The Gates of Winter (55 page)

A tug on Travis's arm. It was the man with the wise brown eyes—their shaman.

Come now,
he said in his hooting language.
The end has begun.

Travis looked at Vani and Beltan. “I think we have to go. Toward that light we saw.”

Beltan helped Vani to her feet. “Can you walk?”

“Let's go,” the
T'gol
said.

57.

They followed the man in the ocher-stained hides as he set out across the valley. The old woman who had told Travis to use the Stone of Fire came with them, but they left the other Maugrim behind. They did not speak as they walked. Ash swirled on the air, stinging their eyes and making their throats ache.

They reached the ridge, which sprawled like the carcass of a dragon at the foot of the mountains, and scrambled up its flanks. Loose stones littered the slope, their edges sharp as knives. Crimson lightning stabbed at the clouds as they climbed. The sky seemed to boil now, like a pot of some vile liquid. A sickness came over Travis every time he looked up; he kept his eyes on his feet.

They had nearly reached the summit of the ridge when a hot bolt of pain shot through Travis's chest. He staggered and would have fallen and gone skidding down the slope were it not for Beltan's strong hands steadying him. A sound thundered in his skull, like a thousand voices speaking a single word in chorus.

Bal.

Death. It was the rune of death.

“Travis, what is it?” Ash made the knight's face a gray mask.

The voices in Travis's mind faded to silence. The pain in his chest was gone, but his right hand itched. “I don't know. I felt something, only it's passed now.”

Vani touched his cheek. “Your face, it's so pale. What is it, Travis?”

The wizened Maugrim woman pulled at his sleeve.
You will see,
the coin translated her grunting speech.
Come, now.

They continued on, and after a few more steps they reached the top of the ridge. Travis blinked the grit from his eyes, then stared in disbelief.

Thirty paces away, on the flat top of the ridge, stood three figures. Travis knew two of them well: Falken and Melia. The third was a tall man, powerfully built, though his white hair and time-etched face spoke of age. The man wore a black robe embroidered with scarlet runes. His fingers twitched around the blade of the sword that pierced his chest. Falken's sword. The bard gripped the hilt in his silver hand.

The white-haired man opened his mouth as if to speak, but all that came out was a gush of blood. Tears traced lines through the layer of ash on Falken's cheeks.

“For Malachor,” he said and jerked the sword out of the other's chest.

The white-haired man fell to the ground. His robe fluttered. He was dead.

Falken bowed his head. Melia moved to him and laid a hand on his arm. “It is over at last, dearest one.”

Travis's paralysis broke. He shouted—a wordless sound of joy—and ran over the broken ground toward Melia and Falken. The bard and the lady looked up, astonishment shining in their eyes. Then Melia was running as well, and Travis caught her in his arms, lifting the small woman off the ground.

“Am I dreaming?” Melia murmured.

Travis held her tight. “I'd think we both were, only I'd choose a happier place for my dream than this.”

“It is happy with you here, sweet one.”

All the same, she was weeping, and it did not seem all her tears were ones of joy. Travis set her down. Falken was there now, and Beltan and Vani. It seemed so strange, to be embracing one another in such a lifeless place. All the same, it filled Travis with warmth.

The Maugrim man and woman nodded to Melia and Falken, and the bard and lady bowed in return. Curiosity glinted in Falken's eyes, but Melia smiled.

“It is long since I have had the pleasure of meeting the
Gul-Hin-Gul
,” she said. “I am honored.”

Falken shot her a sharp look. “You mean you've met the True People before?”

“Once. It was over a thousand years ago, just after we banished Mohg from the world, just before they vanished into the mists of the deepest forests and wildest mountains.”

“You mean all this time you knew the Maugrim still existed?” Falken said, his expression stunned.

Melia gave the bard a fond smile. “I know lots of things, dear one.”

The Maugrim man spoke to Melia in his strange language.
The honor is ours, ancient ones. We saw you come through the pass into the land of He-Who-Wields-The-Ice. We would have greeted you then, but we knew the one we waited for was coming.

Melia turned her golden eyes on Travis. “And now he is here, in this place.”

“So this truly is the end, then,” Falken said. He gazed at the bloody sword that lay on the ground.

“Kelephon,” Beltan said, glancing at the dead body of the man. “You've killed him, Falken.”

So that was who the white-haired man was. Travis pressed his hand to his chest, remembering the pain he had felt a few moments ago. Kelephon had been the last of the Runelords. Now there was only Travis. Or was that true? Was there not one other who could yet break runes?

