Hinterland

A PACT WITH A DAEMON

At the foot of the cliff, Tylar stepped off the vine ladder.

He had never set foot in a hinterland before, but he had heard tales. Other knights, older knights, told gruesome stories of campaigns against hinter-kings and raving rogues. He almost expected his leg to sink into muck, his skin to peel, and his clothes to burn. But his boots found only loose scree.

He moved away from the cliff, making room for the rest of their party. The way down from here was still steep, barely less of a slope than the cliff itself. Below, another dark forest beckoned, ready again to swallow them up under a canopy.

But here, on this thin beachhead, the stars shone overhead. As Harp had predicted, the sun had sunk to a glow at the western horizon. The lesser moon hung full and low, as if wary of showing its face too high above this sinister land. Perhaps it would be braver when the greater moon rose later. Still, the meager moonlight did cast the spread of forest in a silvery light.

Distantly, large pinnacles of rock protruded, looking like foraging beasts lumbering across a meadow. But Tylar knew they were just the broken landscape of the hinter, a shattered tableland, as if struck by a mighty hammer and upended in crumbled sections.

The scuff of rock and low voices announced the arrival of the rest of their party. They had all come down in pairs, joined by bonds new or freshly forged. Krevan and Calla had their shared heritage as pirates, leader and mate, but Tylar had begun to note Calla’s eye lingering occasionally upon Krevan, revealing a certain longing that never made it to her lips. Krevan seemed oblivious. Next came Malthumalbaen and Lorr, an unlikely pair, but both were sculpted of the same Graced cloth. It was this commonality that forged a bond between them. Last came Dart and Brant, also tied together by strange circumstances, her father stumbling into Brant’s life and dying.

And of course, Tylar was no exception. He had his own shadow, too. One that had been with him from the start of his long journey as a godslayer.

“I’m not climbing back up that,” Rogger said.

Tylar did not argue with the sentiment. His entire left side ached, from ankle to shoulder. His hand throbbed and felt four sizes too large. But at least they’d been descending the ladder. His aches reminded him of Master Sheershym’s assessment: a spreading poison, weakening the naethryn inside him, and in turn, corrupting the spell that kept his body healed and Meeryn’s undergod tethered to this world.

What if the naethryn died?

Rogger continued his gripe. “When this is all over, I’ll just sit here and wait for the next passing flippercraft.”

Tylar clapped the thief on the shoulder. “Why bother even leaving? From what I’ve heard of the hinterlands, I think you’ll fit in here just fine.”

“I don’t think so. I’ve heard the state of some of these hinter-villages. Not a worthy bottle of wine to be found.”

“In that case, we should get you out as soon as possible. You’d die of thirst before the moon changes its face.”

“True…true…”

Despite their banter, there were no smiles. It was not humor that generated their words, but worry, both for themselves and for those they’d left behind. Tylar had especially grown anxious during the long climb down here. Another day ending and still no word of the state of Tashijan.

Stepping away from the others, Tylar spoke softly a fear that still plagued him. “What if we don’t even need to venture into here? What if the storm is already broken?” He nodded below. “Maybe all this is for naught.”

Tylar left unspoken his other concern.

What if it was already too late?

Rogger remained silent for a long moment, then spoke equally softly. “Raving or not, the rogues here are still enslaved. It wouldn’t be right to leave them in such a state. They’re still worthy of mercy.”

Tylar remembered the grief expressed by Miyana, of the horror of seersong. He knew Rogger was right. Besides, the Cabal were behind this slavery, cultivating a great source of power and Dark Grace. It had to end.

He glanced to the others, making sure everyone was ready. Brant bent down and untied his stone from around Pupp’s neck. They had attached it to him to draw Pupp into solidity. Malthumalbaen had carried him, with a look of pure adoration on his face.

“Who’s the fearsome cubbie?” the giant intoned. He was still bent on one knee, running thick fingers through Pupp’s spiky mane. Pupp’s tail wagged and a good portion of his rump.

Brant removed the stone, and Pupp vanished.

The giant’s hand fell through empty air again. “Aww…” He stood. “He was like a tin of coals in a cold bed. All warm and steamy.”

Dart hid a grin behind her own fingers.

With everyone gathered, Tylar waved Krevan to lead. They needed to get out of the open. The hinterland’s dangers were not all twisted Grace and raving rogues. There were men and women worse than any ilked beast, who were happy to prey upon those who ventured into their fringes. Such folk lived lives barely better than those of the beasts, harvesting wild Grace and plundering where they could, often across borders. Though rogues might not be able to cross into a neighboring settled realm, men were not forbidden to do so.

Before anyone noted their trespass, Tylar wanted to reach their sole ally in this strange land, even as untrustworthy as that ally might be.

“Can you find Wyrd Bennifren?” Tylar asked Krevan.

He nodded. “I studied the old maps of Sheershym. It should not be hard to find the Wyr encampment. If they’re still there.”

The Wyr-lord had hired Krevan to secure the skull of the rogue god, the one who had fathered Dart. According to their pact, Bennifren had planned to remain at the fringes of the hinterland, awaiting word until the new moon. That came this night. Tylar feared if they delayed too long that the Wyr might simply move on.

Krevan led the way. They descended the slope with care. The loose rock could easily twist an ankle, especially after the long climb down the cliff.

Tylar kept watch on the forest ahead. It did not look all that much different from the highlands above, except that the lowland trees grew taller, the canopies wider. They appeared true monsters of the loam. A few flickerflies flashed in the deeper wood, warning them back. Tinier wings buzzed ears and exposed skin. It remained the only sound, except a trickling of water.

They discovered a spring. Its waters spilled out of the bottom of the scree and flowed over broken shale toward the forest, vanishing into the darkness.

