Godslayer

TWENTY-THREE

Tanaros strode through Darkhaven like a black wind.

The shock of his arrival rippled through the fortress with a palpable effect. The Havenguard hurried from far-flung quarters of Darkhaven to meet him, falling over one another in their haste. His abrupt, awful news shocked them into momentary silence, and he had to shout at them twice before they were able to tell him what had transpired in his absence.

Two Men, Charred Folk, madlings caught one …

He wasted precious minutes hurrying into the dungeon, clattering down the slippery stair, hoping against hope to see the Man the madlings had caught. It gave him an unpleasant echo of the memory of Speros, hanging in chains, grinning crookedly with his split lips. Not Speros, no; not the Bearer, either. It was the other Yarru, his protector. Manacled to the wall, scratched and beaten and bloodied, he hung limp, lacking the strength to even stir. The Fjel had not been gentle. Only the slight rise and fall of his scarred torso suggested he lived.

“Where’s the boy?” Tanaros asked, prodding him. “Where’s the boy?”

Unable to lift his head, the prisoner made a choked sound. “Slayer,” he said in a slow, thick voice. “Where do you think?”

Tanaros cursed and ran from the dungeon, taking the stairs two at a time.

He made his way behind the walls, through the winding passages, through the rising heat, to the chasm. To the place he had known he must go. The madlings had scattered, abandoning the places behind the walls, hiding from his fury, from the terrible news. There was only the heat, the light-shot darkness, and the chasm like a gaping wound.

There, he gazed over the edge.

Far below, a small, dark figure was descending laboriously.

Straightening, Tanaros shed his gauntlets. With deft fingers, he unbuckled the remainder of his armor, removing it piece by piece. When he had stripped to his undertunic, he replaced his swordbelt, then lowered himself into the chasm and began to climb.

It was hot. It was scorchingly, horribly hot. The air seared his lungs, the blue-white glare blinding him. Narrowing his eyes to slits, Tanaros willed himself to ignore the heat. It could be done. He had done it in the Unknown Desert. He was one of the Three, and it could be done.

Fear lent his limbs speed. Hands and feet moved swift and sure, finding holds. He took risks, careless risks, tearing and bruising his flesh. The worst thing would be to fail for being too slow, to be halfway down and find the marrow-fire suddenly extinguished.

It did not happen.

Reaching the bottom, Tanaros saw why.

The Source, the true Source, lay some paces beyond the chasm itself. It was not so large, no larger than the circumference of the Well of the World. Indeed, it was similar in shape and size; a rounded hole in the foundation of the earth itself.

But from it, the marrow-fire roared upward in a solid blue-white column. High above, at its core, a spit of flame vanished through an egress in the ceiling. The Font, Tanaros thought, realizing he was beneath his Lordship’s very chambers. Elsewhere, the marrow-fire fanned outward in a blue-white inferno, flames illuminating the chasm, licking the walls, sinking into them and vanishing in a tracery of glowing veins.

And at the edge of the Source stood the Bearer.

It was the boy, the Charred lad he had seen in the Marasoumië. He had one hand on the clay vial strung about his throat and a look of sheer terror on his face. Even as Tanaros approached, he flung out his other hand.

“Stay back!” he warned.

“Dani,” Tanaros said softly. He remembered; he had always been good with names, and Malthus the Counselor had spoken the boy’s. So had Ngurra, whom he had slain. “What is it you think to do here, lad?”

Despite the heat, the boy was shivering. His eyes were enormous in his worn face. “Haomane’s will.”

“Why?” Tanaros took a step closer. The heat of the column was like a forge-blast against his skin. “Because Malthus bid you to do so?”

“In the beginning.” The boy’s voice trembled, barely audible above the roaring of the marrow-fire. “But it’s not that simple, is it?”

“No.” Something in the lad’s words made Tanaros’ heart ache, longing for what-might-have-been. In a strange way, it was comforting to hear them spoken by an enemy. It was true, after all was said and done, they were not so different. “No, lad, it’s not.” He drew a deep breath, taking another step. “Dani, listen. You need not do this. What has Haomane done that the Yarru should love him for it and do his bidding?”