With his boot, Falken nudged Kelephon's arm, and the runelord's dead fingers fell open, revealing a Stone. It was smooth and spherical, its surface a mottled snow blue. Travis heard a hum, like the sound of metal against dry ice.

“Gelthisar,” he said, standing next to the bard.

Falken nodded. “Kelephon tried to use the Stone of Ice against us, but I don't think he had time to fully master its power. It had been long centuries since he last held it, and its touch seemed to freeze him. For a moment he couldn't move, and it was enough for me to put my sword in him.”

Travis shook his head. “Why did he have the Stone? And how did you find him here?”

“It was Shemal,” Melia said, her eyes going hard. “She led us here.”

While the wind moaned over the ridge and silent lightning flashed above, they listened to Melia and Falken tell how they had come to this place. After leaving Calavere, the bard and the lady had set out on Kelephon's trail and soon found the runelord in Embarr, where—in the guise of General Gorandon—he was amassing his Onyx Knights for an all-out assault on the remaining Dominions. Falken and Melia had not been able to get close to him, but then they had spied one of the Pale King's ravens, and in a daring ploy they had caught the attention of the bird. They had convinced the raven to spy on Kelephon, and to take news of what it saw back to the Pale King.

Shortly thereafter, more ravens had flown from the direction of Imbrifale, and then Falken and Melia had seen Kelephon riding north, cloak flying, a look of fury on his face. It had worked—the Pale King had grown suspicious and had summoned his runelord to him. Kelephon had had no choice but to go and feign loyalty, not if he didn't want his treachery revealed. Without his presence, the spell with which he held the Onyx Knights in thrall weakened. The order began to crumble; many of them began the long journey back to Eversea in the far west.

“I don't understand,” Beltan said. “Why did Kelephon go back to Imbrifale right when he was ready to attack? Why didn't he just turn against the Pale King then?”

“That's why,” Travis said, pointing to the Stone on the dead runelord's hand.

Falken nodded. “He always intended to steal Gelthisar back from the Pale King. I suppose he lusted after it all those years. He had known its touch once, before he surrendered it to Berash, and he wanted it back.” The bard knelt beside the corpse. “I imagine he convinced the Pale King not to take the Stone into battle, to keep it safe in his fortress in Fal-Imbri instead. Once Berash rode through the Rune Gate, Kelephon absconded with the Stone. He was trying to escape through this hidden pass when we came upon him.”

“I thought there was no way in and out of Imbrifale,” Beltan said with a frown.

Falken stood. “So did I. I suppose this way has been here for centuries—from the very beginning, perhaps. My guess is, when the Runelords raised the Fal Threndur, Kelephon created this pass in secret, keeping it concealed from his brethren. I'm not sure even Berash himself knows about it, though it's clear the Necromancers did.”

Melia picked up the tale then, telling how after they saw Kelephon ride north, they had turned their attention to Shemal. They had searched for the Necromancer without luck. Then, only a day ago, Melia sensed her presence, fleeing north.

“She was wounded and unguarded,” Melia said. “That was why I was able to discover her so easily. We followed and came upon her here. I believe she was seeking to enter Imbrifale even as Kelephon was fleeing it, though what her purpose was I do not know.” A shiver passed through her. “I feared I would not have the power to face her.”

Falken laid a hand on her shoulder. “But you did.”

Melia gazed at a scorched circle on the ground. “She was severely weakened. How Shemal came to be wounded, I don't know, but it was the reason I was able to stand against her. Somehow she had lost her immortality. She still had her magics, but in the end she was too weak to work them—she could no longer hold on to her mortal form. She is . . . dissipated.”

“Dead, you mean,” Beltan said. “Shemal is dead.”

“More than dead. Her spirit is gone, as dust before a wind. Just like poor Tome and the others.” Melia bowed her head.

Vani knelt beside the scorched circle on the ground. “There are strange tracks here, like those of some great cat.” She looked up. “Did you see such a beast?”

Neither Falken nor Melia answered.

“So now what do we do?” Beltan said.

The Maugrim man made a breaking motion with his hands.
The end must be made to come.
He pointed to the Stone resting on the dead runelord's palm.

A sick feeling filled Travis. That couldn't be the answer; there had to be something else they could do. “The Rune Gate.” He looked at Falken. “You said it's opened again, that the Pale King has ridden through.”