“According to the map, we should follow this,” Krevan said and set off.

But once they reached the jungle, it seemed impossible to enter, tangled with vine and bush, creeper and sapling. Anything that could stretch a leaf to the sun grew at the edge. They would dull their blades trying to hack more than a quarter-league through here.

Instead, Krevan stepped into the stream and scuttled down its rocky course. He had to crouch, but it was passable.

“Mind the moss,” he said. “It’s slick.”

They followed in a line. It was more like entering a cavern than a forest edge. The scent of wintersnap filled Tylar’s nostrils, its leaves ground under the tread of the pirate in front. They didn’t have far to go. The tunnel of brush slowly rose and thinned. Deeper under the canopy, away from the sunlit edge, the underbrush strangled away to vines and low bushes.

Tylar’s boots sank into the spongy layer of decaying duff.

All around, the march of tree trunks struck Tylar like the columns of a grand palacio. Ropes of moss streamed this woodland hall, softly aglow in the darkness. To either side, other creeks and brooks trickled through the forest, all flowing ahead, downhill. The combined babble and echo of water over rock sounded like a mighty river. This was how the highlands drained into the hinter, creeping in tentative dribbles, like their own approach.

“Don’t look so bad,” Malthumalbaen muttered.

Tylar agreed. The forest seemed no different from other dark woods. The depths of Mistdale, all black pines and dread wood, struck a more ominous demeanor.

“Don’t be fooled,” Rogger said. “We’ve barely crossed the border. The deeper you go, the more the landscape is warped and woven by wild Grace into maddening design.”

As if wanting to prove his point, a nesting winged beast took flight with a sudden burst of a flaming tail, streaking like a fiery arrow. It screeched, alerting others. More flames shot through the dark in fright.

“So much for a quiet approach,” Rogger said.

They continued onward, led by Krevan.

No one spoke, wondering what other strangeness and horrors might lay deeper in the hinterland. For four thousand years, rogues had wandered these lonely lands, maddened both darkly and brightly. Some rogues were burnt into dullness, others into a malicious sharpness. But all leaked wild Grace into this unsettled land-into loam, into water, into air-where it corrupted in both subtle and monstrous ways.

Tylar compared it with the settled lands. He remembered the daemon inside Chrism describing the first settling of a realm, how Chrism was chained and bled against his will, punished for his murder of children during his raving. What was done with vengeance proved the greatest boon to Myrillia. Chrism’s ravings faded as the wild Grace that had burnt his sanity bled into the land. The knowledge of this boon spread. Other gods followed his example, and the Nine Lands settled out of the centuries of raving and destruction into a long peace. Grace was harnessed, shared, and traded, blessing Myrillia into a new era, raising man out of its cycle of rule and ruin during the unending wars of its ancient human kings.

Tashijan itself rose out of one of those ancient keeps, ruled by the last human king, until the man swore his fealty and pledged his knights to the gods of the First Land, beginning the long line of shadowknights. The pact set by this ancient king protected the lands around the keep, free of any one god’s rule. Wards had been set up at the borders, to forbid even the trespass of wandering rogues.

The pact had been unspoiled for four millennia.

And now all was threatened.

Krevan stopped. A large outcropping of rock rose ahead. One of those bastions Tylar had noted up by the cliff. It looked like a crooked finger raised to the sky, perhaps warning against further trespass.

Tylar hobbled to Krevan’s side. He certainly could use a rest, but they dared not. Not yet. Tylar controlled his breathing as he joined Krevan, hiding his exhausted, rasping breath.

Still, the pirate stared him up and down. Krevan kept silent about what he found, but a crease between his brow deepened.

“How much farther?” Tylar asked.

Krevan frowned and grumbled. “I should check the map.”

Tylar didn’t like the worried tone to the pirate’s voice. Calla joined them, shrugging off a pack. The maps were unrolled.

Stepping clear, Tylar searched up between the canopy’s leaves. Clouds were blowing into view. But so far, the full face of the lesser moon shone down. It was called a Hunter’s Moon when full like this, casting enough glow to see but not enough to give away a hunter’s blind.

How far had they come? Not even half a league, he imagined.

Krevan whispered with Calla.

“Already lost?” Rogger asked as he stalked up.

“No,” Krevan answered and nodded to the pinnacle of granite. “This is the right place. This is where Bennifren said to meet.”

“Have they moved on?” Tylar asked.

The answer came from above their heads. A rope sailed down the side of the nearby pinnacle. A shape quickly slid along it, dropping from some hidden perch. The figure was cloaked in hunter’s green and black boots.

Krevan drew his blade. Tylar slipped Rivenscryr free, not taking any chances with the malignant Grace of this land.

Alighting without even a crackle of twig or dry leaf, the newcomer strode toward them, tall, back straight, unperturbed by their raised blades. The hood was shaken back, revealing dark hair, skin the color of bitternut and cream. Familiar eyes studied them.

“Eylan…” Dart said, also recognizing the woman.

The woman failed to respond, but Dart was correct. She was a match to Eylan, from boot to crown. Even her movements were the same: the way she leaned on a hip as she stopped, how her eyes took in a situation in a single sweep to the right, then back again more slowly and warily to the left.

Only then did Tylar realize his mistake. The woman didn’t recognize them-and it couldn’t be Eylan. They had all seen her die.

Was she a twin?

“My name is Meylan,” she said, confirming his thought. “You will come with me.”

Though they’d never met, Tylar felt a strange affection for the woman, as if she were his own sister. But with it came a twinge of guilt. Did she know of her sister’s death? She would have to be told.

But not now…

Meylan turned as if there was no brooking any defiance. Her words were reinforced by the appearance of more figures, similarly attired, hoods up. They appeared from behind the boles of trees and lowered themselves out of branches.

