Godslayer

FOURTEEN

Dawn broke over the plains of Curonan, a glorious and terrifying sight. The sun’s red orb crept slowly over the eastern horizon, staining the waving grass until it resembled a sea of blood. To the west, the mountains of Gorgantum threw up a defiant challenge, their implacable peaks shrouded in darkness.

At night, drenched in silvery moonlight, the plains had been a safe and magical place. It was different by daylight, with the eye of Haomane’s Wrath opening in the east and the baleful shadow of Gorgantum to the west. Caught between the two on the vast, open space of the plains, Dani felt horribly conspicuous.

“Which way, lad?” Uncle Thulu asked quietly.

Grasping the clay flask that hung about his neck, Dani bowed his head. Sunlight, he knew. Haomane’s Wrath could be terrible and impersonal, but he knew it. He was Yarru, and he understood. Darkness was another matter. Darkness, in which the Sunderer awaited; Satoris Banewreaker, who had slain his people, who wanted nothing more than for Dani to die so he could spill the Water of Life upon barren ground.

And more than anything else, Dani did not want to enter the shadow of those mountains. But he was the Bearer, and the burden of choice was upon him.

“Darkhaven,” he said. “We go toward Darkhaven.”

Uncle Thulu nodded. “So be it.”

They set out at a steady walk, the sun at their backs, trampling their shadows into the sweet-smelling grass. They did not speak of how entrance might be gained into the Vale of Gorgantum. For the moment, the journey alone sufficed.

Hours later, the mountains scarcely seemed closer. Distances were as deceiving on the plains as they were in the desert. What it was that made Dani glance over his shoulder toward the eastern horizon, he could not have said. Regret, perhaps, or simple longing. It had crossed his mind that if the plains were not so immense, they might find Malthus in the east; Malthus, whose wisdom could guide him.

What he saw made him shudder.

“Uncle.” His nails bit into Thulu’s arm. “Look.”

Ravens; a flock of ravens. A long way off, a smudge of darkness against the bright sky, but coming fast. Dani remembered how a trio of ravens had found them in the marshy land on the outskirts of Vedasia, circling high above them. How Malthus’ voice had risen like thunder, giving warning. The eyes of the Sunderer are upon us! How Fianna had leapt from the saddle; the Archer of Arduan, the longbow singing in her hands. One, two, three, and her arrows had streaked skyward, striking down the Sunderer’s spying eyes.

Not here.

“Run,” said Thulu, and they ran without thought, sprinting over the plains, the long grass lashing their legs. There was no cover, not so much as a shrub. Nowhere to hide. Once the ravens spotted them, there would be Fjeltroll; hundreds of them. Thousands. And the Slayer, the man on the black horse, who had drawn his black blade to kill Malthus in the Marasoumië. Dani’s heart pounded in his chest In the forests of Pelmar, he had watched mice scurry beneath the shadow of a hunting owl’s wings. Perhaps it was a swifter death than being swallowed by a snake, but the terror was worse.

If there was any chance he survived this ordeal, he decided, he would never hunt hopping-mice again.

The thought made him careless; his foot struck something hard and stony, hidden by the thick grass, and he fell headlong. Both hands rose instinctively to protect the clay vial as he struck the ground hard, the impact jarring the breath from him. He fumbled at the vial. It was unbroken, but the cork stopper had been knocked partially loose, and moisture gleamed on its exposed surface. With frantic fingers, Dani shoved it back in place. Only then did the constriction in his chest ease, and his breath returned in a sobbing gasp. He could smell the Water of Life in the air, its clean, mineral essence rising like a beacon.

“Are you all right?” Uncle Thulu’s voice was taut.

“Aye.” Dani glanced down at the object that had tripped him. It was the lip of a ventilation shaft. He felt for the grass rope he had woven, coiled in his pack. “Uncle. Surely we must have cleared the blockage.”

Their eyes met, a spark of hope leaping between them; then Thulu shook his head. “Without the rockpile beneath us, the rope’s too short,” he said wearily. “The fall from the shaft would kill us. Even if it wasn’t”—he gestured around—“there’s naught to anchor the rope, lad.”

Dani bowed his head, stroking the rope’s plaited length. A trace of moisture glistened on his fingertips. His pulse quickened, and he began to chant the Song of Being under his breath.