Falken nodded, his face grim. “Grace rode to Gravenfist Keep to stand against Berash, and to await King Boreas and the Warriors of Vathris. Although whether she has held or the keep has fallen, there's no way to know.”

“Yes there is,” Travis said, his voice shaking. “We can go to her. We can go to Gravenfist Keep right now and help her fight until King Boreas gets there.”

Melia turned her amber gaze on him. “Can we?”

These words were like a blow; Travis staggered. “What are you talking about?”

Melia looked up at the roiling clouds.

“The sky,” Beltan said softly. “Something's wrong with it.”

“It has been broken,” said a voice behind them.

The voice was sharp-edged but haggard—a man's voice. They turned to see a figure in a black robe appear from behind a boulder, walking down the last few feet of the hidden path toward them. The man moved slowly, as if weary beyond imagining. He came to a halt a dozen paces away. The heavy cowl of his robe concealed his face. Vani crouched, ready to spring.

Travis tried to moisten his lips, but his tongue was dry as sand. “What do you mean?”

The man held out his hands. On it were the fractured pieces of a disk of creamy stone. Travis could still make out the symbol that had been embedded in the disk: a curved line over a single dot.
Tal
, the rune of sky. The broken pieces of the rune slipped through the man's fingers and tumbled to the ground.

Anger and sorrow tore at Travis's heart. “You. It was you we saw at the Black Tower. You're the one who killed Sky—you're the other Runebreaker.”

The man said nothing, and the others stared, shock written across their faces—all except for the two Maugrim, whose brown eyes were as calm as ever.

Bitter laughter rose in Travis's throat. “So, have you come to take the Stones from me? They're all here. I have Krondisar and Sinfathisar, and here's Gelthisar.” He pointed to the Stone resting on Kelephon's dead hand. “It's everything Mohg needs to break the First Rune.” He drew the two Stones from his pocket. “Have you come to take them to him?”

“No,” the man in the black robe said. “I will not take the Imsari from you, Master Wilder.”

Travis clenched his hand around the Stones. “But you broke the rune of sky. You opened the way for Mohg so he can return to Eldh and break the First Rune.”

“You're wrong.”

The man pushed back his cowl. Intelligent eyes gazed from a face that was a shattered mask crisscrossed by white scars. His lips twisted in a sardonic smile.

“Mohg will not break the First Rune,” Master Larad said. “Because you will, Master Wilder.”

58.

Travis knew he should do something, that he should speak a rune to save them. Master Larad was the other Runebreaker. He was in league with Shemal.

He had slain Sky.

The last time they had seen Larad, the runespeaker had been leaving the Gray Tower, banished by All-master Oragien. In the months since, he must have found the Necromancer Shemal, must have cast his lot with hers out of bitterness at his exile. He had journeyed to the Black Tower, and he had murdered Sky—sweet, voiceless Sky, who had somehow been both man and rune. Larad had made off with the rune of sky, taking it back to Shemal. And now he had broken it.

Do it, Travis!
Jack's voice—and a hundred other voices—roared in his mind.
Speak
Krond.
He cannot match your strength, Runebreaker though he may be.

Travis gathered his will. However, before he could speak the rune, an animal snarl sounded to his left, and a shadow streaked toward Larad. For a stunned moment Travis thought it was Vani, but the
T'gol
stood next to Beltan, and this thing moved on all fours.

It was a panther, its eyes gleaming like gold moons. Dimly, Travis noticed that Melia was no longer beside Falken. The panther crouched low before Master Larad, growling deep in its throat, ready to spring. The runespeaker staggered back a step and held up a hand. It was stained with blood.

“Please, listen to me,” he said, his voice tight with pain and fear. “Kill me after you hear these words. I don't care, for I imagine I'm dying anyway. But first you must listen to what I have to tell you, Master Wilder.”

The rune evaporated on Travis's lips. It had been hard to see against the black fabric, but now Travis did: There was a dark, wet patch on the right side of Larad's robe, and it was growing.

“Stand back,” Falken said, his voice stern.

The panther snarled again, its tail twitching.

Falken made a fist of his silver hand. “I don't care what you think he did. It can't be chance he's come upon us in this place, and we're not going to kill him before we listen to what he has to say. Now stand back, Melia.”

The panther let out a complaining growl, then a nimbus of azure light sprang into being around the great cat. Its form shimmered, changed, and a moment later Melia stood in its place. She smoothed her black hair with a hand as the nimbus faded, and her amber eyes gleamed with anger and suspicion.