Lorr stepped to Tylar’s side. “They use Grace to hide their scent and even their breath.”

They did indeed move silently. He had yet to hear a single footfall or snap of a broken branch. He counted a full score of them, all women.

Meylan touched the rocky side of the pinnacle, and flames burst from its tip, flickering sharply above. Rounding the outcropping, Tylar found a break in the foliage. Ahead, the lands continued to drop away. Atop another pinnacle a good league away, flames burst.

Signal fires.

Meylan had passed on word of their arrival.

Krevan paced Tylar. “I should have guessed Bennifren would not have simply told me the location of his hinterland camp. Secrets run through his veins, more than blood.”

Rogger came up on his other side. “Wise to remember that. The Wyr make pacts that are unbreakable, sealed with a word. But all else is suspect.”

They followed Meylan, but Rogger was not done. He nudged Tylar and pointed back. “Watch as they pass under the firelight.”

Brows pinching, Tylar glanced at the women that trailed the group. They made no move to threaten them. But he spotted daggers on their belts, and he did not doubt more blades were hidden on their bodies. He was not sure what Rogger intended him to see.

Then one of them stepped past the pinnacle. Shafts of firelight flickered and danced shadows from above. The woman’s face was momentarily illuminated in its ruddy glow.

Tylar stumbled. She looked indistinguishable from Meylan-as much as Meylan looked like Eylan. Another woodswoman slipped through the same light, revealing again the same face. Then another.

“Just so you know who you are dealing with,” Rogger said.

Tylar held back a shudder as he looked across the score of women. The warmth he had felt toward Meylan went cold. For centuries, perhaps millennia, the Wyr had sought to breed godhood into human flesh. Their practices were as arcane as they were heartless. No manner of manipulation of the flesh was beyond them, resulting in abomination, mutilation, deformity.

But this?

It seemed so much worse. Beauty and horror. Maybe it was that this abomination wore the face of a woman he had come to know, to appreciate, even to value as a friend.

Affection and guilt shifted to anger.

Tylar stared as the women spread through the forest.

He would remember Rogger’s warning. He was also mindful of what the thief had said about the unbreakable pacts with the Wyr. Tylar had his own oath to honor, a debt that perhaps he could no longer delay in settling. The Wyr had collected his other humours-but he owed them one more.

His seed.

Tylar knew that before he was allowed to head deeper into the hinterland, Bennifren would demand that he satisfy their old deal. Tylar also knew he needed the Wyr-lord’s cooperation. To gain it, there would be little room to maneuver.

Ahead, Meylan glanced back, perhaps sensing his reluctance.

He stared back at her, a woman wearing the face of a friend.

He read no friendship here.

Only a reminder of what was owed…and the danger of its corruption.

Dart stayed close to the giant as they entered the camp.

She had heard tales of the Wyr for as far back as she could remember, tales meant to scare one to hurry to bed, to finish one’s chores, to keep one’s word. The one common element of these stories was that bad children ended up in the Wyr’s clutches, dragged away and never seen again. But as she grew older, the tales grew both more truthful and more frightening. The Wyr were a cadre of Dark Alchemists, buried within their subterranean forges, concocting all manner of Grace in their pursuit of godhood. The ends to which they’d go to achieve this were both monstrous and pitiless.

Dart followed the others into the camp, staying close to the giant.

The Wyr had made their home on the bank of what appeared to be a wide lake but was in truth a flooded forest. Here was where all the trickling creeks eventually ended, becoming a slow shallow river several leagues wide, flowing westward toward the distant sea. Twisted trees corkscrewed out of the flood, raised up on tangles of roots, as if trying to crawl out of the black water. Great slabs of rock tilted out, too, strangely barren, along with more pinnacles.

The closest of these spires rose near the bank, shadowing a collection of ramshackle tents. Its pinnacle bore a crown of fire. The beacon had led them here, escorted by Meylan’s band. Its flames lit the camp below with a foreboding glow, all fire and shadow.

Faces watched their approach: spying from behind flaps of tents, lifting up from some labor, wafting smoke from their eyes. Dart, in turn, studied them, expecting beastly countenances. Instead, most of these folk looked as normal as their group-and when compared to Lorr and Malthumalbaen, maybe even more normal.

A few forms, though, were plainly tainted. A bare-breasted woman hauled wet clothes from the creek. She had arms and legs as thick around as the giant’s but was hardly taller than Dart. When she turned, her eyes were shadowed by heavy brows that sloped steeply back. They watched dully as the group passed.

Then there was a boy, far younger than Dart, who approached their party with the simple doe-eyed curiosity of all youth, shyly but still drawn. From his eyes, it was plain he was full of questions, but they would never come.

He had no mouth-only a gaping hole at the base of his throat.

She had to look away. But he must have noted the horror in her face, for he turned away, too, in shame. That more than anything disturbed her. She had her own secrets, but they were hidden well, hidden deep. Not like the boy’s.

As they neared the water, another woman approached, ducking out of the largest of the tents. She was wide-hipped and full of breast. She straightened and shuffled toward them. Her head tilted slackly to one side, a trickle of drool hanging from her lower lip. She carried an infant in her arms, cradled to those ample breasts. From the swaddling, a bald crown of head shone pink as the child suckled.

Pupp, who had been hanging close, moved to her ankles, flaring brighter as his hackles raised.

The woman stepped before them and pulled the babe from her breast. She lifted it, as if offering the child to them. It appeared to be an ordinary babe. Milk dribbled from plump lips. Rosy cheeks shone, well fed and hale.

But then those eyes opened and destroyed the illusion.

An ancient wickedness shone forth, born of too sharp an intelligence. There was a leering quality to the glint.

Dart bit back a gasp.

“Wyrd Bennifren,” Tylar said formally.

