The Gates of Winter by Mark Anthony

the green threads spun themselves brightly around the slim figure of a young woman. Aryn. Was this how she and the other witches saw the world with their Touch?
    After a dozen paces, they reached a cavernous space. The smoke was thinner here, escaping through the large breach in the tower's shell, and Travis was able to see even after Aryn released his wrist. All of the tower's upper floors had collapsed into a mountain of rubble rising up from the cellar. Beams stuck out from the wreckage at odd angles like broken bones.
    Beltan, Durge, and Tarus had heaved one of the fallen beams into place, creating a makeshift bridge to the mountain of debris, and now they picked at the rubble.
    “They're looking in the wrong place,” Aryn said, opening her eyes, her face white with dust. “The men are trapped beneath the other side of the pile, down deep. I can see their threads, but they're already getting dimmer.”
    “Beltan!” Travis called, cupping his hands around his mouth. “Stop!”
    The blond man stopped and turned. Travis and Aryn scrambled to the beam the knights had wedged into place. Travis edged over slowly, trying not to look down—there was a deep crevice between the mountain of rubble and the cellar walls—but Aryn raced across lightly, holding her gown up around her ankles.
    “What are you doing here?” Beltan said when they reached the other side.
    Travis glanced at Aryn. “You're digging in the wrong place.”
    “You have to get to them,” the young witch said. “They're trapped in a—Durge!”
    Stones shifted beneath the knight's feet and he lost his footing. He would have gone tumbling down the slope along with several tons of rock if not for Tarus's grip on his arm.
    Travis bent and laid his hands on the stones. “
Sar
,” he murmured, and the rubble shuddered to an uneasy halt. The stones knew their ancient name.
    He could feel it—the broken stones wanted to sink down, to rest against the ground. However, there was a hollow space within the mound—that must be where the survivors Aryn had sensed were trapped. Crossed beams pushed the rocks up, while the rocks sought to crush the beams.
    “
Sar
,” Travis said again, willing the stones to obey him. Then he gripped the end of a broken beam that protruded from the wreckage. “
Meleq
.” Power resonated through the wood.
Hold strong, bind together, do not break.
    Tarus gave him a curious look. “What are you doing?”
    “I think I've stabilized the debris.” Travis leaned back, wiping sweat from his brow. “For now at least.”
    Beltan gazed at him, only what his look contained—love? pride? fear?—Travis couldn't say. “Where do we dig?” the knight said to Aryn.
    She scrambled around the side of the rubble heap. “Here. They're under here. Six of them. You have to hurry.”
    Some of the guards had fetched shovels and picks, but they were worthless against the heavy stones. Instead the men used bare hands to push aside the rocks, as well as levers fashioned from broken planks. It was dreadful work. Acrid smoke rose from the still-smoldering beams, and dust caked their faces and filtered into their lungs until all of them were coughing.
    Travis was awed by the tirelessness of the three knights. Beltan and Tarus stood shoulder to shoulder, working together to move stones that had to weigh a quarter ton or more. Durge moved stones nearly as heavy on his own. Soon the dusty mask of Durge's face was creased from effort, and his knuckles were raw and bleeding, but he didn't stop. None of them did.
    As Aryn guided the diggers, Travis kept his hands on the debris, speaking
Sar
and
Meleq
under his breath. He felt every vibration through the beams, every shift in the blocks of stone. The more wreckage the men removed, the more unstable the heap became.
    You must hold on, Travis.
He wasn't sure if the voice that spoke in his mind was his own, or that of Jack Graystone and the other runelords whose power flowed in his veins.
If you cease speaking