Godslayer

SEVENTEEN

The three quarreled about it, but in the end, Vorax won. He would serve as his Lordship’s envoy. It had to be one of the Three; on that, they agreed. No one else could be trusted with a task of paramount importance. They did not agree it should be Vorax.

It was the logical choice, though Tanaros Blacksword and the Dreamspinner refused to see it, arguing that he was needed in Darkhaven, that they could ill afford the delay. Vorax listened until he could abide no more of their foolishness, then brought his gauntleted fists crashing down upon the table in the center of the Warchamber.

“We are speaking of driving a bargain!” he roared. “Have either of you an ounce of skill at it?”

They didn’t, of course, and his outburst made them jump, which made him chuckle inwardly. It wasn’t every day any of the Three was startled. There was menace in the old bear yet. In the end, they relented.

He spent the morning supervising the creation of a supply-train, shifting most of the contents of the larder, arranging for it to be carted down the Defile. Meat was a problem, but it could be hastily smoked; enough to provide for the Fjel, at least. There was food aplenty. Vorax had prepared for a siege of weeks; months. As long as it took. A battle on open ground, that was another matter.

It was folly, but it was his Lordship’s folly. And in truth, although his head was loath, the blood in his veins still beat hard at the thought of it, remembering the maddening call of the Ellylon horns.

Still, it would take a cool head to negotiate the matter. That ruled out Blacksword, who was like to lose his the moment he clapped eyes on Aracus Altorus, and the Dreamspinner … well. The half-breed could be cool enough when he chose, and betimes he spoke sense in his foolhardy madness, but he was as unpredictable as spring weather in Staccia.

No, it had to be Vorax.

When the matter of supplies had been dealt with to his satisfaction, he retired to his chambers and ate a hearty dinner, enough to give him ballast for the task to come. He kissed his handmaids good-bye and fancied he saw a shadow of concern in the eyes of the youngest. An old bear was entitled to his fancy. It heartened him when he went to speak to the Ellyl bitch.

Cool heads; now, there was one. She didn’t bat a lash at his query, just stared at him with those unsettling eyes and said, “Why should I assist you, Lord Vorax? It is not in my interest to give you tools with which to bargain.”

He shrugged. “Lady, your only chance lies in this battle. If I’m not satisfied with the negotiations, it will not happen. Do you want to take that chance?”

She turned her head. What thoughts were passing beneath that smooth white brow, he could not have said. “Is Lord Ingolin in the field?”

“Your Rivenlost Lord?” Vorax scratched his beard. He hadn’t picked him out from atop the crag, but the Ravensmirror had shown him leading the Host of the Ellylon. “Aye, Lady. He’s there.”

“Then tell them I said Meronil must have rung with the sound of horns this morning.” She spoke without deigning to look at him. “By that token, they will know I live.”

“Ladyship.” He bowed with an ironic flourish. “My thanks.”

He took his leave of her, accompanied by a pair of Havenguard. Tanaros had insisted upon it. The General might be hotheaded, but he was cautious of the Ellyl bitch’s safety. Wisely enough, since Vorax would as lief see her dead.

His escort was waiting at the Defile Gate; ten of his Staccians, a company of thirty Fjel including a pair of Kaldjager scouts, and the young Midlander Speros. Vorax had his doubts about the lad—he was untried, desert travail or no—but he knew when to hold the line and when to quibble. It was what made him a shrewd bargainer; that, and the fact that he didn’t look shrewd.

It felt strange to pass through the Gate, to abandon the safety of the thick walls and unscalable heights and enter the narrow Defile. There was little danger here—the Defile was well guarded from above—but it brought home the reality of the folly of his Lordship’s decision; aye, and the excitement, too. His skin crawled at the same time he found himself humming battle-paeans.

“If it be folly, let it be a glorious one,” he said aloud.

“Sir?” The Midlander glanced at him.

“Battle, lad. This battle.”

They passed through the Weavers’ Gulch without incident, the Kaldjager striding ahead to part the sticky veils. Vorax regarded the scuttling spiders with distaste. The Dreamspinner was fond of them, finding some arcane beauty in the patterns they wove. Small wonder he was mad, though it was a madness he shared with Lord Satoris. One of several, perhaps.