The babe wiped milky spittle from his lips with a pudgy arm. “You look like rotted shite, Tylar.” The voice was reedy and thin-childlike but far from childish. It made the hairs on Dart’s body quiver with revulsion. “Crook-backed and hobbling. Not much of a godslayer now.”

“Either way, here I am. We’ve come to offer terms for the knowledge you possess.”

“You bring the skull, then?” the child asked hungrily.

From the side, Krevan answered, “A piece of it. All that is left. The rest was destroyed in fires up in Saysh Mal.”

“That was not our agreement, Raven ser Kay.”

“Our agreement, by your sworn word as the free leader of the Wyrdling clans, was to bring you all that remains of Keorn, son of Chrism. So we have done. You must honor your bargain.”

The babe sneered, a frightening expression on such a small face, like a sewer rat given human countenance. “Then let us be done with the matter.” He turned to study Tylar up and down. “It seems this is a night to settle many debts. Follow me.” Guided by some silent signal, the slack-jawed woman heaved around like a foundering ship and headed off along the flooded bank. Babe and woman rounded a cluster of rocks to reveal a fire blazing amid a circle of standing stones.

Dart glanced to them. Dancing firelight revealed cryptic marks inscribed into the stones’ faces. She recognized them from historical texts back at school. It was the old human written language, all straight lines, little warmth, guttural in appearance.

Wyrd Bennifren led them to logs rolled close to the fire. Flagons of ale and fresh water waited, along with carved bowls piled high with spiced dry meats, hard cheeses, and strange berries as crimson as blood. It was a bountiful fare for such a dreadful gathering in a dark, flooded wood.

Still, bellies did not judge.

Once they were settled in, Krevan spoke around a mouthful of rabbit. “You swore to know more about the rogue god Keorn. Secrets of interest to us, to the girl.” He nodded to Dart. “The Black Flaggers waged significant resources to discover Keorn’s fate and to bring you a piece of that god. It is time for you to make full payment.”

“The Wyr honor their bonded word,” Bennifren said. He was nestled in the dull woman’s lap. One hand pawed her teat, half absently, half lasciviously. “But I also know that you’ve already gleaned much about Keorn on your journey out and back. Still, there are more secrets known only to us. Secrets whispered in the ear of the raving, thought never to be repeated.”

“Spoken to whom?” Tylar asked.

“This one’s mother, for one,” Bennifren said, his gaze drifting to Dart. “It can be lonely when you’re the only sighted man in a world full of the blind. That was Keorn. He bore some special Grace that kept him at the edge of raving but never beyond.”

Tylar shared a silent glance with Rogger. Both were careful not to look at Brant. Better the Wyr didn’t know about his stone.

“But even a god has needs,” Bennifren said. He tugged hard on the woman’s nipple, earning a yip of surprise that quickly subsided back to dullness again. “Like when he bedded that godling’s mother. He told her many things, secret things that he thought she would forget when the ravings took hold again. But when his seed took root, he protected her, sheltered her with his steadying Grace. During that time, balanced on that fine edge of madness, she whispered his secrets. And we were there, listening, drawn by the rare birth.”

Dart shivered despite the fire’s warmth. He was speaking about her birth.

“What sort of secrets?” Tylar asked.

Bennifren grinned with malicious delight. “Secrets about a father and son at odds.”

“Chrism and his son?”

Bennifren nodded to Tylar. “I’ve heard what the daemon claimed when you confronted him in Chrismferrry last year. How it was Chrism himself who forged Rivenscryr in their old world, wielded it during a great war there, and in doing so, accidentally split his world, sundered land and people, casting them adrift to settle here as flesh, naethryn, and aethryn.”

“So he claimed.”

“And it was just that… a claim. While all was true about the Sundering, what was not true was that Chrism forged your sweet sword.”

Tylar’s hand drifted to the gold hilt.

“Chrism had a lust for power, and he candled those desires in the reflections of sword blades. He constructed a private smithy where he designed and forged weapons of great edge and balance.” Bennifren pointed a pink finger at the other blade on Tylar’s belt. “Who do you think designed the shape and form of your knightly swords?”

Rogger nodded. “He’s right there. It was Chrism. According to ancient texts. He offered that first sword to the last human king, the one who founded the shadowknights, as thanks and a bond between them. All other swords were patterned after that first.”

“So you see,” Bennifren said, “a heart’s desire is not so easy to shed. Even after he was sundered, Chrism’s desire was too large to split away entirely. His fascination with swords. Perhaps that’s why his aspect of Grace, once settled, revealed a heart of loam. A love not so much of root and leaf as of iron and ore.”

Tylar stared at the two swords on his hip. “So Chrism had nothing to do with Rivenscryr’s actual forging?”

“Exactly. He only wielded the sword-or perhaps it wielded him, in the end. It was a weapon too powerful, beyond his understanding.”

“Then who forged it?” Krevan asked, clearly perturbed.

Bennifren’s ancient eyes looked upon Dart slyly. But she already knew the truth. The way her blood ignited the sword, her blasted heritage-there could only be one answer.

“It was my father,” Dart said.

All eyes turned for confirmation to the small Wyr-lord. He seemed to enjoy their shock. “Like father, like son. It seemed the passion for the blade was passed to the son. But it was not the power of the sword that fascinated Keorn as much as it was the artistry of the honed blade. His passion lay in seeking the perfect sword. That he got from his mother, for a son is only half his father. His mother inspired him equally, gifting him with a questioning mind, a love for knowledge, and an appreciation for hidden secrets. At her knee, he was taught arcane rites, and in turn, he forged powerful insights and secrets into the steel of the sword, creating a formidable weapon like no other.”

“And Chrism stole it,” Tylar said.

“How could he not? His lust overcame his caution. He used it during the war and sundered everything in his ignorance.”

