Godslayer

SEVEN

Peering into the chasm, Speros gave a low whistle. The brilliant flicker of the marrow-fire far below cast a masklike shadow on his face. “That’s what this place is built on?”

“That’s it,” Tanaros said. “What do you think? Is there aught we can do?”

The Midlander glanced up at raw rock exposed on the ceiling, then back at the chasm, frowning. “It’s beyond my skills, Lord General. I can make a better job of patching it than Lord Vorax’s Staccians did, but it’s only a matter of time.”

“Where does the fault lie?”

Speros shrugged. “There’s no fault, not exactly. Only the heat of the marrow-fire is so intense, it’s causing the rock to crack. Do you feel it? There’s no forge in the world throws off that kind of heat. I’d wager it’s nearly hot enough to melt stone down there at the Source.”

Tanaros’ brand itched beneath his doublet. He suppressed an urge to scratch it. “Aye, and so it has been for a thousand years and more. Why does it crack now?”

“I reckon it took that long to reach the breaking point.” Speros stamped on the stony floor. “This is hard rock, Lord General. Or it may be …” He hesitated. “Hyrgolf said there was a rain that fell while we were away, a rain like sulfur.”

“Aye,” Tanaros said quietly. “So I heard.”

“Well.” The Midlander gave another shrug. “Rain sinks into the earth. It may have weakened the stone itself.” He glanced at Tanaros. “Begging your pardon, Lord General, but why is it that Lord Satoris chose to erect Darkhaven above the marrow-fire?”

“Gorgantum, the Throat, the Pulse of Uru-Alat.” Tanaros favored him with a grim smile. “You have heard of the dagger Godslayer, have you not, Speros of Haimhault? The Shard of the Souma?”

“General Tanaros!” Speros sounded wounded. “What manner of ignorant fool do you take me for? I know the stories well.”

“I know what they say in the Midlands,” Tanaros said. “I am telling you that the legends are true, lad. It is Godslayer that wounded his Lordship. It is Godslayer, and Godslayer alone, that holds the power to destroy him. And it is that”—he pointed into the flickering depths—“which protects it.”

“From whom?” Speros gazed into the bright void.

“Anyone,” Tanaros said harshly. “Everyone. Godslayer hangs in the marrow-fire in the Chamber of the Font because his Lordship placed it there. And there, no mortal hand may touch it; no, nor immortal, either. Believe me, lad, for I know it well. Your flesh would be burned to the bone simply for making the attempt, and your bones would crumble ere they grasped its hilt. So would any flesh among the Lesser Shapers.”

“Even yours?” Speros asked curiously. “Being one of the Three and all?”

“Even mine,” Tanaros said. “Mine, aye; and Lord Vorax’s, and Ushahin Dreamspinner’s. Godslayer’s brand does not protect us from the marrow-fire.” His scar burned with new ferocity at the searing memory. “Even the Lady Cerelinde, lest you ask it. Not the Three, not the Rivenlost. Another Shaper, perhaps, or one of the Eldest, the dragons.” He shook his head. “Elsewise, no one.”

“Ah, well.” The Midlander tore his gaze away from the marrow-fire. “I can’t imagine anyone being fool enough to try. I wouldn’t, not if I had a hundred buckets of that cursed water.”

“The Water of Life.” Tanaros remembered the taste of the Water in his mouth; water, the essence of water, infusing him with vigor. If the Well of the World were before him now, he would dip his finger into it and sooth the burning tissue of his brand. “Did you taste it?”

“Are you mad?” Speros’ eyes widened. “The cursed stuff nearly killed me. I wouldn’t put it in my mouth for love nor money!” He laughed. “I can’t imagine what those poor little Yarru folk think to do with it. Haomane’s Prophecy doesn’t exactly say how they’re to use it, does it?”

“No,” Tanaros murmured. “It doesn’t.”

“Well, then.” Speros shrugged. “If you ask me, Lord General, I think you worry too much. This is a problem, aye, but you see that?” He pointed to the ceiling. “By my gauge, there’s a good twenty fathoms of solid rock there. At this rate, it ought to hold until Aracus Altorus is old and grey. And by that time, Haomane’s Allies may as well call off the siege—and make no mistake, Lord General, Darkhaven can hold out that long, fortified as it is!—because now that I’ve seen her with my own two eyes, I don’t see the Lady Cerelinde taking some doddering old mortal relic into her bed, Prophecy or no. So then it’s too bad for them, try again in another generation or three, and meanwhile Lord Satoris can pluck Godslayer out of the marrow-fire and put this right. Do you see?”

Tanaros laughed. “Clear as day. My thanks, lad.”

“Aye, sir.” Speros grinned at him. “So what would you have me do here?”

