Godslayer

SIXTEEN

Haomane’s allies had gone on the march under cover of darkness. Dawn broke over the plains to find them encamped a short distance from the foot of the Gorgantus Mountains. The mountains trembled at the roars of the Tordenstem sentries, summoning the Three and their chosen companions.

“By the Six!”

Tanaros heard Speros’ shaking oath behind him. Another time, perhaps, he might have reprimanded the Midlander for it. In Darkhaven, one did not swear by the Six Shapers. Today it seemed meet.

The army covered the plains of Curonan, armor gleaming in the bloody light of dawn. Nothing glimpsed in the Ravensmirror had prepared him for the sight. Even from the overlook high atop the crags, it was immense.

Side by side by side, the Three gazed at the army.

So many companies! There they were, gathered at last in one place, arrayed for battle. The Rivenlost formed the vanguard. It surprised Tanaros, a little; but then, it was the Lady of the Ellylon over whom this war was waged. Perhaps it was a matter of honor.

“Well,” Vorax said. “There they are.”

“Indeed,” Ushahin said drily.

Vorax leaned over in the saddle and spat. “And there they can sodding well stay, as far as I’m concerned. Maybe they’ll go home when they begin to starve.” At his rear, a pair of Staccians chuckled.

Tanaros said nothing, squinting, trying to pick out individuals. The companies were still milling and unsettled. Yes, there; glint of red-gold, a rider moving among the disparate companies, gesturing, giving orders, attempting to stitch them into a cohesive whole. Some of them had fought together at Beshtanag, but many of them had not. Coordination would be difficult in the field.

“You look like you’re sizing them up for battle, cousin.” Ushahin’s remark sounded casual. “Do you lack faith in our fortifications?”

“No.” Tanaros wondered why Haomane’s Allies had bothered to waste a precious hour or two of sleep to arrive at dawn. He exchanged a glance with Hyrgolf, who shrugged. There was no element of surprise to be gained. Did they imagine the sight would shock Darkhaven into surrendering? He frowned, studying the army. There, there was another figure he knew, riding to the forefront as the ranks parted to allow him passage. White-robed and whitemaned, the tip of his spear shining like the last star of the morning, a spark of brightness nestled in his snowy beard. He rode astride a horse as white as foam, with an arched neck and hooves that fell with deft precision.

“Is that … him?” Speros asked in a low voice.

“Malthus the Counselor.” Tanaros confirmed it absently, still frowning. “What did you do to my horse, damn you?”

As if in answer, the figure of Malthus spread his arms wide. The clear Soumanië on his breast burst into a blaze of light, bathing him in white radiance. On either side of him, Rivenlost heralds in bright armor raised horns to their lips and blew long blasts, high and clarion, shivering and silvery in the dawn.

On the plains of Curonan, Malthus the Wise Counselor lifted his voice, and whether it was through some vestigial magic of the Soumanië or the wizard’s own arts, given to him by Haomane himself, his voice carried above the plains, as powerful and resonant as any Tordenstem Fjel; as his Lordship himself.

“Satoris Third-Born, whom Men and Ellylon have named Sunderer and Banewreaker, we have come in answer to your challenge! In the name of Haomane First-Born, Lord-of-Thought, I command you to face us, or be forever branded a coward!”

His words broke like a thunderclap over the mountains, accompanied by a blinding wash of brilliant white light. Tanaros rocked back in the saddle as though he had been struck. It felt like it. Fury flooded his veins, drowning rational thought; for an instant, he nearly spurred his mount over the edge of the crag into thin air. He found he was laughing, his teeth bared in a grimace of defiance, one hand on the hilt of his black sword. The Fjel were roaring, Vorax was roaring, the Staccians and Speros were shouting promises of bloody death. Tanaros shook his head, trying to clear it. There was only one way down to the plains; back, back to Darkhaven and down through Defile’s Maw. Yes, that was the way.