Bennifren then smiled, showing his toothless gums. “And therein lies a good lesson. You must be careful how far you reach. Better to be large here.” He tapped his head. “And have shorter arms. Keeps one wiser where one reaches.”

Krevan sighed, his face tight with irritation. “So the rogue forged the Godsword. What does any of this-?”

Bennifren raised his tiny arm, silencing the pirate. “Patience is also a virtue of the wise.” He turned to the others. “For you see, Keorn wanted no part of his father’s war, and he certainly did not want his perfect creation wielded in it. So the last secret Keorn imparted to the mother of his child, his most heartfelt private shame, was that he had damaged his own sword. He built a flaw into it. He made it imperfect.”

Dart felt a sickening lurch in her stomach.

Bennifren’s sibilant voice made the final truth so much more horrible. “It was this flaw as much as Chrism’s wielding that led to the end of their world. This was Keorn’s final secret to his ravening mate, a secret he never intended be known. As much as Chrism, Keorn was to blame for the Sundering that destroyed their world.”

A stunned silence followed.

“Like father, like son,” Rogger finally mumbled.

Tylar stared down at his belted swords-Rivenscryr and his knightly blade. He looked ready to throw both aside, their two histories entwined by curse and tragedy.

“So I’d be careful how you wield that sword,” Bennifren warned. “That flaw still remains.”

“But what was it?” Krevan asked. “What did Keorn do?”

Tiny shoulders shrugged. “I don’t think the how weighed on the god’s mind as much as the end result. He never whispered that secret across a pillow. But plainly his guilt ate like a worm in the belly. We believe that is why he protected the growing child, kept the mother from raving long enough to give birth to his daughter, someone whose blood could forge the sword anew.”

“But why go through the effort if the blade was flawed?” Tylar asked.

“Because of what we found later, when we were hunting Keorn through the hinterlands,” Bennifren said. “The god lost us, but we found his trail again.”

Dart remembered the first crumb of that trail. How could she forget? She could still feel the cold of her garret as Krevan wrote the name of her father on the wall in Littick sigils, a name found at the bottom of a piece of hide tacked to an elder’s wall in a hinter-village.

“That scrabbled missive,” Bennifren continued, “inked in Keorn’s own blood. We never did reveal what those words said, only that it was signed by Keorn.”

The Wyr-lord allowed the weight of his words to hang like a raised sword. Then he finally spoke again. “His words were few, already showing a hint of seersong in his inked blood, possibly his last words before he was swallowed up.”

“What did he write?” Brant asked, speaking for the first time, suspense loosening his tongue.

Bennifren didn’t even glance his way, but he did answer his question. “‘The sword must be forged again, made whole to free us all.’”

Tylar stirred. “So there is a way to make the sword complete.”

“And he offered no word about the flaw?” Krevan asked again.

“If you’d found him sooner…before he was just skull and curse…” Bennifren shrugged.

Krevan kept his lips tight, brows hard. “The Flaggers spent much time and coin to just buy whispers and old secrets that bear little weight in the here and now.”

“I believe you’ve been paid well for a sliver of bone,” Bennifren said, his face reddening. “Do not question the honor of our word because you bargained so poorly.”

Krevan began to rise, but Bennifren waved him down.

“Then I will give you something as solid as rock to finish this deal. Something you can touch-though it may burn you.”

Tylar waved Krevan to patience. “What?”

Bennifren again turned those eyes toward Dart. “The Godsword is as much his mother’s inspiration as his father’s. If you are looking for a way to discover more about the sword, perhaps you should start there. I wager that is why Keorn fled down here after Dart’s birth.”

“Why?” she asked.

“He came looking for his mother’s counsel and advice,” Bennifren answered and pointed to the south.

Through a break in the canopy, the mountain blocked the stars. Its flanks flowed with molten streams, bright in the darkness. Fiery tears-not just for a daughter but perhaps also for a son.

“Takaminara was Keorn’s mother.”

Tylar stood up, half in shock, half to better view the volcanic peak. He rested a hand on Dart’s shoulder. He felt her tremble under his touch, her eyes fixed to the same fiery peak. He understood her distress. Buried within the mountain lay not only a god but something she must have been searching for her entire life.

A part of her family.

A great-mother.

“Then the Huntress-Miyana,” Brant said. “She was Keorn’s sister.”

Lorr mumbled, “At the end, he must have been trying to reach her.”

Dart shivered. In days, she had gained an entire family, one drenched in blood and terror. Both in the distant past…and now again.

But any further family reunion would have to wait.

The rogues had to be found.

Tylar turned to Bennifren, but his hobbled knee almost toppled him into the flame. He had been sitting for too long after the hard march.

Bennifren noted his discomfort. “I believe I’ve met my debt well and then some. But there is another debt yet to settle. You were wise in your negotiations in the past, but our bargain has long grown stale.” He eyed Tylar up and down. “And as shiteful as you look now, I fear what is owed will be lost. Especially knowing where you must venture. I believe it time you honored your word, too.”

Tylar inwardly groaned, but he kept his face calm. He walked off and motioned for Bennifren to follow. Rogger and Krevan trailed with them, but Tylar waved the others to their meal. Here was a matter he wanted settled with less of an audience.

Stepping out of the ring of firelight, he faced Bennifren. He had no intention of freely cooperating, and he stated it firmly now. “As you recall, time was a condition of our bargain. My time, my place. I see no reason to relinquish it now.”

“True and well said.” Bennifren’s eyes narrowed behind soft lashes, a wicked gleam of cunning shining through in the dark. “I would think less of you if you had settled without remapping a new bargain. So let me tell you this. We have not been idle while you’ve been traipsing about. The Wyr are well-known here in the hinterlands, valued for our purse as well as expertise. Over these past days, we’ve spent our coin and time well and discovered something that might pry that stubborn seed from your loins.”