“Seal the breach,” Tanaros said. “If it is all we can do, we will do it.”

By the second day, it seemed to Dani that his entire life had consisted of running, stumbling and exhausted, across a barren grey landscape. It was hard to remember there had ever been anything else. The sun, rising in the east and moving westward, meant nothing. Time was measured by the rasp of air in his dry throat, by one foot placed in front of another.

He would never have made it without Uncle Thulu. What vigor the Water of Life had imparted, his uncle was determined not to waste. He was Yarru-yami, and he knew the virtue of making the most of water. His desert-born flesh, accustomed to privation, hoarded the Water of Life. When Dani flagged, Uncle Thulu cajoled and exhorted him. When his strength gave way altogether, Thulu gathered moss while Dani rested, grinding it to a paste and making him eat until he found the will to continue.

On they went, on and on and on.

The terrain was unforgiving. Each footfall was jarring, setting off a new ache in every bone of Dani’s body, every weary joint. His half-healed collarbone throbbed unceasingly, every step sending a jolt of pain down his left arm. On those patches of ground where the moss cushioned his steps, it also concealed sharp rocks that bruised the tough soles of his feet.

When darkness fell, they slept for a few precious hours; then there was Uncle Thulu, shaking him awake.

“Come on, lad.” Rueful compassion was in his voice, coupled with a reserve of energy that made Dani want to curl up and weep for envy. “You can sleep when you’re dead! And if we wait, the Fjeltroll will see to it for you.”

So he rose and stumbled through the darkness, clutching a hank of his uncle’s shirt and following blindly, trusting Thulu to guide him, praying that no Fjel would find them. Not until the sky began to pale in the east could Dani be sure they were traveling in the right direction.

On the third day, it rained.

The rain came from the west, sluicing out of the sky in driving grey veils. And while it let them fill their bellies and drink to their heart’s content, it chilled them to the bone. It was a cold rain, an autumn rain. It rained seldom in the reach, but when it did, it rained hard. Water ran across the stony terrain, rendering moss slippery underfoot, finding no place to drain in a barren land. And there was nothing, not hare nor ptarmigan nor elk, to be found abroad in the downpour.

“Here, lad.” Uncle Thulu passed him a handful of spongy moss. They had found shelter of a sort; a shallow overhang. They stood with their backs pressed to the rock behind them. Rain dripped steadily from the overhang, a scant inch past the end of their noses. “Go on, eat.”

Dani thrust a wad of moss into his mouth and chewed. The more he chewed, the more it seemed to expand; perversely, the rainwater he had drunk made the moss seem all the drier, a thick, unwieldy wad. The effort of swallowing, of forcing the lump down his throat, made the clay vial swing on its spliced thong, banging at the hollow of his throat.

Uncle Thulu eyed it. “You know, Dani—”

“No.” Out of sheer weariness, he closed his eyes. With his right hand, he felt for the vial. “It’s not for that, Uncle. Anyway, there’s too little left.” Though his lids felt heavy as stones, Dani pried his eyes open. “Will you guide me?”

“Aye, lad,” Thulu said gruffly. “Until the bitter end.”

“Let’s go, then.” Still clutching the clay vial, Dani stumbled into the rain and Uncle Thulu followed, taking the lead.

After that, it was one step, one step, then another. Dani kept his head down and clung to his uncle’s shirt. The rain, far from relenting, fell with violent intent. It plastered his black hair to his head and dripped into his eyes. Overhead, clouds continued to gather and roil, heaping one upon another, building to something fearful. The dull grey sky turned ominous and dark.

Since there was no shelter, they kept going.

They were toiling uphill; that much, Dani could tell. The calves of his legs informed him of it, shooting protesting pains with every step he took. Still, he labored. Above them, the roiling clouds began to rumble with thunder. Lightning flickered, illuminating their dark underbellies. What had been a steady downpour was giving way to a full-fledged storm.

Beneath his feet, the steep incline was beginning to level. Although he could see nothing in the darkness, Dani’s aching calves told him that they had reached the hill’s crest. He began to breathe a bit easier.

“Still with me, lad?” Uncle Thulu shouted the words.

“Aye!” Dani tossed the wet hair from his eyes. “Still with you, Uncle!”

Thunder pealed, and a forked bolt of lightning lit up the sky. For an instant, the terrain was revealed in all its harsh glory. And there, looming in the drumming rain, was one of the Fjeltroll.

Its lean jaw was parted in a predator’s grin. In the glare of the forked lightning, its eyes shone yellow, bifurcated by a vertical pupil. Rain ran in sheets from its impervious grey hide. It said something in its own tongue, reaching for him with one taloned hand.