“Tanaros! Tanaros!”

A hand was on his arm; Ellyl-fair, tangling his reins and detaining him as he sought to turn his mount. Impatient, he tried to shake it off, but there was unexpected strength in the grip.

“You were right.” Ushahin’s voice was taut. “There is as much danger in the power to Shape spirit as matter.”

The words penetrated slowly. Tanaros took a shaking breath, aware of his heart threatening to burst from his branded chest, of hungering for the scent of blood. Ahead of him, Fjel and Men alike were scrambling along the path toward Darkhaven. “Malthus’ Soumanië,” he said thickly, understanding. “Why should you be immune?”

“To this?” Ushahin Dreamspinner gave his bitter smile. A vein throbbed in his dented temple and his dilated eye was black as a void, seeping meaningless tears at the painful onslaught of light. “It is only another form of madness.” He nodded down the path. “You had better halt your troops.”

Cursing, Tanaros lashed his mount’s haunches with his reins. He rode them down, plunging amid them, shouting. “Turn back, turn back! Hyrgolf! Vorax! Speros! Turn back!”

Hyrgolf heeded him first, coming to himself with a mighty shudder. He waded through the milling troops to plant himself in their path, setting his shoulders and roaring orders until the headlong rush stalled into aimless chaos.

“What was that?” Speros sounded confused, half-awake.

“That,” Tanaros said grimly, “was Malthus.”

The Midlander blinked befuddled brown eyes at him. “What happens now?”

They were all gazing toward him for an answer. Tanaros shook his head, wordless. Behind and beyond them, above the looming edifice of Darkhaven’s fortress, stormclouds were gathering; black and roiling. One atop another they piled, bruise-colored and furious, until the air was heavy with tension. Wind blew in every direction, cold and cutting as a knife.

A peal of thunder answered Malthus’ challenge. It began deep and low, so low it was little more than a tremor felt in the pit of the belly, then built in burgeoning fury, built and built in rolling peals, culminating in a booming crack, the likes of which had not been heard since the foundation of the world was Sundered. Even the horses of Darkhaven staggered, and Men and Fjel lifted their hands to cover their ears.

A fork of lightning split the dirty clouds, blue-white as the marrow-fire, and its afterimage was as red as the beating heart of Godslayer.

Then there was silence, until it was broken again by the silvery horns of the Rivenlost, casting their tremulous, valiant challenge aloft on a surge of light, sowing fresh unrest in their enemies’ souls.

“What now?” Speros of Haimhault’s voice broke. “Ah, Shapers! What now?”

“War.” Ushahin Dreamspinner rode up the path with shoulders hunched against the biting winds. Under the lowering skies and their murky light, the mount that consented to bear him was the color of old blood, spilled and drying. Tanaros watched him come; half-breed, half-healed, his gilt hair lank with disdain. Ushahin met his eyes, but it was Speros he answered. “It is what it has always been, Midlander. War.”

“We will give them war!” Vorax growled, and the Staccians echoed assent. “Supplies be damned! We will fall upon them and make them wish they had never been born.”

Tanaros raised his hand, halting them. “It is for his Lordship to decide.”

“It is in my heart that he has already decided,” Ushahin murmured to him. “The Soumanië is persuasive, and his Lordship was not unwilling to be persuaded in the matter. I hope you took their measure well, cousin.”

Tanaros glanced back toward the plains, longing to answer the horns’ call. “Well enough, cousin, if it comes to it.” He steeled himself. “We’d best make haste. The fortress is likely to be in an uproar. Can I trust you all to hold firm?”

There were grim nods all around. Bloodlust itched in all of them, but the initial madness of Malthus’ spell had been broken. What remained could be resisted.

It was well, for his prediction proved an understatement. They arrived at Darkhaven to find it boiling with battlefrenzy. Fjel poured from the barracks, abandoned their posts along the wall, streaming toward the Defile Gate. Only their sheer mass prevented them from passing through it and entering Defile’s Maw. So many Fjel were pressed up against the Gate it was impossible to open it. Enraged and slavering, partially armed or not at all, they flung themselves against the stone walls.

