Godslayer

EIGHT

“tell me again.”

The Shaper’s voice was deep and resonant, with no trace of anger or madness. It loosened something tight and knotted in Ushahin’s chest, even as the warmth of the Chamber of the Font eased his aching joints. The blue-white blaze of the Font made his head ache, but the pulse of Godslayer within it soothed him. Between the heat and the sweet, coppery odor of blood, the Chamber was almost as pleasant as the Delta. Ushahin sat in a high-backed chair, both crooked hands laced around one updrawn knee, and related all he had seen and knew.

Armies were making their way across the face of Urulat.

His ravens had scattered to the four corners and seen it. It would be better to recall them and summon the Ravensmirror, but they were yet too far afield. Still, Ushahin perceived their flickering thoughts. He could not render their multitude of impressions into a whole, but what glimpses they saw, he described for his Lord. Pelmarans, marching like ants in a double row. Vedasian knights riding astride, encased like beetles in steel carapaces. Arduan archers in leather caps, accorded a wary distance. Midlanders laying down their plows, taking up rusted swords.

A company of Rivenlost, bright and shining, emerging from the vale of Meronil. Behind them were the Borderguard of Curonan, grim-faced and dire. Above them flew two pennants; the Crown and Souma, and the gilt-eyed Sword of Altorus Farseer. And among the forefront rode Malthus the Counselor, who carried no staff, but a spear whose blade was a nimbus of light.

Lord Satoris heaved a mighty sigh. “So he has brought it forth. Ah, Malthus! I knew you had it hidden. Would that I dared pluck Godslayer from the marrow-fire. I would not be loath to face you on the field of battle once more.”

Sitting in his chair, Ushahin watched the Shaper pace, a vast moving shadow in the flickering chamber. There was a question none of them had dared to ask, fearful of the answer. It had been on the tip of his tongue many times. And when all was said and done, the fears of Ushahin Dreamspinner, who had made a friend of madness, were not like those of other men. This time, he asked it. “Will it come to that, my Lord?”

“It will not.” The Shaper ceased to pace and went still. Shadows seethed in the corners of the chamber, thickening. Darkness settled like a mantle on Satoris, and his eyes shone from it like twin coals. “For if it came to that, Dreamspinner—if it became necessary that I must venture onto the field of battle myself—it would mean we had already lost. It is not the defense I intended, nor have spent these many years building. Do you understand?”

“Perhaps, my Lord,” Ushahin offered. “You have spent much of yourself.”

“Spent!” Lord Satoris gave a harsh laugh. “Spent, yes. I raised Darkhaven, I bound it beneath a shroud of clouds! I summoned my Three and bent the Chain of Being to encompass them! I bent my Brother’s weapon to my own will and tuned the Helm of Shadows to the pitch of my despair. I brought down the Marasoumië! I am a Shaper, and such lies within my reach. It is not what I have spent willingly that I fear, Dreamspinner.”

The blue-white glare of the Font gleamed on the trickle of ichor that bled down the black column of the Shaper’s thigh. At his feet, a dark pool was beginning to accumulate, spreading like ink over the stone floor. How much of the Shaper’s power had his unhealing wound leached from him over the ages?

“My Lord.” Ushahin swallowed, the scent of blood thick in his throat. “I spoke to you of my time in the Delta. There is power there, in the place of your birth. Might you not find healing there?”

“Once, perhaps.” Satoris’ voice was unexpectedly gentle. “Ah, Dream-spinner! If I had fled there when Haomane’s Wrath scorched me, instead of quenching my pain in the cool snows of the north … perhaps. But I did not. And now it is Calanthrag’s place, and not mine. The dragons have paid a terrible price for taking part in this battle between my brethren and I. I do not think the Eldest would welcome my return.”

“She—” Ushahin remembered the endless vastness behind the dragon’s gaze and fell silent. There were no words for it.

“You have seen.”

Not trusting his voice, he nodded.