“Lad,” Thulu began, then fell silent as the rope began to grow beneath Dani’s fingertips, stalks seeding and sprouting, stretching and growing in ever-lengthening plaits, young and strong and green. One end sprouted roots, pale tendrils questing in the open air.

Still chanting, Dani risked a glance toward the east. The ravens were coming; no longer a smudge, but a wedgeshaped cloud, soaring and wheeling, mighty enough to cast a shadow on the plains. It rode before them on the grass, darkness moving over the waves, veering in their direction. Something had caught their attention; perhaps movement, perhaps the scent of the Water of Life itself, faint and rising.

His voice faltered, then continued. There was no other avenue of escape. In one swift gesture, he stabbed the rope’s end into the cold soil, feeling the tendrils take root, sending their shoots into the dark earth. The plaited stalks continued to lengthen and twine, whispering like a snake’s coils between his palms. He tugged once, experimentally. The rope was firmly rooted.

“It will never hold us,” Uncle Thulu said flatly.

“It will,” Dani said. “It has to.”

He did not offer this time, but simply went, clearing away the overgrown grass and clambering into the shaft. The rope felt sturdy in his hands, though he could hear the hoarse, dry rustle of its growth echoing in the shaft.

Hand over hand, Dani lowered himself into darkness.

It was a narrower shaft than the other. His elbows scraped the sides, and he prayed Uncle Thulu would fit. It was a relief when he cleared the shaft, dangling in the empty darkness. Ignoring his aching shoulder for the hundredth time, he went as quickly as he dared, fearful despite his assurance that the rope would end before his feet touched the floor of the tunnel.

It didn’t.

“Uncle!” he called. “Hurry!”

What faint light the shaft admitted was blocked by Thulu’s body. Muffled sounds of scraping and banging ensued, accompanied by a muttered stream of Yarru invective. Dani clutched the rope to hold it steady, his heart in his throat until he saw daylight once more and, at the apex of the tunnel, his uncle’s battered figure clinging to the rope, lowering himself at a dangerous pace.

Then he was down, a broad grin visible on his dark face. “Think I left half my skin on that damned rock, lad!”

“Did they see us?” Dani asked anxiously.

Thulu shook his head. “I don’t think so. Uru-Alat, boy! You were as quick as a rabbit. I followed as best I could.” He touched Dani’s shoulder. “Well done, Bearer.”

“I’m glad you’re safe.” He hugged Uncle Thulu, wrapping both arms around his solid warmth, feeling his embrace returned. For a moment, the world was a familiar place, safe and loving.

“So am I, Dani.” Thulu’s breath stirred his hair. “So am I.” Squeezing Dani’s arms, he released him. “You know it only gets harder, don’t you?” His expression had turned somber. “We left the torches in the other tunnel. In a dozen paces, we’ll be traveling blind into Darkhaven. And I do not know the way, or what branchings lie along it.”

“I know. And I am afraid. But you are my guide, and I trust you to guide me.” Dani laughed softly, stroking the grass-plaited rope that hung beside him. “I have been traveling blind from the beginning, Uncle. It is only now I begin to see, at least a little bit.”

The plaited rope shivered beneath his touch. It was dwindling, the sere grass stalks crackling as they returned to their natural length. There had not been enough of the Water of Life to sustain its impossible growth, not with winter’s breath at their necks. Dani released it, and the Yarru watched in silence as it shrank, the loose end retreating into the dimly lit shaft high above their heads.

There it hung, brittle and useless. There would be no pursuit from that quarter—and no escape.

Thulu shuddered. “I told you it wouldn’t hold us!”

“Aye.” Dani grasped the flask at his throat, feeling at the cork to ensure it was firmly in place. “But it did.” He squared his shoulders beneath the burden of the Bearer’s responsibility and set his face toward the unknown. “Let’s go.”

Together, they set out into the impenetrable dark.

They were coming.

In the swirling, gleaming darkness that encircled the Tower of Ravens, it was all the Ravensmirror showed.

It was nothing they had not seen before, in bits and pieces. And yet here it was in its entirety. The promise of the red star had come to fruition. Upon the outskirts of Curonan, Haomane’s Allies had converged into an army the likes of which had not been seen since the Fourth Age of the Sundered World.

And perhaps not even then, Tanaros thought, watching the images emerge. Dwarfs. Yrinna’s Children, who had maintained her Peace since before the world was Sundered. They had turned their back on Lord Satoris’ Gift, refusing to increase their numbers, refusing to take part in the Shapers’ War, tending instead to the earth’s fecundity, to the bounty that Yrinna’s Gift brought forth.