“Shapers!” Speros looked ill.

“Marshal Hyrgolf.” Tanaros kneed his mount forward, taking a position atop the high path where all could see him. He gazed down at the seething mass of bodies. “Get me one of the Tordenstem.” There was a slight commotion behind him, and then one of the Tordenstem, the Thunder Voice Fjel, was at his side, squat and grey as a boulder, offering a steady salute. Tanaros nodded at him. “Tell them their General commands their attention.”

The Tordenstem took a great breath, his barrel-shaped torso swelling visibly, and loosed his voice in a mighty roar. “All heed the Lord General Tanaros! Tan-a-ros! Tan-a-ros! All heed the Lord General!”

Stillness settled, slow and gradual. The long training of the Fjel had instilled the habit of obedience in them. They ceased flinging themselves at the impervious stone and gazed upward at Tanaros, a semblance of sanity returning to their features.

“Brethren!” Tanaros raised his voice; an ordinary Man’s voice, possessed of no special might, but pitched to carry over battlefields. “Who is it that has ordered this assault?” There was no answer. The Fjel shuffled and looked at their horny feet. “No?” Tanaros asked. “Then I will tell you: Malthus. It is Malthus the Counselor who orders it, and Malthus alone you obey if you heed this madness!”

They looked shame-faced and Tanaros felt guilty at it. He, too, had been caught up in the frenzy. If not for the Dreamspinner’s intervention, he would be down there among them. But it would avail nothing to confess it. Now was the time to provoke their pride, not assuage it.

“Listen to me,” he said to the Fjel. “This”—he gestured—“this mayhem, this undisciplined ferocity, this is how Haomane’s Allies see you. This is what they wish the Fjel to be; mindless, unthinking. Ravening beasts. Do you wish to prove them aright? Is that how Neheris Shaped her Children?”

A roar of denial rose in answer. Tanaros smiled and drew his black sword. Its hilt pulsed in his grip, attuned to the hatred that throbbed in his veins. It glowed with its own dark light under the shrouded skies.

“By this sword!” he called. “By the black sword, quenched in his Lordship’s blood, I swear to you! We will obey his Lordship’s orders and see his will is done. And if his will be war, Haomane’s Allies will know what it means to face the wrath, and the might, and the discipline of Darkhaven!”

Their cheers drowned out the distant call of Ellylon horns.

Tanaros sheathed the black sword and turned to Hyrgolf. “Summon your lieutenants and restore some semblance of order. Tell the lads to remain on alert.”

“Aye, General.” Hyrgolf paused. “You think his Lordship means to do it?”

“I don’t know.” Tanaros leaned over in the saddle, clasping the Tungskulder’s shoulder. “We shall see, Field Marshal.”

Lilias startled awake from a dream of Beshtanag.

She had been dreaming of the siege, the endless siege, watching her people grow starved and resentful, waiting for an army that would never come, hearing once more the silvery horns of the Rivenlost blow and the herald repeating his endless challenge. Sorceress! Surrender the Lady Cerelinde, and your people will be spared!

Waking, she found herself in her pleasant prison-chamber, sunlight streaming through the high windows. Beshtanag was far, far away. And still she heard horns, a faint and distant call echoing through Meronil’s white bridges and towers.

For a terrified moment, she thought it was Oronin’s Horn summoning her to death. In Pelmar it was said those of noble birth could hear it; of a surety, the Were could. But, no, those were Ellylon horns.

“Eamaire.” Swallowing her pride, Lilias pleaded with the attendant when she arrived. “What passes in the world? Is Meronil besieged?”