Tylar waited. When it came to the Wyr, silence was often the best shield during any negotiations.

“For the last humour you owe us,” Bennifren continued, “we offer you a special encouragement. We offer you maps of the hinterlands.”

“We have maps,” Tylar said dryly.

“But do your maps have the location of the enslaved rogues marked upon them?”

Tylar stared, struggling not to show the depth of his desire.

“And traced upon our maps is the safest route by which to reach the gods,” Bennifren added. “All this, for a few moments of your time…”

Tylar felt the other two men’s eyes upon him. With such a map, the search would be measured in bells rather than days. He could not refuse. All of Tashijan hung in the balance.

Still, he hesitated. Off to the right, he noted Meylan leaning against the pinnacle, buried in shadow, her face lit up by the pipe she was smoking. Her sisters were spread out in groups and singly.

Bennifren misunderstood his attention. “Whichever woman you want-I’ve heard she and her sisters are quite skilled.”

Tylar went cold at that thought, but he also knew he had no choice. The bargain had to be settled, and the offer of the rogues’ location was a price he could not refuse.

He faced Bennifren. “I’ll go along with your new bargain.” He held up one finger. “A single sample for all your maps. Then our deal is finished.”

“Done and bound.” Bennifren waved a small arm in a grand gesture. “I can bring you whichever woman you’d like to help you loosen your seed. Or if you so prefer, a man-or a child.”

“That won’t be necessary,” he said coldly. “A bit of privacy will be enough.”

“This way, then.” Bennifren turned away, carried by his milk mare. “All is ready. You can use my tent. It is the last and largest.”

Tylar noted where he pointed and motioned for Krevan and Rogger to stay. This was a duty that did not require their attendance. He headed toward the tent with Bennifren.

Rogger called after to him. “Remember-don’t work too hard!” Then in the next breath, he added, “No! I take that back! In this matter…”

Tylar shook his head, blocking out the thief’s next words as he rounded the rock, glad to be rid of Rogger. This duty would be difficult enough to accomplish.

“I’ll have a repostilary for your humour brought to you,” Bennifren said and guided his woman off to the side. “And don’t worry, you’ll have your privacy.”

Tylar kept his gaze fixed on the tent ahead. He had never spilled his seed for the sake of Grace. Not even at Chrismferry. He had shared all his other humours with varying degrees of humiliation. But he had always refused to relinquish this one humour, one of the most powerful, second only to blood. It allowed Grace to be imbued into living tissue, essential for a great many alchemies. But there were plenty of gods out there already. As regent, he saw no need to contribute to this storehouse himself.

Until now.

For the sake of Tashijan, he had to relent. No matter what foul alchemies were to be performed on his seed, it was a debt that must be paid. As he walked alone now, he remembered the only child ever birthed from his seed. Long dead, winnowed by grief while in the womb. Had his seed always been cursed?

This dark thought reminded him of Kathryn, of better times, of moments they shared when life was bright and the days seemed endless before them. Now he knew better. He knew it was a black bargain being completed here, but it was done in the hopes of again returning the world to brighter times.

If not for him, at least for others.

He reached the tent and pulled open the hide flap. Ducking inside, he noted that no lamp burnt, and the thick leather shut out the stars and the moon. He dropped the flap behind him, happy for the darkness, better to hide his shame. But could he hide from himself?

He would not find out.

Somebody already hid here.

From the back, where the darkness was thickest, shadows stirred and birthed a figure in a cloak to match his. A fair face shone back out at him, lit by eyes that flashed with dread fire.

The black ghawl swept toward him, sword raised.

“Perryl…”

Brant approached Dart. She had wandered to the bank of the flooded forest when the strange Wyr-lord and the regent had stepped away to discuss the fate of an old bargain.

She sat on a narrow sandy strand, hugging her knees. She had pulled up the hood of her half cloak against the growing chill.

Ahead, the black water lay flat as glass. The air hung heavy with the promise of rain. Clouds covered what little starlight had shone. The darkness was almost complete.

Brant sank down next to her, dropping to one knee. He hated to disturb her. She plainly wanted a moment alone to settle her thoughts, but what he had come to suspect could not wait.

“Dart-”

Her face lowered farther.

“I’m sorry to bother you.”

A hand wiped at her cheek. “What is it?” Her voice was tremulous with tears.

He began to straighten, suddenly regretting his intrusion. “I’m sorry. Perhaps another-”

She sniffed, once and hard, clearing her throat. A hand reached and touched his shoulder. “No. What is it?” A bit of firmness returned to her voice. She wiped her cheeks with a corner of her sleeve and shook back her hood, facing him.

His voice died for a moment, struck silent as the firelight brushed across her damp face, glistening and warm.

“Brant…?”

He blinked and swallowed. Finally he settled beside her. “I wanted to ask you something away from others. I’m probably wrong, but it was something you said a while back. Up in the flippercraft as we approached the Eighth Land. When you asked to see my stone.”

Brant offered his hand, opening his palm. The stone rested there, unthreaded again from its cord. He’d felt its warmth as he had neared Dart. Pupp must be close, watching with his ghostly eyes. It was one of the reasons he had come. He had to be certain.

Pupp…the sword…

A single line furrowed between her brows as she stared at his stone.

“I don’t understand,” she said.

“You said something up in the flippercraft,” he mumbled. “About the stone. I dismissed it before. But after what we just heard…”

She looked up at him a bit more firmly, hearing the hope in his voice. Even his hand trembled a bit. If he was right, it could make his father’s death mean something…make all of this mean something.

But was he right?

He remembered Dart’s description of his stone.

It’s beautiful…the way it catches every bit of light.