For the remainder of the descent, they spoke little, paying close heed to the dangerous trail. The Kaldjager had vanished, but Vorax could hear their sharp, guttural cries and the answer of the Tordenstem sentries above, low and booming. He wished they had more Kaldjager. The Cold Hunters were tireless in the chase, and if there was any weakness in their enemy’s rearguard that could be exploited, they would find a way to circle around and sniff it out.

Too many lost in the northern territories, chasing down a rumor, a whisper of prophecy. Vorax would have given up his youngest handmaid to know what had truly happened there. Some trick of Malthus’, like as not. There was simply no way a pair of desert-bred Charred Folk could have evaded the Kaldjager and defeated an entire company of Fjel.

The Kaldjager were waiting at the last bend, before the Defile opened its Maw, crouched like a pair of yellow-eyed boulders. They nodded at him, indicating the way was clear.

“All right, lads.” Vorax settled his bulk more comfortably in the saddle and pointed with his bearded chin. “Let’s drive a bargain.”

They filed ahead of him, rounding the bend. Eigil, his Staccian lieutenant—the last one so appointed—carried their banner, the black banner of Darkhaven with the red dagger of Godslayer in the center. He was young for the task, but what else was Vorax to do? He had lost his best man, Carfax, in the decoy flight to Beshtanag; Osric had fallen to Staccian treachery. His blood still boiled when he thought about it. Speros of Haimhault carried the parleybanner; a pale blue oriflamme, unadorned. He took his job seriously, knuckles white on the banner’s haft.

A silvery blast of horns sounded the instant they were seen. Vorax scowled into his beard. Trust the damned Ellylon to make a production of war. He waited for Eigil’s answering shout.

“Lord Vorax of Darkhaven will entertain a delegation!”

He rode around the bend, traversing the final descent, lifting one hand in acknowledgment. It was a shock to see Haomane’s Allies at close range. There were so many, covering the plains, arrayed no more than fifty yards from the Maw itself. His company was clustered at its base, the Fjel with their shields held high, prepared to defend his retreat if necessary.

Haomane’s Allies stirred, conversing among themselves. He watched figures gesticulating, wondering if they argued as did the Three.

They knew the protocol. Three figures relinquished their arms with ceremony and rode forward, accompanied by an escort of forty Men and Ellylon. Half wore the dun-grey cloaks of the Borderguard; half the bright armor of the Rivenlost. There were no archers among them. If it came to a fight, it would be fair.

Vorax waited.

Malthus, Ingolin, Aracus; Haomane’s Counselor, the Lord of the Rivenlost, and the Scion of Altorus. Vorax took their measure as they approached, riding from sunlight into the mountain’s shadow. Their escort fanned out in a loose circle. His remained where they stood; shields high, bristling with weapons. The pale blue oriflamme in Speros’ hands trembled, then steadied.

“Vorax of Staccia!” Aracus Altorus’ voice was hard and taut. One hand rested on the hilt of his ancestral sword, drawing attention to the dull red gem set in its pommel. “We have come to demand that the Lady Cerelinde be restored to us.”

Vorax laughed. “Why, so you have, little Man. Will you go if she is?”

It made the would-be King of the West uncertain; he frowned hard, staring. Malthus the Counselor exchanged a glance with Ingolin the Wise and shook his whitemaned head.

“Vorax.” His voice was gentle; almost kind. The clear Soumanië on his breast sparkled. “Do not insult us with false promises. Your Dark Lord knows what we are about. Why does he send you? What is his will?”

Vorax smiled. It was always good to establish the principal agent in any bargain. “One that should please you, wizard. For a small price, it is his Lordship’s will to give you what you desire.”

“Cerelinde!” Aracus Altorus breathed.

“War,” the Rivenlost Lord said gravely.

“War,” Vorax said, agreeing with the latter. Broadening his smile, he opened his arms. “What else have you courted so assiduously? You have swayed him, wizard; you have swayed us all! His Lordship is willing to meet the forces of Haomane’s Allies upon the plain. And yet, we must have certain assurances.”

Aracus Altorus raised his brows. “Why should we bargain with you?”

“Ah, little Man!” Vorax bent a benign glance upon him. “Do you see these heights?” He pointed toward the Gorgantus Mountains. “They cannot be scaled. There is but one passage, and believe me, if you believe nothing else I say, when I tell you it is well guarded. You have no leverage here.”

“What is the Sunderer’s price?” Malthus asked.

“Fall back.” Vorax shrugged. “As I said, it is a small one. You seek battle; his Lordship is willing to give it. Fall back … half a league, no more. Allow our forces to assemble and meet yours in fair combat upon the plains. No attack shall begin until the signal is given.”