“While Haomane’s Children draw breath on Urulat’s soil, Meronil stands, Lady.” A cool disdain was in the Ellyl’s leaf-green eyes, as though she had borne witness to Lilias’ darkest fantasies of destruction. “The Lord of the Rivenlost travels with the Host. You do but hear their horns sounding in the distance.”

Lilias took a sharp breath. “Darkhaven?”

The Ellyl hesitated, then shook her head. “It may be. We cannot know.”

She departed, leaving Lilias alone with the memory of her dream and the awful knowledge that it was true, all true, that Beshtanag was lost, everything was lost, and she was to blame. The horns sounded again, reminding her.

Perhaps Oronin’s Horn would not have been so terrible after all.

Lilias sat at her window seat and watched the broad silver ribbon of the Aven River unfurl far, far below, thinking about her dream. Perhaps, she thought, she would sleep and dream it again. As awful as it was, it was no worse than the reality to which she had awakened, the reality she was forced to endure. At least in the dream, Beshtanag had not yet fallen, Calandor still lived, and Lilias was immortal.

There were worse things than death and dreams.

The throne hall was ablaze with marrow-fire. It surged upward from the torches to sear the mighty rafters and laced the walls in stark blue-white veins; earth’s lightning, answering to Lord Satoris’ rage. The Shaper was pacing the dais in front of his carnelian throne, a vast and ominous figure, unknown words spilling from his lips.

The Three glanced at one another and approached.

“My Lord.” Tanaros went to one knee, bowing his head. From the corner of his eye, he saw Vorax do the same. Ushahin, unaccountably, remained standing. “We come to learn your will.”

“My will.” Lord Satoris ground out the words. He ceased his pacing and his eyes flashed red as coal-embers. “Did you not hear the challenge Malthus raises? My will, my Three, is to take up Godslayer and split open the very earth beneath his feet until he is swallowed whole by Urulat itself, and my Elder Brother’s allies with him!”

His words echoed throughout the Throne Hall, echoed and continued to echo. Tanaros kept his head bowed, feeling the Shaper’s wrath beating in waves against his skin. The air was filled with the acrid odor of blood and thunder, so dense he could taste it in his mouth.

“Can you, my Lord?” It was Ushahin, still standing and gazing up at Satoris, who asked the question. There was a strange tenderness in his voice. “Can we yet delay this hour?”

The Shaper sighed. His shoulders slumped and his head lowered. A beast brought to bay; and yet no beast had ever stood so motionless, so still. The last echo of his words faded, until there was only the sound of the Three breathing, the crackle and hiss of the torches, and the slow, steady drip of ichor pooling on the dais.

“I cannot.” Satoris whispered the words, turning out his empty hands. “Oh, my Three! I am not what I was. It is a terrible burden to bear. I have borne it too long and spent too much.” A shudder ran through him. “Was I unwise? I cannot say.”

“Not unwise.” Ushahin wiped at his dilated eye, watering in the marrow-fire’s painful glare. “Never that, my Lord.”

“No?” Satoris laughed, harsh and hollow. “And yet, and yet. Ah, Dreamspinner! What did you see in the Delta? Too much, I think; too much. I destroyed the Marasoumië and I reckoned it worth the cost, for it would destroy Haomane’s Weapon within it. And yet he lives, he places himself within my grasp, no longer able to Shape matter, and I …” He glanced at his empty hand. “I cannot seize him. I bleed, I diminish. Clouds I may summon; smoke and fire, signifying nothing. Godslayer beckons, but I cannot rise to its challenge. I cannot Shape the earth. I spent myself too soon.”

“My Lord!” Unable to bear it any longer, Tanaros rose to his feet. “We are here to serve you,” he said passionately. “Tell us your will, and we will accomplish it.”

“My will.” Lord Satoris glanced around him, surveying his creation. “These mountains, this fortress … oh, my Three! Years, it bought me, bought us; ages. How much of myself did I spend to erect them? What folly beckons me to betray them? Ah, Malthus! You are a formidable foe. And I … I am tired. Uru-Alat alone knows, I am tired.” He heaved another sigh. “I would see it ended.”