Beltan appeared nonplussed at this transformation, and Vani looked on in curiosity, but Travis forgot Master Larad and instead stared at Melia.

“Have you always been able to do that?”

She gave him a sharp smile. “It's my little secret, dear. Although I suppose that cat's been let out of the bag, if you will.” Melia turned her gaze on Larad, and all traces of her smile were gone. “For some reason I cannot fathom, Falken seems to be of a lenient mind. I am not so merciful. You killed Sky in the service of Shemal. Why should I not kill you now?”

Larad sighed, a sound of weariness and sorrow. “Because I didn't serve the Necromancer, much as she believed I did, and I didn't kill Sky. He gave himself of his own free will.”

Beltan snorted. “That's not how it looked to us at the Black Tower. We saw you stab him. I'm with Melia. I say we kill you right now.”

The runespeaker did not look at him. “As I said, do what you wish. Just hear what I have to say first.”

Travis hesitated, then moved closer. At the Gray Tower, it had been largely because of Larad's machinations that Travis had been sentenced to die at the null stone. However, Larad had also helped to arrange Travis's escape from that fate, and as they had learned, he had done the things he did to help the Runespeakers find purpose again.

“How?” Travis pointed at the shattered fragments of the bound rune. “How did you manage to break the rune of sky? The art of Runebreaking is lost.”

Larad's expression was part grimace, part smile. “Not lost to you, Master Wilder. And nor to me, now.” He wiped his right hand against his robe, cleaning away the blood, then held it out. A silver symbol shone on his palm: three crossed lines. The rune of runes.

Travis clenched his right hand into a fist; if he were to speak a rune, the same symbol would appear on his own palm.

“By Olrig,” Falken swore, his faded blue eyes wide. “You've become a runelord. But how?”

Larad's eyes were thoughtful in his shattered face. “And if I told you it was Olrig One-Hand himself who made me into this, would you believe me, Master Falken?” He lowered his hand. “No, don't answer, for it matters not. There is no time for this. I have broken the rune of sky. The circle of the world has been cracked open. Mohg, Lord of Nightfall, comes.”

Melia balled her small hands into fists. “It took all of us gods working together, Old and New alike, to banish Mohg from the world. Such an alliance will never come again. And now you have opened the way for him.” Tears shone in her eyes. “Why?”

Larad met her gaze. “Two worlds draw close to one another. They move nearer every day—our world, and the world from which Travis Wilder comes. Once they draw close enough, the way will be bridged, and Mohg would be able to return no matter what any of us might do.”

“But it could have been years before such a thing took place,” Falken said, his wolfish face haggard. “We could have had more time to prepare.”

“And so could the enemy,” Larad snapped.

He winced, pressing his hand to his side, then spoke more softly, so that they had to move closer to listen to him.

“Do you not see it? Sooner or later, evil will return to Eldh. By breaking the rune of sky, I have made it so that evil comes sooner, when it is ill prepared. If we waited until Mohg had gathered his strength, until he marched from that world to this with a vast army at his side, we never would have been able to stop him. We still may not be able to now, but at least we have a chance, however small it may be. Sky understood that. He found me not long after my exile from the Gray Tower, and he convinced me it was the only way. That was why he sacrificed himself at the Black Tower. The only hope for the world was to allow Mohg to return to it.”

Sorrow shone in Falken's faded eyes. “And now that Mohg has returned, he'll break the First Rune and remake Eldh in his own shadowed image.”

“Not if Master Wilder breaks it first,” Larad said, his voice ragged.

All of them stared at the runespeaker. Above, bloodred lightning hissed across the churning sky.

“No.” Sickness filled Travis, and dread. “No, I won't do it. It's not my fate. I have no fate.”

Larad waved the words aside with an angry motion. “Fate is what we choose, Master Wilder, not what is chosen for us. The end is here, you can't change that—no one can now. The First Rune
will
be broken. There
will
be a Runebreaker. It can be Mohg—or it can be you. That is your fate. That is your choice.”

Travis couldn't move. For so long he had run from this destiny. He had done everything he could to keep it from coming to pass. Only all this time he had been running, not away from it, but straight toward it.

“Go, Master Wilder,” Larad said, and blood flecked his lips. “Take the three Imsari. Go to the Dawning Stone.” He nodded toward the two Maugrim, who had stood silently a short distance away. “They will help you. They know the way.”