“All things must be as they must,” the Shaper mused. “It is the one truth my Brother refuses to grasp, the one thought the Lord-of-Thought will not think. Perhaps it is easier, thus. Perhaps I should have spent less time speaking with dragons when the world was young, and more time among my own kind.”

“My Lord?” Ushahin found his voice. “All of Seven … each of your brethren, they Shaped Children after their own desires, yet you did not. Why is it so?”

Lord Satoris, Satoris Third-Born, who was once called the Sower, smiled and opened his arms. In his ravaged visage, beneath the red glare of his eyes and his wrathscorched form, there lay the bright shadow of what he had been when the world was young. Of what he had been when he had walked upon it and ventured into the deep places his brethren feared, and he had spoken with dragons and given his Gift to many. “Did I not?” he asked softly. “Hear me, Dreamspinner, and remember. All of you are my Children; all that live and walk upon the face of Urulat, thinking thoughts and wondering at them. Do you deny it?”

There was madness in it; and there was not. The madness of Shapers could not be measured by the standards of Men—no, nor Were, nor Ellylon, nor any of the Lesser Shapers. The foundations of Darkhaven shifted; the foundations of Darkhaven held. Which was true?

All things must be as they must.

Ushahin shuddered and glanced sideways, his gaze falling upon Godslayer. There it hung in the glittering Font, beating like a heart. A Shard of the Souma, its rough handle a knob of rock. It would fit a child’s hand, such a child as might raise it and bring it crashing down, heedless of what it crushed. Heedless of what it pierced. The pattern, the Great Story, was present in every pulse of light it emitted.

Let it come later than sooner.

Tears made his vision swim, spiked the lashes that framed his uneven eyes. “Ah, my Lord! No, never. I would not deny it.”

“Ushahin.” There was tenderness in the Shaper’s voice, a tenderness too awful to bear. “These events were set in motion long ago. Perhaps there was a better course I might have chosen; a wiser course. Perhaps if I had tempered my defiance with deference, my Elder Brother’s wrath would not have been so quick to rouse. But I cannot change the past; nor would it change the outcome if I could. My role was foreordained ere the death of Uru-Alat birthed the Seven Shapers, both its beginning and its ending—and though I grow weary, when that will come, not even Calanthrag the Eldest can say with surety. Thus, I play my role as best I might. I honor my debts. I must be what I am, as long as I may cling to it. And when I cannot, I will not. Do you understand?”

Ushahin nodded violently.

“That is well.” Satoris, moving without sound, had drawn near. For a moment, his hand rested on Ushahin’s brow. It was heavy, so heavy! And yet there was comfort in it. Comfort, and a kind of love. “You see too much, Dreamspinner.”

“I know,” he whispered.

“Tell me, then, what you see to the north.” The hand was withdrawn, the Shaper resumed his pacing. Where he had stood, the stones drank in his ichor and the dark pool vanished. Another portion of him had become part of Darkhaven. “Have your ravens found the Bearer? Have my Fjel dispatched him yet?”

“No.” Ushahin shook his head. “Many of your Fjel gather in Neherinach. That much, my ravens have seen. I suspect the hunt is afoot. More, I cannot say.” He hesitated. “There is another thing, my Lord.”

The red glare of the Shaper’s eyes turned his way. “Say it!”

“Staccians.” Ushahin cleared his throat. “Those we saw in the Ravensmirror, arming, those along the path the Galäinridder forged … I have touched their dreams, and they make their way to the plains of Curonan, for it is the place toward which all the armies are bound. And yet the Staccians, they were the first to set out. By now they may have reached the outskirts.”

Lord Satoris laughed. It was an unpleasant sound. “Might they?”

“Aye.” Ushahin glanced involuntarily at the Helm of Shadows, sitting in its niche. Darkness filled its eyeholes like the promise of anguish. “I could learn more if you would give me leave to walk the plains—”

“No.” Lord Satoris raised one hand. “No,” he repeated. “I do not need to know what lies in the hearts of these Men, who beheld the flight of Malthus the Counselor and his colorless Soumanië, that is so strange and altered. Still, I may use them as an example. Let Staccia see how I deal with oath-breakers, and Haomane’s Allies how I deal with those who would destroy me.” He smiled. It was not a pleasant sight. “Go, Dreamspinner, and send General Tanaros to me. Yes, and Lord Vorax, too.”