Tanaros bowed to the Shaper. “My Lord, you have not erected Darkhaven in vain. It can withstand this siege. But if it is your wish to give battle, my Fjel are eager and ready.”

“Can we win?” Vorax asked bluntly. He glanced sidelong at Tanaros and clambered to his feet. “Folly, aye, there’s no question it’s folly. Less of one if we stand a chance of winning.”

“Our chances are good.” Tanaros pictured the army of Haomane’s Allies in his mind. “They are many, but poorly coordinated. It is the effects of Malthus’ Soumanië I fear the most.”

“Malthus will not be so quick to assail your soul once you take to the field wearing the Helm of Shadows, cousin,” Ushahin murmured. “He will be hard-pressed to quell the terrors in his own people.”

“You are eager to do battle for one who can scarce wield a blade, Dreamspinner.” Vorax shook his head. “No, there is too much risk, and too little merit. I like my flesh too well to offer it to the swords of Haomane’s Allies when I have strong walls to protect it. That way lies madness.”

“Madness,” Ushahin said drily. “Not an hour ago, you were charging toward the Defile, willing to mount a singlehanded assault. Whose madness was that?”

Vorax flushed brick-red. “Malthus’, and you well know it!”

Ushahin shrugged. “It will come again, and again and again. The Counselor is powerful, and Haomane’s will lends him strength. He will use the Soumanië to weaken our resolve.” He smiled crookedly. “We have weapons to counter such an attack, but none to defend against it.”

“It is his Lordship’s choice,” Tanaros said.

They looked to the dais and waited.

Lord Satoris sank into his throne. “Choice,” he said bitterly. “What choice have I ever had? The pattern binds me fast, and I alone suffer the knowledge of it.” He clutched his thigh, fingers digging deep into the wounded flesh. When he raised his hand, it dripped with black ichor, glistening wetly in the light of the marrow-fire. “Drop by drop, year by year, age upon age,” he mused. “What will be left of me if I refuse this choice? For it will come again, and again and again, and there will be less of me to meet it. Did you know, Oronin Last-Born, when you planted Godslayer’s blade in my flesh? Will you sound your Horn for me?” He laughed softly. “And what will happen when you do? Who will sound the Horn for you? For make no mistake, the day will come. Fear it, as you fear to cross the Sundering Sea. I will be waiting for it. I will be waiting for you all. I have placed my stamp upon the world, as I was meant to do.”

“My Lord.” Tanaros sought to return the Shaper’s wandering thoughts to the present. “Your will?”

“You are insistent, my General.” The Shaper lifted his hand, his ichor-wet hand, dragging his splayed fingertips down his face. Broad trails gleamed, black on black. “Malthus,” he said in a calm voice, “wants a battle; so my Elder Brother bids him. It is my will that he shall have it, and I wish them all the joy of their desire.” Lord Satoris met Tanaros’ eyes. “Send an envoy. Let them retreat to a fair distance, and we will meet them in battle. And then …” He smiled. “Destroy them.”

Tanaros bowed. “My Lord, it will be done.”

Not a mouse, but a worm.

A worm, a lowly worm, crawling blindly through the earth; that was what Dani felt himself to be. Only Thulu’s intermittent directions whispered from behind reminded him otherwise. It was easier, in a way. It kept the terror at bay, the suffocating fear that stopped his throat when the walls closed in tight and he had to wriggle on his belly to keep going, never certain whether the tunnel would widen beyond, grow ever narrower, or end altogether.

At times it happened and they had to backtrack, slow and painful, to the last fork they had taken. And then Thulu had to pause, singing the veins of the earth in a ragged voice, reorienting himself toward distant water.

I am a worm, Dani thought, a worm.

