Godslayer

TEN

Tanaros checked the Vesdarlig Passage last. Of all the tunnels, it concerned him the most. There were others, farther south, that would be more accessible to Haomane’s Allies, but they were well-kept secrets. The Vesdarlig Passage was an old route, and the Staccians had known of it for many years. Once, that would not have worried him.

No longer.

Patient Gulnagel held torches aloft for him. He had sent Vorax and his Staccians home, keeping only the Fjel to aid him. This deep below the earth, the torches cast wide pools of light, flickeringly only slightly as the draft from the ventilation shafts stirred the dense air. Tanaros examined the pile of rocks and boulders that sealed the tunnel.

It appeared sound. There were boulders there that only a Fjel could move unaided. If he was certain of nothing else, he was certain of their loyalty. With the butt-end of a borrowed spear, he poked at the mound, wedging it in various crevices and shoving hard. A few pebbles skittered to the cavern floor, but he met nothing behind the rock save more rock.

“How deep is it piled?” he asked Krolgun.

The torchlight wavered at the answering shrug. “Fifty paces?” The Gulnagel grinned. “Real paces, boss, not smallfolk strides like yours.”

Tanaros smiled, gauging the distance in his head. It should be well over fifty yards; farther, if Krolgun meant a Gulnagel’s bounding stride. If Haomane’s Allies wanted to cart fifty yards’ worth of stone out of the tunnels, they were welcome to try. Without Fjel aid, it would take weeks, perhaps months. He would enjoy sending out sorties to pick them off meanwhile.

“All right, lads. Let’s go home.”

Although he felt better for having inspected each of the blocked tunnels in person and Vesdarlig Passage most of all, it was a relief to emerge into open air. A cool wind blew across the plains, the tawny grass rippling in undulating waves. Haomane’s Allies were coming. This vast, open expanse would be filled with them. He didn’t like being unable to see across it, even with sentries posted. The Staccian traitors were no anomaly; they were the unwitting vanguard, the first skirmish in what promised to be a long war. He could not afford to be less than wary.

It was dangerous enough that his concentration had drifted in the skirmish.

Overhead, the sun was shining, moving to the west. The mountains ringing the Vale of Gorgantum cast a stark shadow on the plains. Tanaros skirted the shadow as they headed for Defile’s Maw, ranging unnecessarily wide. It was the last time he would see sunlight for a long, long time. After the Unknown Desert, it had been hard to imagine he’d ever miss it …and yet.

He remembered his first sight of it atop Beshtanag Mountain, gilding the peaks of the trees. After so long, it had gladdened his heart. He thought of Cerelinde, turning her face skyward, opening her arms. Even a glimpse of Haomane’s sun, dim and cloud-shrouded, had brought her joy.

“We are not so different, are we?” he said aloud.

“Boss?” Krolgun, loping alongside him, raised a quizzical face.

“Naught of import.” Tanaros shook his head. “I’m just … thinking. What difference is there, truly, between us and Haomane’s Allies, Krolgun? We breathe, we eat, we sleep. Would you have known one of Lord Vorax’s Staccians from the traitors if your eyes were sealed?”

“Sure, Lord General!” Krolgun flashed his eyetusks and tapped his snout with one wicked yellow talon. “So would you, if you were Fjel. Or Were. The Were can hunt blind, they say. I wouldn’t mind seeing that.”

Tanaros smiled ruefully. The Were would not be aiding them; not soon, maybe never. They had paid too dearly for it. “That’s not what I meant, lad.”

“Sorry, boss.” The Gulnagel shrugged. “I’m not one for thinking. Haomane’s Gift, you know. Ask Marshal Hyrgolf, he’s got the knack of it.” He laughed. “Making decisions and the like, all you made him into.”

“Made him?” Tanaros was startled.

“Aye, boss.” Krolgun glanced cheerfully at him. “Did you not mean to?”

“No,” Tanaros said slowly. “Or, yes, I suppose.” He frowned at his hands, going about their own capable business, maintaining a steady grip on the reins. They were still sun-dark from his sojourn in the desert, scars pale on his knuckles. “It’s just that I never thought of it thusly.”