Brant also remembered his words to his father when he first picked up the stone.

It’s only a rock.

That was what everyone else saw, just a dull, drab stone, something of no great acclaim, especially as Brant kept silent about where it had come from. A secret between father and son.

Now Dart, a girl with sharper eyes, saw something more.

Was it what he suspected-hoped for?

“All I see is a plain black stone,” Brant explained. “Dull and wan.”

Her eyes flicked to him, confusion shining. “But it’s not dull-”

“I know. You see something else.” He held out his hand, trembling. “Show me what no one else sees. Like Pupp. Or the sword.”

She knew then. He saw the understanding in her eyes. Not everything, not yet.

“My blood…”

He nodded.

Before either could move, a shout erupted from steps away. They both turned to find Lorr running straight at them, bearing aloft a fiery torch. “Get back! Get away from there!”

Brant’s fingers clenched over the stone. He leaned closer to Dart, ready to protect her. But he saw the wyld tracker’s eyes weren’t on them-he looked beyond them.

Toward the water.

Brant twisted around.

Dark figures stood out in the lake, some still rising out of the black water, though not a ripple was stirred, as if the dark flood was mere shadow. Closer still, two dark shapes were already sliding toward Dart and Brant. Again not raising any wave by their passage, wading out of shadows.

Black ghawls.

A dozen strong.

Brant and Dart scrambled back, but the sand was loose and their feet kicked more than gained.

Then Lorr was there, leaping over them with the agility of a spring deer. He splashed into the water’s edge, flaming brand before him, warding against the pair that were closest.

“Here, Master Brant!” Malthumalbaen bellowed behind him. “By the fire!”

Brant finally gained his feet and hauled Dart up with him. They stumbled toward the waiting fire.

Out in the water, knee-deep, Lorr swung his torch before him. The fiery arc forced the two closest ghawls back a step. They were cloaked in shadows, bearing aloft black swords. The torchlight washed away the darkness for a breath, revealing pale, sunken faces of the long dead.

“Git back to the fire!” Lorr called to them.

Heeding his own advice, he backed toward shore, keeping his torch between him and the pair of daemon knights. The flames kept them at bay. But to either side, the other ghawls floated toward shore, again moving without disturbing the water, eerie and silent.

But Lorr kept his focus on the closest pair.

A mistake.

Behind him, a dark shape lunged out of the water at his heels, catching the tracker off guard. And rightly so, as the water was only ankle-deep-too shallow to hide such a form-but Brant knew it wasn’t truly water from which these creatures welled. They arose out of the darkness that lay across the waters like oil.

Dart screamed, in both warning and surprise.

But it was too late.

Lorr half turned as the daemon knight’s blade buried itself in his back. He was lifted from the water, impaled and arched on the sword. Shadows spread out from the blade. His flesh darkened and sank to his bones. His last breath was a wail of a hunter on a trail.

But where Lorr went to hunt now, they could not follow.

His body was cast aside, to splash facefirst into the waters.

The other ghawls headed toward shore.

Arms grabbed Brant, raising a startled yip.

But it was only Krevan. He snatched Brant’s shoulder and Dart’s arm and all but threw them into the ring of firelight. “Stay by the fire!” he yelled. “It’s the only safety.”

“Where are you-?” Brant started.

The pirate furled out his shadowcloak and vanished into the shadows beyond the firelight. His last words carried back. “To find Tylar.”

They circled each other inside the tent, shifting shadows. Though their blades did not strike for the moment, they still fought, testing each other, feinting for an opening. A shoulder move here, countered by a shift of hip. A leg stepped back, met by a contrary twist of a wrist. Move by move, they danced in a slow circle.

Tylar had taught Perryl well.

He lifted Rivenscryr in his good hand. The blade glowed with its own inner fire, a soft silvery radiance, moonlight given substance. He knew it was the only weapon that could withstand the blade wielded by this daemon knight.

Perryl’s blade glinted with green fire, the same poison that ate through Tylar, weakening both naethryn and its vessel.

As if reading his worry, the daemon spoke for the first time, whispery and low, oily with malevolence. “You are riddled with the blood of Chrism, darkly Graced with old enmity and fury. Nothing in Myrillia, nothing in the naether can burn this poison away. You are doomed. Better to open your guard and die quickly. A final kindness…”

Proving this point, Tylar stumbled on his bad leg. His chest burnt with every breath. They had come at each other twice already. Tylar had barely kept his footing at the last attack, deflecting the daemon’s blade more by sheer luck than skill.

As they circled, he wondered how Perryl had found him so readily. Was this an ambush by the Wyr? A trap? Or had the ghawl found him by the poison he just described? Sniffed out like a dog on a trail?

Either way, Tylar had to survive.

He heard the screams beyond the tent. Perryl had not come alone. But before Tylar could help any others, he had to deal with this one, plainly the leader. If he could vanquish this daemon lord of the ghawls, the others might take flight.

But how to do that?

Once before, he had speared Perryl through the chest with Rivenscryr and still failed to slay the beast. But perhaps a fiercer blow, a slice through the neck-even a daemon would lose his fight with his head rolling across the floor.

That was Tylar’s only hope.

Tylar’s ankle turned on a knob of root underfoot. He dropped his sword for balance, opening himself up. Perryl blended shadow and speed brilliantly. Tylar had just enough time to appreciate the beauty of the move. A Jackman’s Tie. He attempted a Sweeper’s Row to block, but he knew it would fail.

Then a rustle of tent flap, and a storm of shadows burst into the tent.

A knight shed out of the darkness.

Krevan smashed into Perryl. But Perryl turned the blow to his advantage. Using Krevan’s own weight, he spun on his back heel, coming around as swift as any shadow. His blade sliced for the pirate’s neck.