No more.

He gazed at them in the Ravensmirror; small figures, but doughty, gnarled, and weathered as ancient roots, trudging through the tall grass alongside the gleaming knights of Vedasia. Their strong hands clutched axes and scythes; good for cutting stock, good for shearing flesh. What had inspired them to war?

“Malthus,” Lord Satoris whispered, his fists clenching. “What have you done?”

Malthus the Wise Counselor was there, the clear gem ablaze on his breast, the Spear of Light upright in his hand; he was there, they all were. Aracus Altorus, riding beneath the ancient insignia of his House; Blaise Caveros beside him, steady and loyal. There was the Borderguard of Curonan, with their dun-grey cloaks. There were all the others; Pelmarans in forest-green, Duke Bornin of Seahold in blue and silver, a motley assortment of others. Midlanders, Free Fishers, Arduan Archers. Ah, so many! Ingolin the Wise, and his Rivenlost Host, shining in stern challenge. There was no attempt to hide. Not now, no longer. Even the archers paid the circling ravens no heed; conserving their arrows, concealing nothing.

They were coming, parting the tall grass as they rode.

“Come,” Lord Satoris crooned. “Come.”

The Ravensmirror turned and turned, and there was a reflection of ravens in it; a twice-mirrored image of dark wings rising in a beating cloud, carried on a glossy current of dark wings. Tanaros frowned and blinked, then understood. They had been feasting on the pile of Staccian dead he had left on the plains for Haomane’s Allies to find. There were the headless bodies, heaped and abandoned. There were Haomane’s Allies, reading the message he had scratched onto the marker stone. A ripple ran through their ranks. There was Malthus, bowing his head in sorrow, grasping his gem and murmuring a prayer, white light blazing red between his fingers. There was Aracus Altorus, turning to face them, drawing his sword and speaking fierce words; an oath of vengeance, perhaps.

Vorax licked dry lips and glanced sidelong at Tanaros. “How long?”

“A day’s ride,” Tanaros said. “At their pace, perhaps two.” He watched fixedly, trying to decide which of them he despised the most. Aracus Altorus, with his arrogant stare and Calista’s faithless blood running in his veins? Malthus the Counselor, Haomane’s Weapon, the architect of this war? Or perhaps Ingolin the Wise, Lord of the Rivenlost. What an honor it was he had deigned to lead his people into battle, how conscious he was of it!

And then there was Blaise of the Borderguard; his own kinsman, many generations removed. How proud he was to be at the right hand of the Scion of House Altorus! How determined he was to make amends for his ancestor’s treachery! Tanaros narrowed his eyes, studying the Borderguardsman’s seat, the way his hand hovered near his hilt, gauging his skills.

“You’re better than he is, aren’t you?” Tanaros murmured. “I was always better than Roscus, too. But we must keep the positions to which we were born, mustn’t we?” Hatred coiled like a serpent in his entrails. “All things in their place,” he said bitterly. “Order must be preserved as the Lord-of-Thought decrees.”

“Haomane.” The Shaper’s low voice made the stones vibrate. In the center of the Tower, he gave a mirthless laugh. “Enough! I have seen enough.”

The Ravensmirror dispersed.

“You know your jobs.” Lord Satoris turned away. “Prepare.”

A weight settled on Tanaros’ shoulder; he startled, seeing Fetch’s eye so near his own, black and beady. There had been none of the disconcerting echo of doubled vision he had experienced before. “Fetch!” he said, his heart gladdening unexpectedly. “I did not know you were here.”

The raven wiped its beak on his doublet. Its thoughts nudged at his own. Grass, an ocean of grass, the swift, tilting journey across the plains of Curonan to report … and, what? A stirring, a tendril of scent wafting on the high drafts. Water, all the fresh water the raven had ever seen; the sluggish Gorgantus, the leaping flume of the White, the broad, shining path of the Aven. A hidden Staccian lake, a blue eye reflecting sky; a water-hole in the Unknown Desert. Rain, falling in grey veils.

Water, mineral-rich, smelling of life.

Green things growing.

Tanaros swallowed. “What do you seek to tell me?”

The raven’s thoughts flickered and the plains rushed up toward him, stalks of rustling grass growing huge. Rustling. Something was sliding through the grass; a viper, sliding over the edge of a stone lip. No. A length of braided rope, vanishing.