“Ah, well.” Krolgun gave another shrug. “All the same in the end, isn’t it?”

“Perhaps.” Tanaros nodded. “Perhaps it is.”

Krolgun grinned. “There you are, then!”

Haomane’s Allies were encamped in the Midlands.

Their campfires spread wide and far, a hundred twinkling lights echoing the multitude of stars that spangled the canopy of night. It was not the whole of their company; not yet. Pelmaran troops and the knights of Vedasia were still en route. But Seahold’s forces had gathered, and those from the small holdings of the Midlands were there, or flocking to gather. Many of them came with wagon trains of supplies, all that could be spared from the fall harvest.

The Free Fishers were there, laconic and weatherbeaten. A company of Arduan archers had arrived fired with pride at the deed of their countrywoman, who had slain the Dragon of Beshtanag. If neither company was willing to fully accept Aracus Altorus’ sovereignty over their respective republics, still they were eager to fight at his side, prizing freedom above all things. As King of the West, Aracus would respect their independence; the Sunderer, they were certain, would not. Had he not shown as much in laying his trap in Beshtanag?

But the heart of the army was those who had ridden forth from Meronil; the Host of the Rivenlost and the Borderguard of Curonan. And it was their commanders who assembled in a hushed meeting in the tent of Ingolin the Wise; their commanders, and those who remained from the Company that had ridden forth with Malthus.

It was a spacious tent, wrought of silk rendered proof against the elements by Ellylon arts. Three banners flew from its peak, and lowest of all was the argent scroll of the House of Ingolin. Above it fluttered the gilt-eyed sword of Altorus Farseer. And above that, the Crown and Souma of the House of Elterrion flew, in defiant tribute to the Lady Cerelinde, in the defiant belief that she yet lived.

Inside, it was quiet, dimly lit by Ellylon lamps.

Those who were present gathered around the table, eyeing the closed coffer. It was inlaid with gold, worked with the device of the Crown and Souma. The gnarled hands of Malthus the Counselor rested on its lid. So they had done at every gathering, since the first in Meronil. Soon, he would open it.

Within the coffer lay a tourmaline stone. Once, it had been tuned to the pitch of Malthus’ Soumanië. Now, it was tuned to the Bearer and his burden. It had been one of Malthus’ final acts when he had thrust the lad and his uncle into the Marasoumië, binding them under a spell of concealment.

Malthus the Counselor had wrought his spell with skill; with his Soumanië altered, not even he could break it. But the gem would tell them whether the Bearer yet lived.

“Haomane grant it be so,” Malthus said, opening the coffer.

Pale blue light spilled forth into the tent There on the velvet lining of the coffer, the tourmaline yet shone, shedding illumination from deep within its blue-green core. The cool light like water in the desert, and those gathered drank it in as though they thirsted. For a moment, no one spoke, the atmosphere still taut Ingolin’s gaze lifted to meet Malthus’. The Counselor shook his head, the lines on his face growing deeper.

Aracus Altorus broke the silence, abrupt and direct. “It’s grown dimmer.” He glanced around the tent, gauging the brightness. “Half again as much as yesterday eve.”

“I fear it is so,” Malthus replied somberly.

“who?”

Malthus sighed. “Would that I knew, Aracus.”

“I was supposed to protect him.” Blaise’s voice was harsh. “Even that old man among the Yarru said it. Guardian, he called me.” He stared at the shard of tourmaline, clenching and unclenching his fists. “What does it mean?” He looked to Malthus for an answer. “Does it mean Dani is injured? Dying?”

Malthus and Ingolin exchanged a glance, and the Lord of the Rivenlost answered, “We do not know, Blaise Caveros. No Bearer has ever carried the Water of Life outside the Unknown Desert before.” Ingolin’s silvery hair rustled as he shook his head. “What link binds him to that which he Bears? That is a thing only the Yarru may know, and even they may not. We cannot say.”

“That poor boy,” Fianna the Archer murmured. “Ah, Haomane!”

“Do not be so quick to mourn him.” Malthus’ voice deepened, taking on resonance. He summoned a smile, though a shadow of sorrow hovered beneath it. In the depths of his Soumanië, a bright spark kindled. “He is stronger than you reckon, and more resourceful. Take hope, child.”