Dani leapt backward with a wordless shout, grasping the flask at his throat. Beneath his bare feet, he felt the hill’s rocky crest crumble. And then it was gone, and there was nothing but a rough groove worn by flooding and him tumbling down it, the afterimage of the horrible Fjel grin seared into his mind.

“Dani!”

Borne by sluicing water, he slid down the hill, his uncle’s shout echoing in his ears, vaguely aware that Thulu had plunged after him. It was worse than being caught in the rapids of the Spume. Beneath the torrent of rainwater, rocks caught and tore at his flesh, tearing away the makeshift sling that had held his left arm immobilized. He grunted at the pain, conscious only of his momentum, until he fetched up hard at the base of the hill. There he lay in the pouring rain.

“Dani.” Uncle Thulu, illuminated by flickering lightning, limped toward him. Reaching down, he grabbed Dani under the arms and hoisted him to his feet. Beyond them, a dark figure was picking its way down the slope. “Come on, lad, run. Run!”

He ran.

It was no longer a matter of pain. Pain was a fact of existence, a familiar sound in the background. His limbs worked, therefore no new bones were broken. The clay vial was intact, bouncing and thumping as he ran. For the first half a league, sheer terror fueled his flight. Then his steps began to slow.

It was a matter of exhaustion.

As hard as his lungs labored, Dani couldn’t get enough air into them. He gasped convulsively. Lurid flashes of lightning lit the sky, blinding him, until he could see nothing in the pouring rain but scintillating spots of brightness everywhere. Pain blossomed in his side, a keen shriek piercing the chorus of aches. Though he willed himself to ignore it, he couldn’t stand upright. Hunched and dizzy, he staggered onward until Uncle’s Thulu’s hands grasping his shoulders brought him to a halt.

“Dani.”

He peered under his dripping hair and fought to catch his breath. Blinking hard, he could make out his uncle’s face. “Yes, Uncle?”

“Don’t argue with me, lad.”

Before Dani could ask why, the last remaining air was driven from his lungs as Uncle Thulu hoisted him like a sack of grain and flung him over his shoulder. Without hesitating, Thulu set off at a steady trot.

In the darkness behind them, loping through the falling rain, the Kaldjager Fjel grinned and gave its hunting cry. Across the reach, its brethren answered, passing on the cry, until all had received the word.

Their prey was found.

Meronil was filled with song.

A vast contingent of Haomane’s Allies would be departing on the morrow. For the past two days, delegates from other nations had met in the great hall of Ingolin the Wise. Seahold, the Midlands, Arduan, Vedasia, Pelmar, the Free Fishers—all of them had sent pledges. Their armies were on the march.

They would converge on the southern outskirts of the plains of Curonan, and there their forces would be forged into a single army under the command of Aracus Altorus, the would-be King of the West. From there, they would march to Darkhaven.

While they would march under many banners, two would fly above all others. One was the Crown and Souma of Elterrion the Bold, and it would be carried by the host of the Rivenlost. Ingolin the Wise would command them himself, forgoing his scholar’s robes for Ellylon armor, and the argent scroll of his own house would fly lower than that of Elterrion’s.

The other banner was that of the ancient Kings of Altoria, a gilt sword upon a field of sable, its tangs curved to the shape of eyes. It would be carried by the Borderguard of Curonan, for their leader, Aracus Altorus, had sworn that he would take up the banner of his forefathers the day he led the Borderguard against Satoris Banewreaker. So it would be carried, as Aracus would carry the sword of his ancestors; the sword of Altorus Farseer, with its gilded tangs shaped like eyes and a Soumanië set as its pommelstone. And at his side would be Malthus the Counselor, whose Soumanië shone bright as a diamond, who carried the Spear of Light, the last of Haomane’s Weapons.

Tomorrow, it began.

Tonight, Meronil was filled with song.

It began as darkness encroached from the east and Haomane’s sun settled in the west in a dwindling blaze of golden splendor. As the last rays faded like embers, purple dusk settled over Meronil, turning its ivory towers and turrets, its arching bridges, to a pale lavender that darkened to a violet hue.

At her lonely window, Lilias sat and watched.

Throughout the city, lights were kindled. Tiny glass lights, smaller than a woman’s fist, burning without smoke. The Rivenlost placed them in fretted lamps; hung from doorways, in windows, on bridges, carried by hand. A thousand points of light shone throughout the city, as though Arahila the Fair had cast a net of stars over Meronil. And as the lamps were kindled, Ellylon voices were raised in song.

She had been right, it was a city meant for music. The sound was inhumanly beautiful. A thousand voices, each one as clear and true as a bell. Lilias rested her chin on one hand and listened. She was not alone. Even the Eagles of Meronil ceased their vigilant circling and settled on the rooftops to listen, folding their wings.