“As you will,” Ushahin murmured, rising.

“Dreamspinner?” The Shaper’s voice had altered; the unlikely gentleness had returned.

“My Lord?”

“Remember,” Lord Satoris said. “Whatever happens. All that you have learned. All that you have seen. It is all I ask.”

Ushahin nodded. “I will.”

Somewhere in the middle of the night, Uncle Thulu’s strength began to wane.

Dani felt it happen.

He had done his part; he had not argued. Once he had regained his breath, they had come to an accommodation. If Uncle Thulu would lower him from his shoulder, Dani would suffer himself to be carried on his uncle’s back.

He had wrapped his legs around his uncle’s waist, clinging to his neck. Uncle Thulu resumed his steady trot. It made Dani feel like a child again; only this night was like something from a child’s nightmare. What did the desert-born know of rain? After the storm passed, it continued to fall, endless and drumming, soaking them to the skin. It was cold. He had not known it was possible to be so cold, nor so tired. Dani rested his cheek against Uncle Thulu’s shoulder. The vial containing the Water of Life was an uncomfortable lump pressing into his flesh. Still, through the rough wool of his shirt, he could feel the warmth rising from his uncle’s skin, warming him. It was one of the gifts the Water of Life had imparted.

When it began to fade, he felt that, too. Felt the shivers that raced through his uncle as coldness set into his bones. Felt his steps begin to falter and stagger. Slight though he was, Dani was no longer a child. His weight had begun to tell.

“Uncle.” He spoke into Thulu’s ear. “You must put me down.”

It took another handful of staggering steps before his uncle obeyed. Dani slid down his back, finding his feet. His limbs had become cramped and stiff, and his right arm did not quite work properly. Every inch of flesh ached, bruised and battered by his flood-borne tumble down the rocky slope. Still, he was alive, and he had recovered enough strength to continue unaided.

“Can you go on?” he asked.

Uncle Thulu was bent at the waist, hands braced on his knees, catching his breath. At Dani’s question, he lifted his head. A dull grey light had begun to alleviate the blackness of the eastern skies behind them. It was enough to make out the rain dripping steadily from his face, into his open, exhausted eyes.

“Aye, lad,” he said roughly. “Can you?”

Dani touched the clay vial at his throat. “Yes.”

Once more, they set out at a slow trot.

Several hundred yards behind them, the watching Kaldjager chuckled deep in their throats and fanned out behind their prey.

In the dim grey light that preceded dawn, Tanaros rose and donned his armor, piece by piece. Last of all, he settled his swordbelt and the black sword in its scabbard around his waist. There were to be no survivors. His Lordship had ordered it so.

He had misgivings at the thought of leaving Darkhaven unattended; though it wouldn’t be, not truly. There was Ushahin Dreamspinner and his field marshal Hyrgolf, with whom Tanaros had spoken at length. And, too, there was Speros. Though the Midlander was loath to be left behind, he was grateful to be entrusted with a special task: ensuring the safety, in Tanaros’ absence, of the Lady Cerelinde.

The sojourn would be brief; a quick strike, and then back to Darkhaven. The return journey would afford him a chance to check the perimeter of the Vale, to make certain that any tunnels leading beneath it were well and truly blocked. It would ease his mind to see it firsthand.

In the end, it didn’t matter. Lord Satoris had ordered it; Tanaros would go.

And it felt good, after so long, to be doing and not waiting. He had slept deeply that night, nurturing the coal of hatred that burned at the core of his heart. This was a simple task, an easy task. The Staccians who had chosen to follow Malthus had betrayed their ancient accord. They were warriors. They had reckoned the price of their betrayal, as surely as they had reckoned the price of their fealty. It should be easy to kill them.

A ruddy light was breaking in the eastern skies when they assembled.