Fianna bowed her head in acquiescence, even as Lorenlasse of Valmaré lifted his in defiance. “Child!” he said scornfully. “A mortal may be, but I am not, Counselor. If you had protected this Bearer better, we would not have to cling to this desperate hope. Better still if you had spent your vaunted wisdom in protecting the Lady Cerelinde, on whom Haomane’s Prophecy depends.”

“Lorenlasse.” Peldras touched the Ellyl warrior’s arm. “Listen—”

“Let me be, kinsman.” Lorenlasse shook off his touch.

“Child.” Malthus’ voice, gaining in power, rolled around the confines of the tent. He closed the lid of the coffer with a thud, extinguishing the light of the tourmaline. “Haomane’s Child. Do not mistake what we do here! Our hopes ride upon the Bearer as surely as they do upon the Lady; indeed, even more.”

Lorenlasse of Valmaré stared at him with bright Ellyl eyes. “It is too small a hope, Counselor.”

“No.” Malthus spoke the word softly, and although he damped the power in his voice, it surged through his being, emanating from the Soumanië on his breast. He laughed; an unexpected sound, free and glad, his arms spreading wide. Despite fear, despite sorrow, he opened his arms in embrace. The light he had quenched upon closing the coffer resurged threefold, dazzling, from the clear Soumanië. “No, Haomane’s Child. While hope lives, it is never too small.”

They believed, then; they hoped. All around the tent, backs straightened and eyes kindled. Only Aracus Altorus sighed, bowing his red-gold head. A mortal Man, he felt the burden of those lives he must send into battle.

“Counselor,” he said heavily. “It is in my heart that you are right. The Bearer’s quest is his own, and there is no aid we may give him. All we can do is afford him the opportunity, by pursuing our own goals.” His mouth twisted in a wry smile. “At least insofar as we may. The Sunderer has had many years in which to render Darkhaven unassailable.”

A silence followed his words, but Malthus smiled and the clear light of his Soumanië was undimmed. “Trust me, Son of Altorus,” he said. “I know Satoris Banewreaker. I have a plan.”

They fled for several leagues before they rested, following the hidden route of the White River, which went to earth outside Neherinach. Once they did, Dani found himself shuddering all over. He felt unfamiliar in his own skin. Within his narrow breast, his heart pounded like a drum.

He could not forget it, the sight of the vines coming to life, engulfing the Fjeltroll. Rampant life, breeding death. Dragging them down, one by one, stopping their mouths, piercing their entrails. It must have been a horrible death. He did not like to imagine it.

But they had killed his people.

Did you not expect his Lordship to strike against his enemies?

He hadn’t.

No one remembered the Yarru. Even Haomane First-Born had forgotten them, bent on pursuing his vengeance. It didn’t matter. The Yarru had survived, and understood. It was the Shapers’ War. They had fled beneath the earth and forgiven Haomane his Wrath; they had understood. That was the greater knowledge with which they had been charged, the understanding of how Uru-Alat, dying, had Shaped the world. And of the Well of the World, and what it meant

Dani had not reckoned on Satoris’ anger.

He willed his trembling to subside, his breathing to slow. At his side, Uncle Thulu did the same. They had not spoken to one another since Neherinach. Now his uncle glanced sidelong at him, a slow smile spreading over his face. He patted himself down, feeling for wounds and finding none.

“Well done, lad,” he said. “Well done!”

“Was it?” Dani murmured.

Uncle Thulu frowned at him. “Would you have done elsewise?”

“No.” Dani shivered, remembering the way the vinewrapped Fjeltroll had rolled his eyes to meet his when he had plucked the vial from its palm. It had spoken the common tongue. He hadn’t expected that. Malthus should have warned him. They were more than mere beasts.

Killers, nonetheless.

Perhaps your people would not have been slain for your actions.

He shivered harder, wrapping his arms around himself, wondering how they had died. Quickly, he hoped. The Fjeltroll had offered him as much.

There was no pursuit; not that day, nor the next. They turned southward, making their way through a dense forest of spruce. The trees were ancient, their trunks covered with green moss, so vast Dani and Thulu could not have encircled them with joined arms. Ferns grew thick on the forest floor, turning brown and brittle with the advent of autumn. It was hard to walk without them crackling underfoot. With each crunching footfall, Dani felt the skin between his shoulder blades prickle.