The boy edged closer to the Source. “What has Satoris the Sunderer done that I should heed his will instead?”

“He left you in peace!” Tanaros said sharply. “Was it not enough? Until-” His voice trailed off as he watched the boy’s expression change, terror ebbing to be replaced by profound sorrow. Somehow, the boy knew. The knowledge lay there between them. In the roaring marrow-fire, it seemed Tanaros heard anew the pleas and cries of the dying Yarru, the sound of Fjel maces crunching. And he knew, then, that whatever conversation he might have hoped to hold with the lad, it was too late.

“Did you kill them yourself?” Dani asked quietly.

“Yes,” Tanaros said. “I did.”

The dark eyes watched him. “Why? Because Satoris bid you to do so?”

“No.” Gritting his teeth, Tanaros drew his sword and drew within reach of the boy. “I begged him. Old Ngurra, the old man. Give me a reason! Do you understand, lad? A reason to spare his life, his people; a reason, any reason! Do you know what he said?”

Dani smiled through the tears that spilled from his eyes, glittering on his brown skin. “Aye,” he whispered. “Choose.”

“Even so.” Tanaros nodded. “And I am sorry for it, as I am sorry for this, but his Lordship did not ask for this battle and I have a duty to do. Now remove the flask, and lay it gently upon the stone, Dani. Gently.”

The boy watched the rising arc of the black sword and his dark eyes were like the eyes of Ngurra, filled with knowledge and regret. “I will ask you what you asked my grandfather,” he said. “Give me a reason.”

“Damn you, I don’t want to do this!” Tanaros shouted at him. “Is your life not reason enough? Relinquish the flask!”

“No,” Dani said simply.

With a bitter curse, Tanaros struck at him. The black blade cut a swathe of darkness through the blinding light. Loosing his grip on the flask, Dani flung himself backward, teetering on the very edge of the Source, almost out of reach. The tip of Tanaros’ sword shattered the clay vessel tied around the lad’s throat, scoring the flesh beneath it.

Fragments of pit-fired clay flew asunder.

Water, clear and heavy, spilled from the shattered flask; spilled, glistening, in a miniature torrent, only to be caught in the Bearer’s cupped palms.

The Water of Life.

Its scent filled the air, clear and clean, heavy and mineral-rich, filled with the promise of green, growing things.

There was nothing else for it; no other option, no other choice. Only the slight figure of the Bearer silhouetted against the blazing column of blue-white fire with the Water of Life in his hands, his pale, scarred palms cupped together, holding the Water, the radiating lines joining to form a drowned star.

“I’m sorry,” Tanaros whispered, and struck again.

And Dani the Bearer took another step backward, into the Source itself.

He felt them die, all of them.

So many! It should not have mattered, not after so long; and yet, he had imbued so much of himself in this place. This place, these folk, this conflict. An infinite number of subtle threads bound him to them all; threads of fate, threads of power, threads of his very dwindling essence.

Godslayer hung in the Font of the marrow-fire, pulsing.

It tempted him. It tempted him well nigh unto madness, which was a cruel jest, for he had been losing that battle for many a century.

One of the first blows had been the hardest. Vorax of Staccia, his Glutton. One of his Three, lost. Oh, he had roared at that blow. The power that had stretched the Chain of Being to encompass the Staccian was broken, lost, bleeding into nothingness. Ah, he would miss Vorax! He was all the best and worst of Arahila’s Children combined; tirelessly venal, curiously loyal. Once, long ago, Vorax of Staccia had amused him greatly.

He would miss him.

He would miss them all.

Their lives, the brief lives—Men and Fjel—blinked out like candles. So they did, so they had always done. Never so many at once. Many of them cried his name as they died. It made him smile, alone in his darkness, and it made him gnash his teeth with fury, too.

Godslayer.

He remembered the feel of it in his palm when he’d taken to the battlefield ages ago. Striding, cloaked in shadow, blotting out the sky. Pitting its might against Haomane’s Weapons, his vile Counselors with their bloodred pebbles of Souma. There had been no Three, then; only the Fjel, the blessed Fjel.