Then it was gone and there was only the wind and the plains, and then that too was gone, and there was only Fetch, his claws pricking Tanaros’ shoulder. His Lordship had gone, and Vorax, too. Ushahin alone remained in the Tower of Ravens with them, his new sword awkward at his side, a glitter of fear in his mismatched eyes.

“You saw?” Tanaros asked hoarsely.

“Yes.”

Tanaros pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes. “Do we tell his Lordship?”

“It is for γou to decide, cousin.” Ushahin’s voice was quiet. “You know well the course I would advocate.”

“No.” Tanaros lowered his hands. On his shoulder, Fetch chuckled uneasily deep in his throat. “She has nothing to do with this, Dreamspinner.”

Ushahin shrugged and said nothing.

“All right.” Tanaros took a deep breath. “I will tell him.”

He made his way through the fortress, following his Lordship’s path. To his surprise, Fetch remained with him, riding his shoulder with familiar comfort. Where the Shaper had passed, his presence hung in the air, the copper-sweet tang of his blood mixed with the lowering sense of thunder. Approaching the threefold doors to the Chamber of the Font, Tanaros felt as though he were swimming in it, and his branded heart ached with love and sorrow. Through the door, he heard his Lordship’s summons.

“Come, Blacksword.”

The Font’s brilliance hurt his eyes. Facing away from it and squinting, he told Lord Satoris what he had sensed in Fetch’s thoughts. In the Tower, it had seemed a fearful concern with which to burden his Lordship, but as he spoke the words, they began to sound foolish.

“A scent,” the Shaper said thoughtfully. “A rope.”

“My Lord, I believe it was the odor of the Water of Life,” Tanaros said, remembering the Well of the World. “And the rope … the rope was of Yarru making. I have seen its like before.” He was grateful for the slight weight of the raven on his shoulder, steadying him. “My Lord, I fear the Bearer is making his way toward Darkhaven.”

“Yes.” In the darkness beyond the Font, the Shaper sighed and the shadows seemed to sigh with him. “He is coming, Tanaros Blacksword. They are all coming, all my Elder Brother’s little puppets.”

“My Lord?”

“They are always coming, and they have always been coming, since long before the world was Sundered, since before there was a world to dream of Sundering. I have always known. It is only the when of it that remains uncertain; even here, even now. But they are mistaken if they believe this is the end. This time, or any other time. There is no end, save in beginning. Even the Lord-of-Thought cannot change this pattern.” The Shaper drew near, waves of power emanating from him. “Curious little raven,” he said to Fetch. “Whose thoughts have you been thinking?”

Fetch chuckled.

“Ah.” A long, silent moment passed between them. The dark ghost of a smile crossed Lord Satoris’ ruined visage. “Thank you, loyal Tanaros, for bringing me this small guest.” He inclined his head. “For this small kindness.”

“My Lord?” Tanaros repeated, confused and fearful that his Lordship was succumbing to madness after all.

“It comes and goes, my general, the way of all things.” The Shaper raised one hand in a gesture of dismissal. “As you, now, shall go.”

“What of the Bearer, my Lord?”

“Malthus’ spell hides him even from the eyes of the Souma.” Lord Satoris shook his head. “There is nothing I can do. Would you have me tell you your business, Blacksword? Double your patrols in the tunnels between here and the blockage.”

“My Lord.” Bowing carefully, mindful of Fetch, Tanaros took his leave.

Aboveground once more, he made his way to the great entrance, where the Havenguard admitted him passage through the tall doors. It was another cold, clear night. Standing in the courtyard, he moved Fetch to his forearm and stood for a moment, thinking about the oncoming army, about a length of plaited rope, old Ngurra’s face beneath the shadow of his sword, and the dark-skinned boy he had seen in the Ways, the questioning look on his face. He thought about Cerelinde in her chambers, praying for rescue, and his Lordship’s strange mood, and about Fetch.

“Whose thoughts have you been thinking?” he asked the raven, stroking him with one finger. Fetch ducked his head, shifting from foot to foot. “What happened to you before you found me in the desert?”

For an instant, Tanaros saw himself once more through the raven’s vision: a stark, noble figure with haunted eyes, mantled in passions that flickered like dark fire around the edges of his being, a doom he carried like embers in his cupped hands. Scarred hands and a scarred heart, capable of tenderness or violence, and behind him stars falling endlessly, lovely and dying.