Still, they saw no Fjeltroll. On the third day, they learned why.

No boundary stone marked the border between Fjel territory and Staccia, a nation of Men. They had no way of knowing they had crossed it until they emerged from the forest to find a vast structure of grey stone; a stone Keep, built by Men’s hands. Dani froze, staring at it uncomprehending. After endless days without a glimpse of human life, something so big seemed impossible.

“Back into the woods, lad,” Uncle Thulu muttered. “Quick and quiet, before we’re seen!”

Too late. Behind them, the ferns crackled.

“Vas leggis?” It was a woman’s voice, sharp with anger. “Vas jagen?”

Dani turned slowly, showing his open hands. The woman was young, scarce older than he, clad in leather hunting gear, with blonde hair tied in a braid. As she glared at him, he saw fear and confusion in her face; but it was resolute, too. She reminded him a little bit of Fianna, for she held a hunting bow, an arrow nocked and aimed at his heart, and he did not doubt that she knew how to use it.

“I am sorry,” he said in the common tongue. “We do not speak your language. We are lost. We will go.” Moving cautiously, he tapped his chest then pointed into the forest. “We will go, leave.”

“No.” She shook her head, gesturing toward the Keep with the point of her arrow. Her brow furrowed as she searched for words. “Go there.”

Dani glanced at his uncle.

“Go there!” The arrow gestured with a fierce jerk.

“I don’t think she means to give us a choice, lad,” Uncle Thulu said.

If his skin had prickled in the forest, it was nothing to what he felt here, crossing open territory with the point of a drawn arrow leveled at his back. The Keep loomed before them, grey and ominous. A reek of charred wood was in the air, as though a hundred campfires had been extinguished at once.

As they drew nearer, Dani saw the source. There was a wooden building in the courtyard, or had been, once. Where the foundation had stood, there was nothing but a heap of ash and debris, strewn with scorched beams. He touched the vial at his throat for reassurance, glancing over his shoulder at the woman. “What happened here?”

She stared at him. “Fjeltroll.”

At the tall doors of the Keep, she rapped for entry, speaking in Staccian to the woman who opened the spy-hole to peer out at her. The spy-hole was closed, and they waited. Dani eyed the doors. They were wrought of massive timbers, wood from the forest. Here and there, pale gouges showed where Fjel talons had scored them.

“I thought the Fjeltroll and the Staccians were allies,” he whispered to his uncle.

“So did I,” Uncle Thulu whispered back. “Keep quiet, lad; wait and see.”

The doors were unbarred and flung open with a crash. Dani jumped and felt the point of an arrow prod his back. Their captor repeated her words, mangling the syllables with her thick accent. “You go there!”

They entered the Keep.

Inside, a dozen women awaited them, hands grasping unfamiliar weapons. Dani glanced about him. Women, all women. Where were the men? There were only women. From what little he knew of life outside the desert, the genders did not dwell apart any more than they did within it. On each of their faces, he saw the same emotions manifested: a resolute anger, belying the shock and horror that lay beneath it.

He knew that look. It plucked a chord within him, one that had sounded at the Fjeltroll’s terrible words, one that was only beginning to settle into his flesh in the form of fearful knowledge.

Something bad, something very, very bad had happened here.

At their head was a woman of middle years, holding a heavy sword aloft in a two-handed grip. She had brown hair, parted in the center and drawn back on either side, and her face was a study in grim determination.

“Who are you?” She spoke the common tongue, spitting the words in distaste. “What seek you here?”

“Lady.” Uncle Thulu spoke in a soothing voice. “Forgive us. We are travelers, far from home. What is this place?”

“Gerflod,” she said grimly. “It is Gerflod, and I am Sorhild, who was wed to Coenred, Earl of Gerflod. Darklings, dark of skin; you do not come from Staccia, and I do not believe you come lost. What do you want?” Holding the sword aloft, she gritted her teeth. “Did Darkhaven send you?”