And they had triumphed. Yet it had been a near thing, so near. Already, then, he had endured many long ages sundered from the Souma, wounded and bleeding. An Ellyl sword, stabbing him from behind. He had dropped the Shard. If the courage of Men had not faltered, if a Son of Altorus had not sounded the retreat too soon …

His hand was reaching for Godslayer. He made himself withdraw it.

It was the one thing he dared not do, the one thing he must not do. He was weaker now, far weaker, than he had been. If he risked it, it would be lost. The Counselor would reclaim it in his brother’s name, and Haomane would Shape the world in his image. That was the single thread of sanity to which he clung. He made himself remember what had gone before. The Souma, shattering. Oronin’s face as he lunged, the Shard glittering in his fist.

A gift for his Gift.

He had called the dragons, and they had come. Ah, the glory of them! All the brightness in the world, filling the sky with gouts of flame and winged glory. No wonder Haomane had Sundered the earth to put an end to it. But what a price, what a terrible price they had all paid for the respite.

There would be no dragons, not this time.

He waited to see who would come instead.

Outside, the story retold itself, writing a new ending. The Helm of Shadows, that once he had claimed and bent to his own ends, was broken. The Counselor’s Soumanië was clear, clear as water. The Son of Altorus did not flee, but wielded a bloodred pebble of his own. A weary lad carried a grimy clay vessel into the depths of Darkhaven itself. His faithful ones, his remaining minions, raced desperately to prevent them.

They were coming, they were all coming.

And there was naught to do but wait; wait, and endure. Perhaps, in the end, it was as well. He was weary. He was weary of the endless pain, weary of meditating upon the bitterness of betrayal, weary of the burden of knowledge, of watching the world change while everything he had known dwindled and passed from it, while he diminished drop by trickling drop, stinking of ichor and hurting, always hurting; hurting in his immortal flesh, aching for his lost Gift, diminishing into madness and hatred, a figure of impotent, raging despite.

Still, the story was yet to be written.

It was always yet to be written.

The thought pleased him. There were things Haomane First-Born, the Lord-of-Thought, had never understood. He had not listened to the counsel of dragons. The death and rebirth of worlds was a long and mighty business.

“You are all my Children.”

He whispered the words, tasting them, and found them true. So many lies, so few of them his! One day, perhaps, the world would understand. He was a Shaper. He had been given a role to play, and he had played it.

They were close now.

There was a sound; one of the threefold doors, opening. He lifted his heavy head to see which of them had arrived first.

It was a surprise after all; and yet there were no surprises, not here at the end. The Font burned quietly, spewing blue-white sparks over the impervious stone floor. Within it, Godslayer, the Shard of the Souma, throbbed steadily.

At the top of the winding stair, his visitor regarded him warily.

“My child,” said Satoris Third-Born, who was once called the Sower. “I have been expecting you.”

Ushahin rode back and forth along the edge of the cliffs high above the Defile, gazing at the path far below.

The surviving Fjel had made a safe return to Darkhaven. If nothing else, his actions had accomplished that much. But Haomane’s Allies had managed to clear the first rockslide; and worse, they had spotted the trap that would trigger the second one.

Now they waited, just out of range.

It was a maddening impasse. He wished Tanaros would return, wished Vorax was alive, or Tanaros’ young Midlander protégé; anyone who would take command of the disheartened Tordenstem.

There was no one. It shouldn’t have mattered; Darkhaven was a fortress, built to be defended. Time should be their ally, and a day ago, it might have been so. But now the army of Darkhaven was in tatters, the Helm of Shadows was broken, Haomane’s Prophecy loomed over the Vale of Gorgantum, and Ushahin’s very skin crawled with the urgent need to be elsewhere.

In the Weavers’ Gulch, the little grey spiders scuttled across the vast loom of their webs, repairing the damage the Fjel had done in passing, restoring the pattern. Always, no matter how many times it was shredded, they restored the pattern.

Watching the little weavers, Ushahin came to a decision.

“You.” He beckoned to one of the Tordenstem. “How are you called?”