Travis reeled. Once again Larad had worked to purposes unknown to them—unknown to anyone, save for Sky, it seemed. Shemal must have thought him her slave, another Runebreaker she could manipulate to her own ends, a tool she could use to bring about victory for her master. But the Necromancer had been wrong.

“So you betrayed Shemal,” Travis said.

Larad gave him a rueful look. “I have betrayed us all, if you do not do what you must, Travis Wilder. Shemal was . . .” A shudder coursed through him. “No, I will not speak of my days with Shemal. It is enough to say I used her even as she thought she was using me, and somehow, though I never expected to, I have survived. Somehow she was wounded in Calavan, and she sought to flee back to Imbrifale for protection. I followed, knowing that was my chance to gain Gelthisar. Then, quite to my surprise, we came upon Kelephon, and he had the Stone of Ice with him. When I saw that was so, I knew the time to act had finally come.”

“So you began the end of the world,” Travis said softly. “And now you want me to finish it.”

“It is not my choice such a task should be given to you, Master Wilder. I still believe you are given to foolishness and impracticality, and that your knowledge is insufferably lacking.” Larad hesitated, then despite the pain on his face, he grinned. “But I also believe that you are good at heart, and that there is no one in this world stronger than you.”

Travis was aware of the gazes of the others on him. He could only shake his head. Larad was wrong; he had to be.

With stiff motions, Larad moved to Kelephon's dead body, bent down, and picked up Gelthisar. “I am a runelord now. I can touch the Great Stones and live. But I have not your skill with the Imsari, Master Wilder. I could not wield them, not like you, even were I not wounded. This power is new to me. I have found it . . . difficult to control properly. That's why this happened when I broke the rune of sky.” He touched the dark spot on his robe.

Travis understood. It was hard to control something you had been given all at once, something that should be earned over time, gradually, and through hard work.

But you
have
worked hard, Travis,
Jack's voice spoke in his mind.
You've learned much. More than you think you have. Larad is right. Only you can do this.

“You are losing blood,” Vani said, eyeing Larad's robe. “You should let us see to your injuries.”

Anger crossed his scarred face. “There's no time for such unimportant things.” He limped toward Travis. “You must take the Stones, Master Wilder. You must go to the First Rune. That is what I had to tell you, and now I have.” He held out his hand. Gelthisar shone blue-white on his palm.

Thunder rolled across the world, shaking the ground. A wind sprang up, rushing from the mountains, slicing through cloth and into flesh like a bitter knife. Forks of lightning tore apart the clouds, and the air deepened into dusk, as if a shadow had fallen across the world.

“The Lord of Nightfall comes!” Larad shouted above the moan of the wind. “Mohg will be upon us in a moment, and he will wrest the Imsari from us.” He thrust the Stone of Ice forward. “Take it, Runebreaker. Go, before it's too late!”

Melia and Falken gazed at Travis, their faces pale, their eyes imploring. The wind blew ash into his eyes, stinging them. When he blinked the grit away, he saw Beltan standing before him. It was impossible, but the blond man was smiling.

“I know you're afraid, Travis.” Beltan took his hand and squeezed it tight. “We're all afraid, too. I can't really see how all this can possibly work out. But maybe it's like the guard tower at Calavere after the explosion. Sometimes, to save something, you have to destroy it first.”

If Travis had added up all the grief, all the sorrow and despair—and all the love—he had ever felt in all the years of his life, it would have been nothing compared to what he felt in that one, single moment. He tried to speak, but the only sound he could seem to make was a sob. Over the knight's shoulder, Vani was looking at him, her gold eyes filled not with fear or doubt, but with hope. She held both of her hands to her stomach, and she was smiling at him.

Beltan kissed his brow. “Go.”

For a moment Travis stood frozen. Then another crack of thunder rent the air like the sound of a great and terrible whip. The shadow deepened, stretching out over the world. Travis turned and took Gelthisar from Larad's hand. It was not cold against his skin as he had expected, but rather cool and smooth as glass. He drew the other Stones from his pocket and held all three in his hand. They glowed softly, one blue-white, one fiery red-orange, and one as gray-green as twilight in a forest.

The two Maugrim—the shaman and the gnarled witch-woman—had drawn close. Travis looked up at them. “Take me to the Dawning Stone.”

The man pointed with a thick-knuckled finger, toward the mountains, and made a low grunting noise in his throat.

This way.