A city of Men would have sung war songs. Not the Ellylon. These were laments, songs of loss and mourning, songs of remembrance of passing glory. From each quarter of Meronil, a different song arose; and yet, somehow, they formed a vast and complex harmony. One melody answered another in a deep, resonant antiphony; the simple refrain of a third wound between the two, stitching them together and making them part of the whole. A fourth melody soared above the rest, a heartbreaking descant.

“And Haomane asks us not to envy them,” Lilias whispered.

One by one, the melodies died and faded into silence. In the lucid stillness that followed, she saw the first barge glide onto the Aven River and understood. The Pelmaran delegates had brought more than a pledge of aid in the coming war. Traveling in the wake of Aracus and his swiftmoving vanguard, they had come more slowly, bearing wagons in their train. They had brought home the casualties of the last war, the Ellylon dead of Beshtanag.

There were only nine of them. The Host of the Rivenlost was a small company, but a doughty one. They had fought bravely. Only two had been slain by her Beshtanagi wardsmen. Their faces were uncovered, and even from her tower chamber, Lilias could see that they were as serene and beautiful in death as they had been in life. The bodies of the Ellylon did not wither and rot with mortality as did those of Men.

Three barges, three dead to a barge. A single lamp hung from the prow of each vessel, their light gleaming on the water. The barges glided on a river of stars, moved by no visible hand. The bodies of the nine lay motionless. Seven of them were draped in silken shrouds, their forms hidden, their faces covered.

Those would be the ones Calandor had slain with fire.

Alone at her window, Lilias shuddered. “Why couldn’t you just leave us alone?” she whispered, knowing it was a futile question, at once false and true. They had come to Beshtanag because she had lured them there. The reason did not alter their deaths.

A fourth barge glided into view, larger than the others. It was poled by Ellyl hands and it carried a living cargo. In the prow stood Malthus the Counselor, distinguished by his white robes and his flowing beard, holding a staff in one hand. On his right stood Aracus Altorus, his bright hair dimmed by darkness, and on his left stood Ingolin the Wise. Others were behind them: Lorenlasse of Valmaré, kindred of the slain. There was a quiet liquid murmur as the Ellylon polemen halted the barge.

Malthus raised his staff and spoke a single word.

It was no staff he bore, but the Spear of Light itself. As he spoke, the clear Soumanië on his breast burst into effulgence, radiating white light It kindled the Spear in his hand. Tendrils of white-gold brilliance wrapped its length, tracing images on the darkness. At the tip, its keen blade shone like a star. By its light, all of Meronil could see the retreating sterns of the three barges making their silent way down the Aven River, carrying their silent passengers. The barges would carry them all the way to the Sundering Sea, in the hope that the sea would carry them to Torath, the Crown, where they might be reunited in death with Haomane First-Born, the Lord-of-Thought.

A voice, a single voice, was lifted.

It was a woman’s voice, Lilias thought; too high, too pure to be a man’s. The sound of it was like crystal, translucent and fragile. No mortal voice had ever made such a sound nor ever would. It wavered as it rose, taut with grief, and Lilias, listening, was caught by the fear it would break. It must be a woman’s voice, for what man had ever known such grief? It pierced the heart as surely as any spear. Who was it that sang? She could not see. The voice held the anguish of a mother’s loss, or a wife’s.

Surely it must break under the weight of its pain.

But it held and steadied, and the single note swelled.

It soared above its own anguish and found, impossibly, hope. The hope of the dwindling Rivenlost, who longed for Haomane’s presence and the light of the Souma. The hope of Aracus Altorus, who dreamed of atoning for Men’s deeds with a world made whole. Hope, raised aloft like the Spear of Light, sent forth like a beacon, that it might give heart to the Lady Cerelinde and bid her not to despair.

Other voices arose, one by one. A song, one song. Raising their clear voices, the Ellylon sang, shaping hope out of despair, shaping beauty out of sorrow. Three barges glided down the Aven River, growing small in the distance. In the prow of the fourth barge, Malthus the Counselor leaned on the Spear and bowed his head, keeping his counsel. Ingolin the Wise, who had watched the Sundering of the world, stood unwavering. Aracus Altorus laid one hand on the hilt of his ancestors’ sword, the Soumanië dull in its pommel.

Around and above them, the song continued, scaling further and further, ascending impossible heights of beauty. Inside the city, delegates from the nations of Men listened to it and wept and laughed. They turned to one another and nodded with shining eyes, understanding one another without words. In the fields outside Meronil’s gates, the Borderguard of Curonan heard it and wept without knowing why, tears glistening on cheeks weathered by wind and sun. The Rivenlost of Meronil, grieving, made ready for war.

In her lonely chamber, Lilias of Beshtanag wept, too.

Only she knew why.