“I don’t understand, Magister.”

“It is too early to start considering an honorable death, Host Foreman Viyeki. In fact, an honorable death is only a suitable alternative when death cannot be avoided. But even the most fanatical of the Queen’s Teeth or the Sacrifice Elite know that their first responsibility is to stay alive and perform their duties as long as possible. Did you see the great iron ram the mortals brought? The one lashed to a wagon bigger even than Ekisuno’s caisson, pulled by three teams of oxen?”

“Yes. It is made of black iron and shaped like a bear’s head.” Viyeki frowned. “I think it is foolish. Like a child’s toy, however huge it may be.”

“You would not say that if you saw it knocking down the walls around our innermost preserve—or even Nakkiga’s great gates themselves.”

“Impossible!”

“Why?” The magister’s eyes were bright, his face unusually animated. “What do you think will happen after we are dead here, our lives tidily but honorably laid down in a hopeless fight?” Viyeki had never seen his master like this, showing what looked like actual anger. “I will tell you. With us gone, the Northmen will proceed through the pass and march across our lands. Soon they will reach our outer walls, the very walls that Akhenabi and the rest convinced the Queen—may she live forever—not to repair. We would need ten thousand Sacrifices to defend that ruined barrier now against even a small army like this. We have not a tenth of that number of warriors left in all Nakkiga, I feel sure. Do you hear my song, Host Foreman? Do you apprehend its melody?”

“I’m . . . I’m not certain.”

“The Northmen will be at the very doors of our mountain. And the few of our troops that are not scattered across the south trying to struggle home, or have not already bravely and foolishly given their lives here with you and me, will be all that stands between Nakkiga and the revenge of the mortals. Do you know who waits at the base of the hill right now, staring up at us this very moment? Isgrimnur, the Duke of Elvritshalla, descendant of the same Fingil Red-Hand who slaughtered our kind all over the north, who threw down the holy stones of Asu’a itself and burned a thousand prisoners as demons. What do you think will happen when that great, black iron bear-head knocks down the Nakkiga Gates and Isgrimnur and his savages storm into the city?”

That was impossible, surely. Viyeki found that for a long moment he could not even speak. “But they couldn’t—!”

“Couldn’t they? Who would stop them? The leaders of the Order of Sacrifice are dead and rotting in the meadows of the south. Our queen has fallen into the keta-yi’indra—that deep, deathlike sleep of preservation and recovery. You felt her fall just as I did, just as every single Hikeda’ya felt it. We call it ‘the dangerous sleep’ because our people are leaderless while she slumbers.” He leaned closer. “Who will rule in her absence, Host Foreman Viyeki? The Order of Song, that is who. Akhenabi and Jikkyo and the rest of that bloodless fellowship. And if the gates of Nakkiga will not hold, the Order of Song will take the survivors and flee deeper into the mountain, to places the mortals cannot follow.” Yaarike shook his head. “And that is what our people will become—creatures ruled by sorcerers, slaves who never see the light of day, who hide in darkness and can be said to live only in that they have not yet died. The Garden that was our home will not even be a story anymore—or, if the tales still exist, Akhenabi and his order will teach that our people lived in darkness there, too, surrounded by stone and ruled by the masters of Song.” The magister paused, as if he had realized how strange and desperate his words had become. He looked around quickly, but they were still alone except for the silent guards and the even more silent coffin. “So tell me, Host Foreman, do you still want only to sell your life as honorably as possible here?”

Before Viyeki could answer—although he had no idea of how to reply—Yaarike waved him away as if he had failed some test.

“Go now, Viyeki-tza,” the high magister said. “If your engineers have finished clearing the well of stones, find some other useful task to keep them and yourself occupied. Let me think. It is nearly the only weapon that has been left to me. But remember what I have said, and remember your family and clan who wait for us back home. Most of all, remember that what is an honorable death for you might mean the destruction of your people.”

Porto barely slept. The night was full of odd shadows and the wilderness rang with cries that might have been wolves or the ghosts of weeping children, but there was more to his unease than fearsome sounds. He could not shake off the feeling that though the duke’s forces far outnumbered their enemy, and their troops were fresh where the Norns were hungry and exhausted, somehow they did not have the upper hand. Lying beneath the distant, uncaring stars, he felt as though he and all the other mortals were in a brightly lit room in the middle of great darkness, being watched by countless unseen eyes.

From time to time his gaze was drawn to the broken walls of Tangleroot Castle and the lights he sometimes saw flickering there. They were nothing wholesome, not the familiar glow of candles, rushlights, or oil lamps, but shimmers of ghostly fire in foul colors, marshy green or a cadaverous yellow that nevertheless caught his eye and seemed to pull him closer, though his body never moved. At last he rolled over to face away from the top of the pass, hoping to find better rest, but then was presented the sight of young Endri trapped in evil dreams, moaning and twitching through his own shallow slumbers, shivering in a cold that no scarf or cloak could keep out.

Dawn finally came, but the morning sun barely made its presence felt. As Porto and Endri and the rest broke their fast on what flatbread the field kitchens managed to turn out, the mists rose as high as the surrounding hills but then stopped and hung, so it seemed as if a great, gray cloud had drifted down from the heavens and fallen across the pass. Although the wind had eased, a river of cold air still flowed down from the heights, making all the men feel heavy and old in their bones, paining the southern soldiers even worse than the Rimmersmen.

“I feel like I will die today,” Endri said.

“Don’t be foolish.” Porto gave him a shove, but the younger man only took it as though it were his due, as a slave might take a beating. “I won’t let you.”

“You’re a good friend, Porto. How did you manage to get born in the Rocks with all the thieves and beggars?”

“Don’t ask me, ask my mother. And don’t be so fearful. You and I are not even supposed to go up the hill toward the castle. We’ll be protecting the donkey—the arbalest. That’s what the commander told me.”

He and Endri were in position before the sun made its way above the eastern side of the pass. The engineers they guarded made sure the stone-throwing machine was ready, talking warmly and confidently of how soon they would knock down this wall of ancient stone or that one, as though the battle were no more than a tournament, some sort of contest with prizes for the winning troop.

“Like town-ball,” said Porto.

“What?” Endri’s eyes had a haunted look.

“Town-ball. This, the waiting before it starts. You know that feeling.”

“I never played.”

“A strapping, strong fellow like you? Why not?”

Endri looked shamefaced. “Too slow.” His face brightened a little. “Did you?”

“Play at the proper game, on festival days? Once or twice, before I went to soldiering. It is good to have long legs when you’re running, not so much when people are kicking your shins.”