Vorax was there, splendid in his gilded armor. He rode a mount big enough to bear him, his thick thighs wrapped around its barrel. An uncanny awareness was in his mount’s eyes, echoed in the others’. Fifty mounted Staccians followed his lead, all of them riding the horses of Darkhaven. He grinned at Tanaros, his teeth strong and white in the thicket of his ruddy beard. “Shall we go a-hunting, cousin?”

“Aye.” Tanaros glanced at the throng of Gulnagel that surrounded him, the muscles of their haunches twitching with eagerness. “Let us do so.” He gave the command. “Open the gate!”

They made good time on the narrow path of the Defile. Tanaros rode with the ease of long familiarity, glorying in the freedom. There was the Weavers’ Gulch; he ducked his head, laying his cheek alongside the black’s neck. The heavy feet of the Gulnagel pounded along the rocks, their talons scoring stone. Here and there, the little weavers scuttled along their vast loom, repairing the torn veils, disapproval in the angle of their poisoned fangs. Behind him, Vorax and his Staccians thundered.

Overhead, the Tordenstem sentries roared. Though vibration of their voices displaced showers of rocks, it was a sound of approval. If it had not been, they would be dead. Tanaros craned his neck as he rode, noting the position of the Midlander’s carefully laid traps with approval.

After the narrow paths came the plains.

“Go,” Tanaros whispered, flattening himself on his mount’s back. Pricked ears twitched backward, laying close to its skull. It heard, and ran. Long grass parted like the sea. Tanaros looked left and right. To either side, he saw the Gulnagel, running. They surged forward in great bounds, tireless. Behind them, the Staccian contingent pounded. Vorax, at their head, was shouting a battle-paean.

There should have been scouts. Ever since Altoria had fallen—ever since Tanaros had led forth an army, the Helm of Shadows heavy on his shoulders—there had been scouts. The Borderguard of Curonan, keen-eyed and deadly in their dun cloaks.

There were none.

There had been none since they had ridden to attend their leader Aracus Altorus upon his wedding in Lindanen Dale. As the sun moved slowly across the unclouded sky, they rode, unchallenged. All of the armies of Haomane’s Allies were spread across the face of Urulat, moving slowly toward this place. Now, it was empty. The ghosts of Cuilos Tuillenrad lay still, only whispering at their passage.

Those who betrayed Lord Satoris would pay.

At sunrise, the rain ceased.

Dawn broke with surprising glory over the reach, golden light shimmering on the wet rocks, turning puddles of standing water into myriad, earthbound suns. Where the moss grew, it brought forth an abundance of delicate white flowers.

It revealed another surprise, one that Dani hailed with a low cry of joy. They had come to the western verge of the empty reach. Ahead lay a craggy decline in which green trees grew in profusion, and mountains rising to the north. Somewhere, there was birdsong and the sound of rushing water.

Uncle Thulu summoned a weary smile. “That’s our river, lad. Shall we find it?”

“Aye.” Dani took a deep breath. “Give me a moment.” He turned behind him to gaze at the sun with gratitude. Although his sodden clothes made him shiver, the sun’s first warmth dispelled some of the chill. The sky overhead was pale gold, the underbellies of the dispersing clouds shot through with saffron.

And there …

Dani froze. “Fjeltroll,” he whispered.

They were coming, a long, ranging line of them. Distance made the figures small, but they were drawing steadily nearer, moving at the effortless lope that had not diminished in the slightest. Sunlight glinted on their hides, still wet from the night’s rainfall; on a few, it glinted on armor. One of them hoisted a waterskin, raising it as if in mocking salute, then tilted it to drink deep. Its pace never faltered.

Uncle Thulu swallowed audibly. “Run!”

They ran.

At a hundred paces, they reached the verge and began scrambling down the crags. Dani used hands and feet alike, ignoring the scraping pain in his palms and soles. Something gave way with a tearing sound near his right shoulder and a fresh jag of pain wrenched at him. He ignored that, too.