The Fjel saluted him. “Boreg, sir!”

“Boreg.” Ushahin pointed into the Defile. “You see Haomane’s Allies, there. Watch them. At some point, they will begin to advance. When half their numbers have reached this bend in the path, I want you and your lads to trigger the rockslide”

“Aye, sir.” The Tordenstem looked ill at ease with the command. “Will you not stay?”

“I cannot.” Ushahin laid a hand on the Fjel’s shoulder, feeling the rock-solid warmth of it. “General Tanaros trusts you, Boreg. Do your best.”

“Aye, boss!”

Ushahin spared one last glance at Haomane’s Allies. They were watching; a figure in the distant vanguard raised one hand, and the Soumanië flashed like a red star in the gloomy depths. Ushahin smiled contemptuously, certain that Aracus Altorus dared not waste a precious ounce of strength on assailing him, not with another rockslide and the Defile Gate awaiting. He did not know by what magic the power of the Souma was invoked, but he knew it took a considerable toll.

His Lordship was proof of that, and he was a Shaper.

“Enjoy this taste of victory, Son of Altorus,” he murmured. “I go now to do what should have been done long ago.”

Ushahin turned his mount’s head toward Darkhaven. The blood-bay stallion caught his mood, its hooves pounding an urgent cadence as they made for the fortress. The case containing the sundered Helm jounced, lashed haphazardly to the saddle behind him. His right hand, healed and hale, itched for the hilt of his sword. He remembered how it had felt to move between life and death on the battlefield, to sever the threads that had bound the ageless Ellylon to their immortal souls.

He wondered how it would feel to cleave the life from the Lady Cerelinde’s flesh.

The inner courtyard was jammed with milling Fjel, wounded and dazed, bereft of orders. Ushahin dismounted and pushed his way through the throng of Fjel, carrying the Helm’s case, ignoring their pleas for guidance. There was nothing he could do for them. He was no military strategist.

Inside Darkhaven proper, it was quieter. The Havenguard, oddly subdued, had restored some semblance of order. None of his madlings were about, which gave him a moment’s pause. He thought briefly of summoning them, then shook his head. There was no time.

It had to be done. It should have been done long ago.

There was madness in it; oh, yes. His right arm ached with the memory of his Lordship’s wrath, the merciful cruelty that had Shaped it anew, pulverizing fragments of bone, tearing sinews asunder, a scant inch at a time. Ushahin had no illusions about the cost he would bear for this action.

And he had no doubt about its necessity.

He strode the halls, reaching the door to the Lady of the Ellylon’s quarters. A pair of Havenguard sought to turn him away. With the case containing the broken Helm under his arm, he quelled them with a single, furious glance.

Chastened, they unbarred the door.

Ushahin stepped inside, smiling his bitter, crooked smile. “Lady,” he began, and then halted.

Over a hidden passageway, a tapestry hung askew.

The chamber was empty.

“Expecting me?” Cerelinde whispered the words. “How so, my Lord? For I did not expect to find myself here.”

Some yards beyond the base of the stair, Satoris Banewreaker gazed upward at her with terrifying gentleness. “Will you seek after my knowledge now, little Ellyl? I fear it is too late.” He beckoned. “Come.”

She had never thought to get this far. As she’d paced restless in her chamber, the certainty that she must try had grown upon her. The weight of the burden Haomane’s Allies had placed upon the Bearer, the burden she had laid on Meara’s shoulders, were too great. It was unfair to ask what one was unwilling to give.

Meara might fail her.

The young Bearer’s task might consume him.

And it had come to her that perhaps, after all, it was Haomane’s plan that had placed her here, where she alone among his Allies held the key to fulfilling his Prophecy. Cerelinde knew the way to the threefold door.

She had not expected it to open to her touch. Surely, it must be a trap.

“Come.” The Sunderer gestured at Godslayer. “Is this not what you seek?”

From her vantage point atop the stair, Cerelinde glanced at the dagger, pulsing in the Font. “You mock me, my Lord,” she said quietly. “Though my life is forfeit for this error, do not ask me to walk willingly onto the point of your blade.”

