They heard shouting and thundering hooves, the unmistakable war cries of the Demonai.

“That will be Averill Lightfoot,” Dancer said, with a weary smile. “They’ve broken through.”

C H A P T E R  F I F T Y - S I X

A REMATCH

Gerard Montaigne’s invasion of the Fells had turned into something of a rout. The Ardenine Army took the road south through the mountains, losing soldiers all along the way. With Dancer’s encouragement, the land itself turned against them, pelting them with snow and rain, mud and swollen rivers. If they slept on the ground, they developed boils and rashes. Ledges gave way beneath their feet, and fords and crossing places disappeared.

Most of the mercenaries went with them, as did the native-born Klemaths. Southern prisoners muttered scare-stories about the glitter-haired High Wizard, who often appeared in the midst of the highlander forces, sending terrible spells against them, disregarding his own safety. Sometimes all Han had to do was show himself, and the southerners would turn and flee.

Some called him the Demon King reborn, though most hesitated to name him at all. Everyone knew that naming a demon could call it down on you.

Meanwhile, Micah, Mordra, Gryphon, and Abelard wreaked their own kind of magical havoc on the retreating armies. Nightwalker, Bird, Shilo, and the other Demonai delighted in harassing the southern soldiers, picking them off at will.

Somehow, Marin Karn evaded all of the forces hunting him. Eventually, word came from their spies in the south that he was back in Ardenscourt. So far, he’d managed to avoid the usual Ardenine reward for failure.

Han meant to stay long enough to make sure the southerners were really and truly gone and Raisa’s hold on the throne was secure. And then he’d leave himself. He just wasn’t sure where he’d go. Maybe he’d follow Sarie’s and Flinn’s example and sail across the Indio. The desolation of Carthis might suit the desolation in his soul.

Then one day he returned to his tent near Marisa Pines Pass to find a fire in the grate and Raisa waiting for him.

She didn’t see him at first. She was staring moodily into the flames, her arms wrapped around her knees, an odd juxtaposition of waif and warrior in Dancer’s armor and made-to-measure clan boots.

He froze in the doorway, considering retreat, but just then she looked up and saw him, in all his grubby, weary, unshaven glory.

“There you are,” she said. And then, “You look terrible. You’ve lost weight.”

“Your Majesty,” Han said. “This is a surprise.”

She levered to her feet and padded toward him, silent as a Demonai. “I’ve sent for you several times, but you didn’t come.”

“I’ve…I’ve been busy,” Han said hoarsely.