Krevan rolled to the side-but not fast enough.

Perryl’s sword sliced across Krevan’s raised wrist, cutting through cloth and flesh down to bone.

Normally the pirate would not have faltered, but this was no ordinary blade. A howl escaped Krevan’s lips as he fell back. Shadows fell like water from around the pirate. His outstretched arm sprayed blood, but not enough to wash out the poison. His hand melted from his wrist, then the corruption spread up his arm.

Tylar remembered Malthumalbaen’s brother, who suffered a similar fate.

Krevan swung at Perryl, driving him back a step.

Tylar had regained his footing and attacked. He yanked his other sword free, earning a flare of complaint from his bandaged hand, and swung the blade-not at Perryl but at Krevan.

Using all his strength, Tylar cleaved through Krevan’s raised arm. He took the limb off at the shoulder, before the poison could spread. He followed through by shouldering Krevan back out the tent flap and shoving him clear.

As the heavy hide tent flap clapped shut, Tylar swung wildly with Rivenscryr as Perryl tried to close on him. Too eager, Perryl. Tylar faced the daemon, tossing his knightly sword to the floor and lifting Rivenscryr high.

The Godsword was his only hope.

Sweating and with his limbs on fire, Tylar faced the daemon lord again.

Though likely doomed, he knew what he had to do.

Let’s end this dance.

“Stay low,” Rogger said, pulling Brant farther down.

They all crouched with their backs to the fire. Brant knelt on one knee. Beyond the thief, Malthumalbaen lay almost on his belly, while Calla took up a post on the far side of the fire, facing where Krevan had vanished.

Dart kept to Brant’s other side. She had covered her face when Lorr died, but the deaths had not ended there. All around, the Wyr-folk were being slaughtered. Screams echoed from all sides.

A moment ago, a large-limbed woman had lumbered past their flames, howling in fear, knuckling on one arm as she ran. Brant had tried to call her over, but her wits were as low as her forehead, and what remained had been burnt away by fear.

She trundled past their flames only to have shadows open to one side and a blade shoot out, striking clean through her neck. Her body continued for another two steps, then slid to the ground. Her head rolled farther off into the darkness as if still trying to escape.

The only Wyr-folk who seemed to have found a safe haven were the strange women led by the one named Meylan. They had scaled the nearby pinnacle, reaching the flames on top. They cast the occasional fiery brand down the side, scattering sparks along the rock, warning against any trespass by the ghawls.

And that was the true danger.

The ghawls lurked just beyond the reach of the firelight, searching for a way past their defenses.

Rogger explained one such threat as he pulled Brant lower. The thief had been studying a few other fires across the camp. “You don’t want your shadows to stretch out to the darkness. I think they can flow up such channels to reach you.”

Brant dropped to his other knee.

“What happens when we run out of wood?” Malthumalbaen asked, sprawled almost flat to keep his silhouette low.

Rogger shook his head. “Mayhap you can leap and grab a few branches overhead, tear them down with those long arms of yours.”

The giant eyed the canopy as if considering this plan.

Dart spoke softly from his other side. “Brant…your stone…”

Rogger heard her. “I don’t think that’ll help, little lass.” The thief must believe she was grasping at false hope, like the giant eyeing the branches overhead. “These creatures are not locked in seersong. And any other nullifying-”

Brant stopped him with a raised hand. Though the stone was still clutched tightly in his other hand, he had forgotten about it.

Dart turned. She already held a dagger in her hand.

She knew.

Brant leaned back, his body damp from the searing heat of the fire. He opened his palm toward her.

“What are you two doing?” Rogger asked, sidling around while staying low.

Brant didn’t bother to explain. Either it worked or it didn’t.

Dart met Brant’s eye, scared but determined. He reached out with his other hand and touched her knee. He kept his fingers there.

Dart nicked her thumb with the tip of her dagger. A single drop of blood welled up, crimson and fiery in the firelight. She tilted her thumb and let the drop roll off and splash onto the drab black chunk of stone.

A flash of fire ignited in his palm, but it was not a true flame.

Brant stared at the whetted stone in his palm. It was no longer a drab bit of rock. Dart’s blood had revealed its true heart, reflecting the firelight from its hundred facets.

A perfect black diamond.

Dart’s words echoed.

It’s beautiful…the way it catches every bit of light.

Rogger’s reaction was less prosaic. “Smart bastard. Keorn hid it in plain sight.”

The thief patted Brant on the shoulder. “Well done.”

Brant knew the thief understood immediately. It was Rogger’s own words that had helped Brant begin to suspect earlier. How Chrism had designed the first shadowknight’s sword, a blade with a black diamond on its hilt.

Rogger leaned closer. “Chrism must have fashioned the knight’s sword after Rivenscryr. Or at least how he remembered it.”

“But what about this diamond?” Dart asked. “Why is it not with the sword now?”

“Because Keorn removed it,” Rogger said. “He probably replaced the diamond with a fake, some artifice that looked like it, to fool his father. That was the sword’s flaw. The fake must have been destroyed during the Sundering, but the original diamond, like the sword, came to Myrillia. The sword with Chrism. The heart with Keorn. Two parts of a whole.”

“We must get the diamond to Tylar,” Dart said.

“But how?” Rogger mumbled and nodded out to the darkness.

Brant glanced up.

Others had been drawn by the flame in his palm. At the edge of the firelight, darkness stirred and rustled. Like moth-kins to a flame, the black ghawls had gathered tight around them.

“Can’t go out there,” Rogger said. “And fire’s the only thing keeping them back.”

As if hearing him, the skies opened up.

Rain fell in great large drops-at first lightly, then in a drenching downpour. Behind Brant, the fire sizzled and spat, slowly being doused.

As more rain fell, the ring of firelight began to collapse.