Somewhere, a dragon roared.

“So be it,” Tanaros whispered. “Go, little brother, and find shelter from the coming storm.” Lifting his arm, he watched the raven take flight, black wings glossy in the starlight. “Good-bye, Fetch.”

A small kindness.

His eyes stung; touching them, he found them wet with tears. Hyrgolf was right, he would feel better once the battle was joined. Gathering himself, Tanaros went to rouse Speros and give him new orders.

In the small hours of the night, Malthus the Wise Counselor sat silently on a narrow folding stool in a corner of Aracus Altorus’ tent, watching the pupil he had taught for so many years pace its confines, restless and unable to sleep.

“Out with it,” he said at last. “You cannot afford to ride into battle already weary, Aracus.”

Aracus’ gaze lit, as it had many times that night, on the coffer that held the tourmaline stone linked to the Bearer of the Water of Life. “It was dimmer,” he said. “Not by much, but a little. Others did not notice, but I did. I saw it, Malthus.”

“Yes.” The Counselor folded his hands in his sleeves. “I know.”

“Does it mean the Bearer is failing?” His tone was harsh. “Dying?”

“I cannot say, Aracus,” Malthus replied quietly. “No more than I could before. I lack the knowledge, for this is a thing that has never been done. But if you would ask what thought is in my heart, it is that the Water of Life dwindles as the Bearer perseveres. Dani used it in Malumdoorn to answer the Dwarfs’ challenge of the Greening. He knows its power.”

“Dwindles,” Aracus repeated, following a path worn by his restless feet. He shot a glance at the Counselor. “By how much, Malthus? How much is required to extinguish the marrow-fire? How much remains? Enough?”

Malthus shook his hoary head. “I know not, and cannot say.”

“No?” Aracus eyed him. “How many times have you withheld the fullness of your knowledge from me, Malthus? Your plots have ever been deep-laid. I wonder, betimes, what you fail to tell me now.”

“There is nothing.” Malthus touched the gem on his breast. Its clear blaze underscored the deep lines graven on his features. “Forgive me, Son of Altorus. The Lord-of-Thought’s will is set in motion, and I, like this Soumanië I bear, will soon be spent. There is some service I may yet do to lure the Sunderer’s minions from his lair. But I have no more knowledge to conceal.” He smiled sadly. “The unknown is made known. There is nothing more I may tell you.”

“Would that there was!” The words burst from Aracus. He fetched up before Malthus and flung himself to his knees, his face pale and strained. “Wise Counselor, I am leading men, good men, unto their deaths; Men, aye, and Ellylon and Dwarfs. Whatever else happens, this much is certain. And they are trusting me to do it because I was born to it; because of a Prophecy spoken a thousand years before my birth.” He gave a choked laugh, his wide-set eyes pleading. “Tell me it is necessary, Malthus! Tell me, whatever happens, that it is all worthwhile.”

A man’s face, holding the phantom of the boy he had been, reckoning the cost of youth’s dreams. How many generations had it taken for one such as him to come? Malthus the Counselor reached out, cupping the cheek of the boy he remembered, speaking to the man he had become.

“All things,” he said gently, “must be as they are.”

Aracus bowed his head, red-gold hair falling to hide his expression. “Is that all the comfort you have to offer?”

“Yes,” Malthus said, filled with a terrible pity. “It is.”

“So be it.” Aracus Altorus touched the hilt of his sword; the sword of his ancestors, a dull and lifeless Soumanië set in its pommel. “Strange,” he murmured. “It seems to me I have heard those words before, only it was the Sorceress who spoke them. Perhaps I should have listened more closely.”

“We all choose our paths,” Malthus said. “Unless you wish to follow hers, soaked in innocent blood, it is the better part of wisdom to pay her words scant heed; for such truth as they held, the Sorceress twisted to justify her own deeds. Yet there was more folly in her than evil, and even one such as she may have a role to play in the end. Do not discount Lilias of Beshtanag.”

“You counsel hope?” Aracus lifted his head.

“Yes,” said Malthus. “Always.” He smiled at Aracus. “Come. Since sleep evades you, let us review the ways in which the Soumanië’s power may be invoked and used, for it is my hope that such knowledge may yet be needful.”

With a sigh, Aracus Altorus began to repeat his mentor’s teaching.