“No, lady.” Dani spoke before his uncle could reply. He met Sorhild’s blue-grey gaze, holding it steadily. “It is Darkhaven we seek, but Darkhaven did not send us. We are Yarru, from the place you call the Unknown Desert.”

“Dani!” Uncle Thulu’s protest came too late. The damage, if it were damage, was done.

Sorhild’s eyes widened and something in her expression shifted; hope, painful and tenuous, entered. The sword trembled in her hands. “The Unknown Desert?”

Dani nodded, not trusting his voice.

“‘When the unknown is made known …’” Sorhild quoted the words of Haomane’s Prophecy and gave a choked laugh, covering her face with both careworn hands. Her sword clattered against the marble flagstones as it fell. “Let them enter,” she said, half-stifled. “It is the Galäinridder’s will they serve.”

At her insistence, Dani and Thulu spent the night in Gerflod Keep and learned what had transpired there. They heard the tale of the Galäinridder, who had come upon Gerflod in terror and splendor; of his white robes and his pale horse, of the blazing gem upon his breast, and the horrible warning he bore. War was coming, and Haomane would fall in his wrath upon all who opposed him; those who did were already marked for death. They heard how the Galäinridder, the Bright Paladin, had changed the hearts of the Staccians who beheld him, charging their spirits with defiance.

“Was it Malthus?” Dani whispered to his uncle. “Why didn’t he come for us?”

“Who can say, lad?” Thulu shrugged. “The ways of wizards are deep and strange.”

They learned of dissension in Staccia, and how the lords along the Galäinridder’s route had gathered themselves for battle, making ready to ride to the plains of Curonan to await the coming war, filled with the fire of their changed hearts. And they learned how Earl Coenred had stayed, reckoning he guarded a more important thing.

Vesdarlig Passage.

It was a tunnel, a very old tunnel, leading to Darkhaven itself. Staccians and Fjel had used it from time out of mind. And from it, a company had come; Men and Fjel. Earl Coenred had seen them emerge and knew they were bound for his estate. He had sent away the women and children of Gerflod, bidding them take shelter at a neighboring manor house.

“There was a slaughter.” Sorhild, wife of Coenred, told the story sitting at the head of the long table in the Great Hall, her eyes red-rimmed from long nights of weeping. “It is all we found upon our return. Bodies stacked like cordwood, and bloody Fjel footprints upon the floor, everywhere.” She smiled grimly. “My husband and his men fought bravely. There were many human dead among those Darkhaven had sent. But they were no match for the Fjel.”

“No,” Dani murmured. “They would not be.”

In the small hours of the night, her words haunted him. It was too easy, here, to envision it; it was written in the grieving visages of the women, in the bloodstained cracks of the floors. And if it was real here, it was real at home, too. He thought about Warabi, old Ngurra’s wife, always scolding to hide her soft heart. It was impossible to think she was not there in the Stone Grove, awaiting their return. And Ngurra, ah! Ngurra, who had tried to teach him all his life what it meant to be the Bearer, patient and forbearing. Dani had never understood, not really.

Now, he wished he didn’t.

“We cannot linger here,” he whispered, hearing his uncle toss restlessly on the pallet next to him. “If there is pursuit, we would lead the Fjel to their doorstep”

“I know, lad.” Uncle Thulu’s voice was somber. “We’ll leave at first light. What do you think about this tunnel she spoke of?”

“I don’t know.” Dani stared at the rafters overhead, faintly visible in the moonlight that filtered through the narrow window. It made him uneasy, all this wood and stone above him. The thought of being trapped beneath the earth for league upon league made his throat feel tight. “Are there more Fjel hunting us, do you think?”

“We cannot afford to assume otherwise,” Thulu said. “But from which direction?”

“If they come from the north, the tunnel is the last place they would think to look for us. But if they come from Darkhaven …” Dani rolled onto his side, gazing in his uncle’s direction.

Uncle Thulu’s eyes glimmered. “We’d be trapped like rabbits in a burrow.”

“Aye.” Dani shuddered. “Uncle, I am afraid. You must choose. You are my guide, and I trust you. Whichever path you choose, I will follow.”

In the darkness, Thulu nodded. “So be it. Leave me to think upon it, and I’ll name my choice come dawn.”