The Counselor nodded. “And if we do not agree?”

“Look around you.” Vorax indicated the plains with a sweep of his hand. “Can you fill your bellies with grass, like horses? I think not, Haomane’s Counselor. Darkhaven can outwait you. Darkhaven will outwait you.”

Malthus smiled, wrinkles creasing his face. The Soumanië nestled in his beard brightened, starry. “Will you?” he asked. “Oh, I think not, Vorax of Staccia. The Sunderer’s will is fixed.”

Vorax squinted sidelong at the Soumanië, feeling the urge to battle quicken his blood. “You’re handy with that, Counselor,” he observed. “Makes me pity my countrymen, those you led into betrayal. I trust you found them waiting, as promised. Doubtless Haomane is pleased.” Bloodlust thickened his tongue, and he nodded at the gem. “Have a care. I come to bargain in good faith.”

“And yet you perceive your weakness,” Malthus said gently.

“Mine, aye.” With an effort, Vorax tore his gaze from the Soumanië. “Funny thing, Counselor. Seems your pretty brooch doesn’t work on the Dreamspinner.” He forced his lips into a smile. “Something in his nature renders him proof against its folly, and he’s right eager to see the Lady Cerelinde dead, is Ushahin Dreamspinner. He doesn’t mind defying Lord Satoris to do it. He’s quite mad, you know.”

Aracus Altorus swore; Malthus passed his hand over the Soumanië, quenching its light.

Ingolin of the Rivenlost, who had sat motionless in the saddle, stirred. “You touch upon my fears, Vorax of Staccia. You are quick to use the Lady Cerelinde’s life as a bargaining chip, yet it is in my heart that the Sunderer has little reason to have spared it to date.”

“Oh, aye, she lives.” Breathing easier, Vorax laughed. “For now, Ellyl lordling. His Lordship,” he added contemptuously, “has staked his honor upon it.”

Ingolin’s melodious voice deepened. “I put no trust in the honor of Satoris Banewreaker. Let her be brought forth, if you would have me believe. Let us see with our own eyes that the Lady Cerelinde lives!”

“See, I thought you might ask that.” Vorax scratched at his beard. “Problem is, Ingolin my friend, she’s our safeguard. I don’t put a great deal of trust in your word.” He gave the Lord of the Rivenlost a friendly smile. “Why, you might break it, if you reckoned it were for the greater good!”

“I would not,” the Ellyl Lord said stiffly. “The Ellylon do not lie.”

“Maybe, maybe not.” Vorax shrugged. “Someone else might break it for you, eh? The Lady stays in Darkhaven. But I asked her for a token, whereby you might know she lives. She asked me if you were in the field. When I said you were, she said, ‘Tell them Meronil must have rung with the sound of horns this morning.’ Does that suffice?”

Ingolin bowed his head, silver hair hiding his features. “Cerelinde,” he whispered.

“Cerelinde,” Vorax agreed. “Whose life hangs by this bargain, and your ability to honor it to the word. Shall we strike it?”

“How do we know you will keep your word?” Aracus Altorus’ eyes blazed. “Perhaps this bargain is but a mockery. What safeguard do you offer, Glutton?”

Vorax glanced around, his gaze falling on the Midlander. “Speros of Haimhault.” He beckoned. “Are you willing to serve?”

“My lord!” The Midlander looked ill. “Aye, my lord.”

“Here you are, then.” Vorax clapped a hand on his shoulder. “He’s the architect of Darkhaven’s defense. Try the Defile, and see what he’s got in store for you! Word is he engineered the means to let General Tanaros fill in that pesky Well in the Unknown Desert, though you might know more of it than I. Any mind, he’s been Tanaros Blacksword’s right-hand Man for some time. Will he suffice?”

They looked shocked; all save Malthus. Did nothing on the face of Urulat shock the damned Counselor? He inclined his head, white beard brushing his chest.

“He will suffice,” Malthus said somberly.

“Good.” Vorax glanced at the sky, gauging the angle of the sun. “You’ll withdraw your troops by dawn on the morrow, on pain of the Lady’s death?”

“We will.”

“Then we will meet you ere noon. You’ll know our signal when we give it.” He grinned. “Gentlemen, I will see you anon!”