“There is no mockery.” The Shaper smiled with sorrow, the red glow in his eyes burning low. “Can you not feel it, daughter of Erilonde? Even now, the Bearer is beneath us. Even now, he dares to risk all. Do you dare to risk less?”

“I am afraid,” Cerelinde whispered.

“Indeed. Yet I have given my word that I will not harm you.” The Shaper laughed softly, and there was no madness in it. “You mistrust my word, Lady of the Ellylon; yet if I am true to it, will you dare to become the thing you despise? Will you take that burden on yourself for the sake of your foolish, unswerving obedience to my Elder Brother’s will?”

She shuddered. “I know not what you mean, my Lord Satoris.”

“Come, then, and learn it.” Once more, he beckoned to her, and an edge of malice crept into his tone. “Or will you flee and leave the Bearer to fail?”

“No.” Cerelinde thought of the unknown Charred lad and all he had risked, all he must have endured. Gathering every measure of courage she possessed, she pushed her fear aside and gazed at the Shaper with clear eyes. In the coruscating light of the Font, he stood without moving, awaiting her. “No, Lord Satoris,” she said. “I will not.”

And though her legs trembled, she forced herself to move, step by step, descending the stair into the Chamber of the Font and the Sunderer’s presence.

Ushahin gathered his madlings.

They came, straggling, in answer to his summons; his thoughts, cast like a net over Darkhaven, gathering all of those who were his. They crowded, as many as could fit, into the Lady’s chambers, others spilling into the hallways.

“What has happened here?” he asked.

They explained in a mixture of glee and terror; the hunt, the Charred Man, the Lord General’s furious arrival, and how they had scattered before it.

“And the Lady?” he asked them. “How is it that she knew to flee?”

They exchanged glances, fell to their knees, and cried out to him, professing denial; all save one, who remained standing. And Ushahin’s gaze fell upon her, and he knew what it was that she had done.

“Meara,” he said gently. “How is it that I failed you?”

She shook her head, tears spilling down her cheeks. “Not you,” she whispered. “Never you, my lord.”

The others wailed.

Ushahin raised one hand. “No. I have failed you, all of you. I have been remiss in accepting my burden. But with your aid, it will end here.”

The wailing continued; growing louder, interspersed with cries of fear and deeper, guttural shouts, the sound of pounding feet and jangling armor. Even as Ushahin opened his mouth to call for silence, one of the Havenguard burst into the room, forging a path through the kneeling madlings like a ship plowing through shallow waves. He was panting, the breath rasping harshly in the thick column of his throat. “Lord Dreamspinner!” He saluted. “Haomane’s Allies approach the Defile Gate!”

“What?” Ushahin stared at the Fjel. “The rockslide—”

“Too late.” The Havenguard shuddered. “The wizard, the white gem; I know not what he did, only that the lads were slow and the rocks fell too late.” He paused, his small eyes beneath the heavy brow ridge bright with anxiety. “Will you come?”

They were gazing at him; all of them, his madlings, the Fjel, guilt-ridden Meara. Ushahin tasted despair.

“Listen,” he said to them. “There is no time.” He pointed toward the tapestried door. “The Lady of the Ellylon has passed behind the wall, and even now her kindred attempt a rescue.” He paused, drawing his sword. “I go now in pursuit, for her death is our last hope, our only hope. My madlings, I charge you, all of you, with infiltrating every passage, every hidden egress in the fortress of Darkhaven. Do you come upon the Lady, halt her; kill her if you may. Any consequence that comes, I will accept. Do you understand?”

The madlings shouted their assent, leaping to their feet.

“Good.” Ushahin pointed at the Havenguard with the tip of his blade. “Hold the Gate,” he said grimly. “There is no other order I can give. Tell the lads they must resist if Malthus seeks to wield his Soumanië against them and sway their spirits. Bid them to cling to the thought of his Lordship’s long suffering, bid them think of their fallen comrades. It may lend them strength. If it does not …” He glanced at Meara. “Bid them make ready to slay any comrade who seeks to betray us.”