“This way!” Thulu plunged into the trees at the base of the decline. Checking the clay flask at his throat, Dani ran after him. Behind him, he could hear the sound of talons on rocks and the hunting cries of the Fjel.

Under the canopy of trees, it was cool and green. The loamy ground was soft, muting their footfalls. Gilded shafts of sunlight pierced the green. Drops of gathered rain slid from the leaves overhead, shining as they fell. Over the sound of water and birdsong and the harsh breath rattling in his lungs, Dani could hear the calls of the Fjel as they spread out through the woods. He found a burst of new energy in fresh terror.

They ran.

“Come on.” Uncle Thulu panted grimly, veering northward toward the sound of rushing water. “Maybe the river …” He slowed, saving his breath as they rounded the trunk of a massive ash tree and came upon it; the White River, plunging down from the mountains in a series of cataracts. Water gathered in pools, spilling downward. “Maybe …”

Dani stifled a shout and pointed.

Beside one of the pools, one of the Fjel crouched on its powerful haunches, grey and motionless as a boulder. Its yellow eyes gleamed in its narrow visage. The intelligence in them was almost human. It shook its head slowly, baring its eyetusks in a predator’s grin.

“Go!” Thulu shoved Dani back the way they had come. “Go, lad, go!”

They fled due west, straining their ears for the sounds of pursuit. If any was forthcoming, it was inaudible over the river-sound and their own labored breathing. Dani, running hard, felt the sharp stitch of pain return in his left side.

“South,” Uncle Thulu gasped. “We’ll cut south and pick up the river later!”

For a time it seemed it would work. They ran unimpeded. The ground rose sharply, but the path ahead was clear. Dani ran half-doubled with pain, clamping his left elbow hard against his ribs. It eased the stitch, but a bolt of pain shot through his right arm with every stride. He grabbed his right elbow with his left hand and staggered onward, hugging his rib cage. He had to lower his head to make the incline, bare toes digging into the loam, step by exhausted step.

Near the top, Uncle Thulu loosed a wordless cry and grabbed his arm. Dani lifted his head wearily.

One of the Fjeltroll awaited them, sitting in an easy crouch, loose-limbed and ready. It pointed west with one taloned hand and said something in its guttural tongue, smiling a terrible smile. Its tongue lolled in its mouth, grey-green and pointed.

“Back, back, back!” Thulu suited actions to words, scrambling backward down the incline, heedless of the dirt that smeared his skin.

Dani followed, breathing hard. “Can we get behind them?”

His uncle nodded grimly. “Let’s try.”

It was no good.

They doubled back, retracing their steps; there was another Fjeltroll, two Fjeltroll, stepping out from behind the massive tree-trunks. There was a cunning light in their yellow eyes; almost amused. One spoke to the other, and both laughed. Sunlight glinted on their eyetusks. They pointed westward.

Westward they ran; zigging and zagging to the north and south, fleeing like coursing hares. As they ran, cries resounded through the wood. And at the end of every avenue of flight that did not run true west along the rushing course of the White River, they found one of the Fjeltroll waiting. Looming among the leaves. Waiting, and pursuing at leisure.

All the same kind, with smooth grey hide, yellow eyes, and a predator’s smile.

All pointing west with infinite patience.

“Uncle.” In the middle of the woods, Dani staggered to a halt. The golden light of dawn had given way to the sinking amber hues of sunset. Under the leafy canopy, insects whined and flitting birds uttered high-pitched calls. Keeping his arms wrapped tight around his aching midsection, he lifted haunted eyes to meet his uncle’s gaze. “I think we are being driven.”

“Aye.” Uncle Thulu nodded heavily. “I think you are right, lad.”

“Well, then.” The giddiness of despair seized Dani. Somewhere to his right, to the north, the White River was running, burbling over rock and stone. Around them, unseen, the Fjeltroll were closing, making ready to drive them farther westward. “There’s no point in running, is there?”

“No.” Thulu shook his head with sorrow. “No, lad. No point at all.”

Dani touched the vial at his throat. “Then we won’t.”

Together, they began to walk.