His Staccians closed in tight, following as he turned his mount and headed into Defile’s Maw, the Fjel guarding their retreat, step by backward step, shields held high. Below them, Speros of Haimhault sat on his ghost-grey mount and watched them go with desperate eyes.

It was, Vorax thought, a well-struck bargain.

Silver hoarfrost sparkled on the sere grass in the moon-garden, shrouded its plants and trees in cerements of ice. No drops fell from the pale pink blossoms of the mourning-tree, and the corpse-flowers’ pallid glow was extinguished. The mortexigus did not shudder in the little death, shedding its pollen, and the shivering bells of the clamitus atroxis waited in silence. Even the poignant scent of vulnus-blossom had been stilled by the cold.

Tanaros wrapped his cloak tighter and wondered if Cerelinde would come. He could have gone to her, or he could have ordered her to come. In the end, he had chosen to ask. Why, he could not have said.

Overhead, the stars turned slowly. He gazed at them, wondering if Arahila looked down upon Darkhaven and wept for her brother Satoris’ folly, for the bloodshed that was certain to follow. He wondered if poor Speros, unwitting victim of Vorax’s bargain, was watching the same stars. He was angry at Vorax for his choice, though there was no merit in arguing it once it was done. Other matters were more pressing; indeed, even now, he wasted precious time lingering in the garden. Still, his spirit was uneasy and an ache was in his heart he could not name.

After a time, he became certain she would not come; and then the wooden door with the tarnished hinges opened and she was there, flanked by the hulking figures of the Havenguard. They remained behind, waiting.

Her gown was pale, its color indeterminate in the starlight. A dark cloak enfolded her like green leaves enfolding a blossom’s pale petals. Its sweeping hem left a trail in the frosted grass as she approached him.

“Tanaros,” she said gravely.

“Cerelinde.” He drank in the sight of her. “I didn’t know if you would come.”

“You have kept your word of honor, and I am grateful for the protection you have given me.” She studied his face. “It is to be war, then?”

“Yes. On the morrow. I wanted to say farewell.”

She laid one hand on his arm. “I wish you would not do this thing.”

He glanced at her hand, her slender, white fingers. “Cerelinde, I must.”

“No.” She shook her head. “You have a choice, Tanaros. Even you, even now. Perhaps it is too late to stem the tide of battle, but it need not be, not for you. There is goodness in you; I have seen it. It is yours to reclaim.”

“And do what?” Tanaros asked gently. “Shall I dance at your wedding, Cerelinde?”

The matter lay between them, vast and unspoken. She looked away. In that moment, he knew she understood him; and knew, too, that unlike his wife, the Lady of the Ellylon would never betray the Man to whom she was betrothed. The ache in his heart intensified. He laid his hand over hers, feeling for a few seconds her smooth, soft skin, then removed her hand from his arm.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I cannot.”

“There are other things!” She looked back at him and starlight glimmered on her tears. “The world is vast, Tanaros. You could … you could help Staccia rebuild its ties to the rest of Urulat, or the Beshtanagi in Pelmar, or hunt Were or dragons or Fjeltroll—”

“Cerelinde!” He halted her. “Would you have me betray what honor I possess?”

“Why?” She whispered the word, searching his face. “Ah, Tanaros! What has Satoris Banewreaker ever done that he should command your loyalty?”

“He found me.” He smiled at the simplicity of the words. “What has he not done to be worthy of my loyalty, Cerelinde? When love and fidelity alike betrayed me, when the world cast me out, Lord Satoris found me and summoned me to him. He understood my anger. He bent the very Chain of Being to encompass me, he filled my life with meaning and purpose.”

“His purpose.” Her voice was low. “Not yours.”

“Survival.” He spread his hands in a helpless gesture. “He seeks to survive. What else do any of us seek? Because he is a Shaper, the stakes are higher. I tell you this, Cerelinde. His Lordship is here. Wounded and bleeding, but here. And he has given shelter to all of us, all whom the world has bent and broken, all who yearn for a Shaper’s love, all whom the world has despised. He demands our loyalty, yes, but he allows us the freedom to question the order of the world, to be who and what we are. Can you say the same of Haomane Lord-of-Thought?”

“You do not understand.” Cerelinde’s voice trembled. “He is … everywhere.”

“For you, perhaps.” Tanaros touched her cool cheek. “Not for me.”

For a time, they stood thusly; then Cerelinde, Lady of the Ellylon, shuddered like the petals of the mortexigus flower and withdrew from his touch. Wrapped in her dark cloak, she gazed at him with her glorious eyes.

