The Road to Ironhold
The sun rose slowly, painting the clouds in shades of pink and gold and lavender, but the warmth did not reach Rhaena’s skin. She sat on her horse, her gray cloak pulled tight, her eyes fixed on the northern horizon. The stream was behind them now, its silver light swallowed by the light of day, its secrets once more hidden beneath the cold, clear water.
Theron rode ahead, his scarred face turned toward the north, his good eye scanning the empty fields. Corin rode beside her, his hand resting on his sword, his gray eyes watching the tree line.
“You have not spoken since the stream,” Corin said.
“I have been thinking.”
“About what?”
“About the throne. About the grandmother. About the cracks in the bone.”
“The grandmother?”
“The first queen. The one who built the throne. She said the cracks are spreading. Every death, every scream, every tear feeds the Withering. Malrik’s cruelty is waking the hunger.”
“Then we must reach Ironhold before the cracks become too wide.”
“And then?”
Corin was silent for a long moment.
“And then we raise an army. We march on Kingsfall. We take back the throne.”
The fields grew emptier as they rode.
The farmhouses were abandoned, their doors hanging open, their windows shattered, their roofs collapsed. The livestock were gone — taken by Malrik’s tax collectors, or fled into the wilderness, or dead. The wells were dry. The gardens were overgrown with weeds.
“Malrik has bled the north dry,” Theron said.
He had stopped his horse at the edge of a ruined village. The sign above the gate was too faded to read.
“There were five thousand people here, before the war. Now there are none.”
“Where did they go?”
“Some fled south. Some fled into the hills. Some joined the resistance. Some died.”
“The resistance?”
“There are still those who fight. Those who remember the old king. Those who hope.”
“Where are they?”
Theron looked at the hills.
“Hidden. Waiting. Watching.”
They rode through the village.
The houses were small and close together, their walls blackened by soot, their roofs charred. The cobblestones were cracked, overgrown with grass. A well stood in the center of the square, its bucket hanging at an angle, its rope frayed.
Rhaena dismounted.
She walked to the well.
She looked down.
The water was black.
Not the black of shadow. The black of hunger.
“The Withering has been here,” she said.
Corin stood beside her.
“How do you know?”
“I can feel it. The cold. The emptiness. The thirst.”
“Can you stop it?”
She was silent for a long moment.
“No. But I can starve it. The Withering feeds on death. If we stop the killing, we stop the hunger.”
“Malrik will not stop killing.”
“Then we must stop Malrik.”
They left the village behind.
The road climbed into the hills, winding between outcroppings of gray stone and stands of birch and oak. The horses struggled on the steep slope, their breath fogging in the cold air, their hooves slipping on the loose gravel.
Rhaena’s legs ached.
Her back ached.
Her head ached.
But she did not complain. She had spent twenty years kneading bread. Her body knew how to endure.
“Ironhold is in the mountains,” Theron said. “The lord there built it to withstand sieges. Malrik’s armies have tried to take it a dozen times. They have failed.”
“Why?”
“The walls are thick. The gates are iron. The people are loyal.”
“Loyal to whom?”
“To your cousin. To the memory of your father. To the hope of your return.”
The sun was setting when they saw it.
Ironhold rose from the mountains like a fist of stone and steel — its walls black against the orange sky, its towers jagged, its gates massive. Banners flew from the battlements: the silver wolf of the north, the emblem of Rhaena’s family.
She had not seen that banner in twenty years.
Her eyes burned.
Corin stopped his horse beside hers.
“Welcome home, Your Grace.”
“It is not home. It is a fortress.”
“It is the closest thing to home you have.”
The gates opened.
A rider emerged — tall, broad-shouldered, his hair red, his beard thick, his eyes gray. He wore the armor of the north, silver and black, with a wolf’s head helm under his arm.
He stopped before Rhaena.
He dismounted.
He knelt.
“Your Grace,” he said. “I have been waiting for you.”
“Rise, cousin.”
He stood.
His gray eyes were wet.
“You look like your father.”
“You look like your mother. She was always the prettier one.”
He laughed.
It was a real laugh, warm and bright and full of hope.
“Welcome to Ironhold, Your Grace. Your army awaits.”