him. Gael didn’t command him, and Brand didn’t care what the enchanter thought. He hadn’t risked his life for him. Years of planning, of pretense. He’d done it all for the man standing next to Gael.
Trond, Commander of The Shade Brotherhood stepped forward. The older man wore an expression Brand had never seen before, one he’d always hoped to see. On his weather-beaten face Brand saw pride. His shadow had been wrong; he was worth something.
“My son,” the commander rumbled as their gazes met and held. “You’ve done well.”