“Tanaros,” she said. “I will not pray for your death on the morrow.”

“Lady.” He bowed low and said no more.

The Havenguard reclaimed her, and she went.

Speros of Haimhault found sleep difficult.

It had all happened so fast. One moment, he had been concentrating on acquitting himself bravely, holding the parley-flag and assessing the forces of Haomane’s Allies to report to the General; the next, he was agreeing to be a hostage.

At least they had been civil.

They were that; he had to admit. Back in the old days, when he was but a piddling horse-thief, he had never been treated with such care. The architect of Darkhaven’s defense! It was a prodigious title, even if Lord Vorax had invented it.

To be honest, their triumvirate of leaders seemed to sense it; they were dismissive. Once they returned to the campsite, white-bearded Malthus made it clear he had greater concerns on his mind, which was just as well. Speros had no desire to find the wizard’s attention focused on him. Aracus Altorus merely looked him up and down as if gauging his worth and finding it wanting. As far as Ingolin, Lord of the Rivenlost, was concerned, Speros might as well not exist.

But others were at the campsite; hangers-on, no doubt. Blaise Caveros, the Borderguard commander with an unsettling look of the General about him, took Speros to be a legitimate threat. He assigned a pair of guards fitting to his purported station to him; some minor Ellyl lordling and an Arduan archer They took turns keeping watch over him. A woman, no less! She had a strange bow made of black horn, which she cosseted like a babe. At nightfall she brought him a bowl of stew from the common kettle. After he had eaten, Speros grinned at her, forgetful of the gaps where he was missing teeth.

“Very nice,” he said, nodding at her weapon. “Where did you get it?”

She stared blankly at him. “This is Oronin’s Bow.”

“Oh, aye?” He whistled. “So where did you get it?”

The archer shook her head in disgust. “You tend to him,” she said to the Ellyl, rising to survey the campsite.

“Did I say somewhat to offend her?” Speros asked the Ellyl, who smiled quietly.

“Fianna the Archer slew the Dragon of Beshtanag with that bow,” he said. “Surely the knowledge must have reached Darkhaven’s gates.”

“It did.” Speros shrugged. “I was in the desert at the time.”

“Indeed.”The Ellyl, whose name was Peldras, laced his hands around one knee. “Your Lord Vorax spoke of your efforts concerning a certain Well when he offered you into the keeping of the Wise Counselor.”

“You know it?” Speros repressed a memory of the General’s black sword cleaving the old Yarru man’s chest, the dull thud of the Gulnagels’ maces.

“I do.” Peldras regarded him. “You seem young and well-favored to have risen high in the Sunderer’s service, Speros of Haimhault.”

He shrugged again. “I’ve made myself useful.”

“So it seems.” Peldras raised his fair, graceful brows. “Although I fear you may have outlived your usefulness, or Vorax of Staccia would not have been so quick to surrender you. Did I stand in your shoes, young Midlander, I would find it a matter of some concern. The Sunderer’s minions are not known for their loyalty.”

Speros thought of Freg, carrying him in the desert; of the General himself, holding water to his parched lips. He laughed out loud. “Believe as you wish, Ellyl! I am not afraid.”

“You were not at Beshtanag,” Peldras murmured. “I witnessed the price the Sorceress of the East paid for her faith in Satoris Banewreaker, and the greater toll it took upon her people. Are you willing to pay as much?”

“That was different.” Speros shook his head. “I was in the Ways when your wizard Malthus closed them upon us. We would have aided her if we could.”

“The Sunderer could have reopened the Ways of the Marasoumië if he chose.” The Ellyl glanced westward toward the shadowy peaks of the Gorgantus Mountains. “With the might of Godslayer in his hands, not even Malthus the Counselor could have prevented it. He chose instead to destroy them.”

“Aye, in the hope of destroying Malthus with them!” Speros said, exasperated. “You forced this war; you and all of Haomane’s Allies! Will you deny his Lordship the right to choose his strategies?”

“No.” Peldras looked back at him. Under the stars, illuminated by the nearby campfire, his features held an ancient, inhuman beauty. “Ah, Speros of Haimhault! On another night, there is much I would say to you. But I fear sorrow lies heavy on my heart this night, and I cannot find it in me to speak of such matters when on the morrow, many who are dear to me will be lost.”