“Aye, boss!” Relieved to have orders, the Havenguard whirled to depart. The madlings went with him, surging out the door in a roiling, shouting mass. Ushahin watched them go.

Meara remained. “Will you not punish me?” she asked plaintively.

“What punishment will suit?” Ushahin asked. “Your penitence comes too late to aid his Lordship. I will deal with you anon, Meara of Darkhaven. Now go, and serve while you may.”

Bowing her head, she went.

With a sword-blade naked in his strong right hand and the case containing the broken Helm tucked beneath his aching left arm, Ushahin thrust aside the tapestry and plunged into the passageways.

For a moment, the source continued to surge upward in a blazing column.

The Bearer, Dani the Bearer with his cupped hands, stood within it; stood, and lived. Through the sheets of blue-white flame, his gaze met Tanaros’. His lips, cracked and parched, whispered a word.

“Uru-Alat!”

And then his hands parted and the Water of Life fell, splashing, slow and glistening. The scent of water filled the cavern, sweet and clean and unbearable, as though all the water in the world was gathered in the Bearer’s hands.

A handful; not even that, a scant mouthful.

It was enough.

The Source of the marrow-fire, the vast, roaring column of blue-white fire, winked out of existence. Tanaros, gaping, sword in hand, caught a final glimpse of the Bearer’s figure crumpling to the ground.

And then he was trapped in darkness beneath the bowels of Darkhaven.

The Source was gone.

The marrow-fire had been extinguished.

For the space of a dozen heartbeats, Tanaros saw only blackness. He sheathed his sword, hands moving blindly. Slowly, his eyes adjusted to this new darkness, and when they did, he saw that traceries remained. The blue-white veins within the stony walls lingered, their light ebbing. When the marrow-fire. is quenched and Godslayer is freed …

A new spasm of fear seized him. “Godslayer,” Tanaros said aloud.

“Uru-Alat.”

The word seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere, the World God’s name whispered in every corner of the Chamber, all at once a prayer, a plea, a promise. It carried the scent of water, overwhelming for a moment the sweet charnel reek of ichor.

In the center of the room, Satoris Third-Born lifted his mighty head.

“Now,” he said. “It is now.”

In the blink of an eye, the glittering Font vanished, plunging the Chamber into gloom. For the span of a breath, Godslayer seemed to hang in the darkling air above the hole where the Font had blazed, then it dropped, clattering off the stones that ringed the empty pit. There it lay, unharmed, its lucid crimson radiance beating vividly against the darkness.

An involuntary cry escaped Cerelinde’s lips. As swiftly as thought, she moved, darting toward the extinguished Font. All around her, shadows seethed. It seemed a penumbra of darkness gathered as the Shaper, too, moved forward. But if her mother was born to the House of Elterrion, her father was a scion of Numireth the Fleet, capable of outracing the darkness. Stooping, Cerelinde seized the rounded haft of the dagger.

Godslayer.

It throbbed against her palm, singing a wordless song of power that made the blood surge in her veins; a Shaper’s power, power she did not know how to use. It didn’t matter. It was a Shard of the Souma, and it had another purpose. Cerelinde straightened and whirled, prepared to fend off the Sunderer.

He had not moved.

“You see,” he murmured. “I kept my word.” He took a step toward her, turning his hands outward. “Finish your task.”

Although she could not have said for whom she wept, there were tears in her eyes, blurring her vision. Cerelinde tightened her grip on Godslayer’s haft. “Why?” she asked, her voice ragged with grief. “Why?”

The Shaper smiled. “All things must be as they must, little sister.”

He took another step forward and another, looming before her. The clean aroma of water had vanished, and the sweet, coppery scent of ichor filled her nostrils. A Shaper’s blood, spilled many Ages ago. An unhealing wound. Cerelinde raised the dagger between them. The Shard’s deadly edges glimmered with its own rubescent light. “Stay back!”

Satoris Third-Born shook his head. “One way or the other, you will give me what is mine.” He extended his hand as he had done once before, in the moon-garden. “How do you choose, daughter of Erilonde?”