“Did I ask you to?” Speros muttered.

“You did not.” Rising, the Ellyl touched his shoulder. “Forgive me, young hostage. I pray that the dawn may bring a brighter day. Yet the world changes, and we change with it. It is in my heart that it is Men such as you, in the end, who will Shape the world to come. I can but pray you do it wisely.”

Speros eyed him uncertainly, trying to fathom what trickery lay in the words. “Me?”

“Men of your ilk.” Peldras gave his quiet smile. “Builders and doers, eager for glory, willing to meddle without reckoning the cost.” Tilting his head, he looked at the stars. “For my part, I wish only to set foot upon Torath the Crown, to enter the presence of Haomane First-Born, Lord-of-Thought, and gaze once more upon the Souma.”

Since there seemed to be no possible reply, Speros made none. The Ellyl left him then, and the Arduan woman Fianna returned. She pointed out a bedroll to him and then sat without speaking, tending to her bowstring. The scent of pine rosin wafted in the air, competing with the myriad odors of the campsite.

Speros wrapped himself in the bedroll and lay sleepless. The frostbitten ground was hard and uncomfortable, cold seeping into his bones. Oronin’s Bow gleamed like polished onyx in the firelight. He wondered what sound it made when it was loosed, if echoes of the Glad Hunter’s horn were in it.

At least the Ellylon horns were silenced by night, although one could not say it was quiet. The vast camp was filled with murmurous sound; soldiers checking their gear, sentries changing guard, campfires crackling, restless horses snuffling and stamping in the picket lines. He could make out Ghost’s pale form against the darkness, staked far from the other cavalry mounts. Haomane’s Allies gave her a wide berth, having learned to be wary of her canny strength and sharp bite.

There was a tent nearby where the commanders took counsel; too far for Speros to hear anything of use, but near enough that he saw them coming and going. Once, he saw it illuminated briefly from within; not by ordinary lamplight or even the diamond-flash of Malthus’ Soumanië, but something else, a cool, blue-green glow. Afterward, Blaise Caveros emerged and spoke to Fianna in a low tone.

“Haomane be praised!” she whispered. “The Bearer lives.”

At that, Speros sat upright. Both of them fell silent, glancing warily at him. It made him laugh. “He knows, you know,” he said conversationally. “Lord Satoris. The Charred Folk, the Water of Life. There is no part of your plan that is unknown to him.”

“Be as that may, Midlander,” Blaise said shortly. “He cannot prevent Haomane’s Prophecy from fulfillment.”

“He can try, can’t he?” Speros studied the Borderguardsman. “You know who you’ve a look of? General Tanaros.”

“So I have heard.” The words emerged from between clenched teeth.

“He says you’re better with a sword than Aracus Altorus,” Speros remarked. “Is it true?”

“It is,” Blaise said in a careful tone, “unimportant.”

“You never know.” Speros smiled at him. “It might be. Have you seen the Lady Cerelinde? She is … how did the General say it? We spoke of her in the desert, before I’d seen her with my own eyes. ‘She’s beautiful, Speros,’ he said to me. ‘So beautiful it makes you pity Arahila for the poor job she made of Shaping us, yet giving us the wit to know it.’ Is it not so? I think it would be hard to find any woman worthy after her.”

Blaise drew in his breath sharply and turned away. “Be watchful,” he said over his shoulder to Fianna. “Say nothing in his hearing that may betray us.”

She nodded, chagrined, watching as the Borderguardsman strode away. Speros lay back on his bedroll, folding his arms behind his head. “Do you suppose he harbors feelings for his lord’s betrothed?” he wondered aloud. “What a fine turn of events that would be!”

“Will you be silent!” the Arduan woman said fiercely. Her nervous fingers plucked at the string of Oronin’s Bow. A deep note sounded across the plains of Curonan, low and thrumming, filled with anguish. Speros felt his heart vibrate within the confines of his chest. For a moment, the campsite went still, listening until the last echo died.

“As you wish,” Speros murmured. Closing his eyes, he courted elusive sleep to no avail. Strangely, it was the Ellyl’s words that haunted him. Men of your ilk, builders and doers. Was it wrong that he had taken fate in his own hands and approached Darkhaven? He had made himself useful. Surely the General would not forget him, would not abandon him here. Speros had only failed him once, and the General had forgiven him for it. His mind still shied from the memory; the black sword falling, the maces thudding. The old Yarru folks’ pitiful cries, their voices like his grandmam’s. His gorge rising in his throat, limbs turning weak.

But the General had not wanted to do it, any more than Speros had. The Ellyl was wrong about that. He did not understand; would not understand. Though Speros did not want to remember it, he did. The General’s terrible sword uplifted, the cry wrenched from his lips. Give me a reason!

Opening his eyes, Speros blinked at the stars and wondered why so many questions were asked and went unanswered, and what the world would be like if they were not.

Total darkness had fallen before Dani and Thulu dared venture from the tunnels. They crept blindly, bodies grown stiff with long immobility, parched with thirst and weak with hunger, fearful of entering a trap.

But no; by the faint starlight illuminating the opening, the larder appeared empty of any living presence. The supplies stacked within it had been diminished, but not stripped. They fell upon what remained, tearing with cracked and broken nails at the burlap wrapping on a wheel of cheese, gnawing raw tubers for the moisture within them. They stuffed their packs with what scraps and remnants remained. The kegs of wine alone they left untouched, fearing that breaching one would leave evidence of their presence behind.

Only after they had assuaged their hunger and the worst of their thirst did they dare peer forth from the opening of the cavern onto the Vale of Gorgantum.

“Uru-Alat!” Dani felt sick. “That’s Darkhaven?”

The scale of it was unimaginable. For as far as the eye could see, the Vale was encircled by a massive wall, broken by watchtowers. It vanished somewhere behind them, blocked by the swell of the slope, reemerging to encompass a small wood of stunted trees. A broad, well-trodden path led from the larder-cavern to the rear gates of the fortress itself. It was huge; impossibly huge, a hulking edifice blotting out a vast segment of the night sky. Here and there, starlight glinted on polished armor; Fjeltroll, patrolling the gates.

“Aye,” Uncle Thulu said. “I don’t suppose they’re likely to let us in for the asking. Any thoughts, lad?”

Dani stared across the Vale. He could make out the Gorgantus River by the gleam of its tainted water. Other lower structures squatted alongside it, lit within by a sullen glow. He could smell smoke, thick and acrid in the air. “What are those?”

“Forges, I think. For making weapons and armor.”

“Do you reckon they’re guarded by night?”

“Hard to say.” Thulu shook his head. “They’re not in use or we’d hear the clamor. But the fires are still stoked, so they’re likely not unattended. It’s a long scramble, and there are guards on the wall, too.”

“Aye, but they’re looking outward, not inward. If we don’t make any sound, move slowly, and keep to the shadow, they’ll not spot us. It’s the armor that gives them away. At least it would get us closer.” Dani studied the fortress. Darkhaven loomed, solid and mocking, seemingly impenetrable. He wished he knew more about such matters. “There has to be another entrance somewhere, doesn’t there?”

“I don’t know.” Uncle Thulu laid one hand on Dani’s shoulder. “But truth be told, I’ve no better ideas. This time, lad, the choice is yours.”

Dani nodded, touching the clay vial at his throat for reassurance. “We can’t stay here forever. Let’s try. We’ll make for the river and follow it.”

It was a nerve-racking journey. They emerged from the mouth of the cavern, abandoning the broad path to clamber down the mountain’s slope where the shadows lay thickest. Both of them moved slowly, with infinite care. One slip of the foot, one dislodged pebble, and the Fjel would come to investigate.

If it had done nothing else, at least their long travail had prepared them for this moment. The inner slopes of the Gorgantus Mountains were gentler than the unscalable crags that faced outward, no more difficult to traverse than the mountains of the northern territories. They had learned, laboring atop the rock-pile, how to place their feet with the utmost care, how little pressure it took to shift a loose stone. Their night vision was honed by their time in the tunnels.

Once they reached level ground, it was another matter. Atop the incline to their right, they could see the curving shoulder of the encircling wall. The distant spark of torches burned in the watchtowers. Dani pointed silently toward the wood. Inching along the base of the slope, they made toward it. From time to time, the low tones of Fjeltroll drifted down from above.

The wood was foreboding, but the gnarled trees would provide cover and allow them to leave the wall. Dani breathed an inaudible sigh of relief when they reached the outskirts. Tangled branches, barren of leaves, beckoned in welcome. He entered their shadow and stepped onto the hoarfrosted beech-mast, grimacing as it crackled faintly beneath his feet.

Uncle Thulu grabbed his arm, pointing.

Dani froze and squinted at the trees.