Now, as then, there was no menace in the gesture; save that it asked Cerelinde to betray all that she knew, all that she held dear. The traceries of marrow-fire that illumed the walls of the Chamber dimmed but slowly, revealing the Shaper’s grave features. His empty hand was outstretched and the vast expanse of his breast was before her, immaculate and vulnerable, marrow-lit obsidian flesh. Godslayer throbbed in her hand, a reminder of the dream of the Rivenlost. The Souma made whole and Urulat healed, a world no longer Sundered.

Will you dare to become the thing you despise?

“Arahila forgive me!” Cerelinde gasped.

Raising the dagger high, she plunged it into the Shaper’s breast

It sank with sickening ease, driving hilt-deep. Her clenched knuckles brushed his immortal flesh, immortal no more. He cried out; only once, a cry of such anguish, terror, and relief that Cerelinde knew it would echo in her ears for the remainder of her days. For a moment they swayed, locked together; her hand on Godslayer’s hilt, the Shaper’s hands rising to cover hers.

Cerelinde saw things.

She saw the dawning of the world and the emergence of the Seven Shapers within it and understood that it was at once an ending and a beginning; the death of Uru-Alat and the birth of a vast divergence. She saw mountains arise and rivers burst forth. She watched the world grow green and fruitful. She beheld the Shapers at their labor, crafting their Children in love and pride. She saw Satoris Third-Born walking alone and without fear in the deep places of the earth, conversing with dragons.

And then she saw no more.

Godslayer’s hilt slipped from her grasp. In the Chamber of the Font, the Sunderer had fallen to his knees, was slumping sideways. The shadow of a smile still hovered on his lips. In his breast, the dagger pulsed like a dying star.

“So,” he whispered. “It begins anew.”

Tanaros wasted no time examining the inert form of the Bearer. The lad’s role was finished; it no longer mattered whether he lived or died. Moving swiftly in the dim light, Tanaros made his way to the outer wall of the chasm and began to climb.

If fear had impelled his descent, no word was large enough for the emotion that hastened his ascent. He was dizzy and unfeeling, his body numb with shock. His limbs moved by rote, obedient to his will, hauling him up the harsh crags until he reached the surface.

The passages behind the walls were growing dimmer, the veins of marrow-fire fading to a twilight hue. Tanaros paused to catch his breath and regain his sense of direction.

Then, he heard the cry.

It was a sound; a single sound, wordless. And yet it held in it such agony, and such release, as shook the very foundations of Darkhaven. On and on it went, and there was no place in the world to hide from it. The earth shuddered, the floor of the passage grinding and heaving. Tanaros crouched beneath the onslaught of the sound, covering his ears, weeping without knowing why. Stray rocks and pebbles, loosened by the reverberations, showered down upon him.

Although it seemed as though the cry would never end, at last it did.

Tanaros found himself on his feet with no recollection of having risen. Drawing his black sword, he began running.

Within ten paces, it happened.

There was no warning, no sound; only a sudden dim coolness as the veins of marrow-fire that lit the passages dwindled in brightness and the temperature in the stifling passages plummeted. Elsewhere in the passageways, he could hear his distant madlings uttering sounds of dismay and fear. Somewhere, the horns of the Rivenlost were calling out in wild triumph. Above Darkhaven, the ravens wheeled in sudden terror. Ushahin shivered and pressed onward.

He was halfway to the Chamber of the Font when he heard the cry. It struck him like a blow, piercing him to the core. It was like no sound ever heard before on the face of Urulat, and he knew, with a horrible certainty, what it must portend. Ushahin stood, head bowed as rubble pelted him from above, his branded heart an agony within his hunched torso, arms wrapped around the useless case, and waited it out as another might outwait a storm.

Too late, always too late. The enemy was at the gate. The little weavers had completed their pattern. Haomane’s Prophecy hovered on the verge of fulfillment.

Everything he feared had come full circle.

Almost …

In the silence that followed, Ushahin Dreamspinner stirred his ill-set, aching limbs. Step by painful step, gaining speed as he went, he began to follow the faint echoes of his Lordship’s cry to their source.