There, a short distance into the wood; a ragged nest. There were others beyond it, many others. He thought of the dark cloud that had winged toward them on the plains, so vast it cast a shadow, and his heart rose into his throat.

Uncle Thulu pointed toward the left.

There was nowhere else to go. Step by step, they edged sidelong around the wood. The trick was to do it slowly, lowering their weight gradually with each step until the warmth of their bare soles melted the hoarfrost and prevented it from crackling. It seemed to take forever, and with each step Dani feared the woods would stir to life. He imagined a beady eye in every shadow, a glossy black wing in every glimmer of starlight on a frosted branch. He kept an anxious eye on the sky, fearing to see the pale light of dawn encroaching.

It seemed like hours before they had covered enough ground to put the wood between them and the wall. They backed away from it, away from the danger of sleeping ravens and waking Fjeltroll, and made for the river.

Here was open territory, unguarded. They crossed it as swiftly as they dared. The Gorgantus River cut a broad, unnatural swath through the Vale. Once, it had flowed southward down the Defile, where only a trickle remained. Lord Satoris had diverted it to serve his purposes, but it flowed low and sluggish, resentful despite untold ages at being deprived of its natural course.

And for other reasons.

They crouched on the bank, staring at the water. It looked black in the starlight, moving in slow eddies, thick as oil. An odor arose from it; salt-sweet and coppery.

“Do you reckon we can drink it?” Dani whispered.

Uncle Thulu licked his parched lips. “I wouldn’t.” He glanced at Dani. “You mean for us to get in that filth, lad?”

“Aye.” He touched the flask, steeling his resolve. “The banks will hide us.”

“So be it.” Thulu slid down the bank.

Dam followed, landing waist deep in the tainted water. Cold mud squelched between his toes. Here, at least, they would be invisible to any watching sentries; merely a small disturbance on the river’s oily surface. Lowering their heads, shivering against the water’s chill, they began to make their way downstream. For all their efforts at caution, they slipped and slid, until they were wet, mud-smeared, and bedraggled, all the supplies they carried spoiled by the tainted water.

The sky was beginning to pale by the time they reached the buildings where the forges were housed; not dawn, not yet, but the stars were growing faint and the unalleviated blackness between them was giving way to a deep charcoal. And other obstacles, too, forced them to halt. Ahead of them on the river, a strange structure moved; a mighty wheel, turning steadily, water streaming from its broad paddles. Beyond it lay the low array of buildings; furnaces and forges, and a ramshackle structure that seemed to have been erected in haste. Despite the fact, it was the site of the greatest activity. Smoke poured from it, dim figures moving in its midst, going to and fro.

For the first time since the tunnels, Dani knew despair.

“What do you suppose that is?” Thulu whispered, leaning on the muddy bank. He sniffed the air. “Smells like … like a meal!”

“I don’t know,” Dani murmured. With an effort, he stilled his chattering teeth and studied the buildings. The nearest one seemed the most abandoned. He nodded at it. “We’ll make for there. It may be we can find a place to hide.”

“Aye, lad.” Thulu extricated himself from the sucking mud. “Come on.”

It was hard to move, cold as he was. Dani took his uncle’s strong hand, bracing his feet against the bank and hauling himself out of the river. They shook themselves, wringing the foul water from their clothes. There was nothing to be done about the mud.

The entire place was wreathed in smoke. It did, Dani realized, smell like a meal; like roasting flesh, at once greasy and savory. His belly rumbled. Attempting to lead the way, he found himself stumbling.

“Hey!” A figure emerged from the smoke, sootblackened and filthy, with unkempt hair and wild, red-rimmed eyes. It clutched a haunch of meat. “Lord Vorax says it’s done enough for Fjel,” it said in the common tongue, freeing one smeared hand to point. “Hurry, we’ve got to get it all moved!”

Tensed for flight, Dani stared in bewilderment as the figure—man or woman, he could not tell beneath the grime—beckoned impatiently. The slow realization dawned on him that in the dark, covered in filth as they were, no one could tell a Yarru from an Ellyl. He exchanged a glance with his uncle.

“You heard him, lad.” Thulu wiped his forearm over his face, leaving a muddy smear that further obscured his features. “Lord Vorax said to hurry!”

Dani nodded his understanding. Keeping their heads low, they plunged into the billowing smoke to follow the beckoning madling.

Darkhaven had invited them inside after all.