There was air, though not much. It was close and stifling. They breathed in shallow breaths, trying to dole it out in precious lungfuls. Dani wondered how worms breathed as they inched through the black earth. Through their skin, perhaps.

Neither could have said how long their journey through the labyrinth of narrow tunnels lasted. At least a day; perhaps more. When seconds seemed to last minutes and minutes hours, it was impossible to say. It felt like an eternity. They crawled until they had the strength to crawl no farther, then they rested, sharing the last of their dwindling supplies; dry mouthfuls of food moistened by sparing sips of water.

They wasted no precious air in conversation. What was there to say? Either they would succeed or they would die, here beneath countless tons of rock, crawling in the pitchblack until the last of their supplies were gone and their strength failed and there was nothing left to do but lie down and die.

When the sound of human voices filtered into the tunnels, faint and distant, Dani thought at first that he had slipped into a waking dream; or worse, fallen into madness. Such a thing had been known to happen. Men had gone mad in the desert from an excess of sun, wandering dazed and speaking of things that did not exist. If light could cause such madness, surely darkness could do no less.

It was hard to make out words, but from the broad tone it seemed the voices were speaking the common tongue, which was irksome. Not since Gerflod had he used the hard-learned language, and after days upon days with only Uncle Thulu’s company, Dani found it hard to comprehend. If he were going mad, he thought, he would prefer to do it in Yarru. Even a worm deserved that much.

He crawled toward the voices, a vague notion in mind of complaining to them.

“Dani!” Behind him, Uncle Thulu called his name. “Slow down, lad.”

Dani paused, touching the clay vial dangling from his throat. It was solid and reassuring beneath his abraded fingers. What was he doing? “Uncle.” He tried his voice, finding it hoarse and strange. He had not spoken in any tongue since they had first begun crawling, however long ago it was. “Listen.”

They listened, breathing quietly. “Voices,” Uncle Thulu said. “I hear voices.”

In the blackness, Dani wept with gladness. “You hear them, too!”

“Aye, lad.” His uncle’s hand touched his ankle. “Go toward them, but slowly, mind. Whoever it is, they’re not likely to be a friend.”

Dani crept forward forgetting his aching knees and torn hands, the lingering pain in his shoulder. The tunnel continued to twist and turn, forking unexpectedly. He followed the sound of the voices, backtracking when they grew fainter. The path sloped upward, emerging gradually from the bowels of the earth. Turn by turn, the sound grew steadily louder.

Voices, a symphony of voices. As the tunnel widened, he could hear them; some high, almost flittering, some low, a bass rumble. Most were speaking in the common tongue, but here and there were Staccian tones he had heard among the women at Gerflod Keep, and there, too, was the Fjeltroll tongue, which sounded like rocks being pulverized.

The words in the common tongue had to do with food.

It was enough to make Dani wonder anew at his sanity; but then something else changed. The impenetrable blackness lessened. From somewhere, from wherever the voices spoke, light was seeping into the tunnels. He saw the dim outline of his own hands before him as he crawled, and kept going. He would have crawled into a den of Fjeltroll if it meant seeing the sun once more.

The light grew stronger; torchlight, not sunlight. It was enough to make him squint through eyes grown accustomed to utter blackness. When he could make out distant shadows moving across the rocky floor, Dani regained sense enough to freeze.

The tunnel, still low, had widened enough for Uncle Thulu to squirm alongside him. They lay on their bellies, watching the shadows move.

“Do you reckon we dare look?” Thulu whispered presently.

“I’ll go,” Dani whispered back.

He wriggled forward, inch by frightening inch. The tunnel sloped upward. The voices had grown clear as day, accompanied by scuffling and thudding, a steady series of grunts. Narrowing his eyes to slits, Dani peered over the crest of the incline.

The tunnel emerged onto a vast cavern, its walls stacked with foodstuffs. A throng of figures filled the space, Men and Fjeltroll alike, engaged in a concerted effort to shift the supplies. A steady stream were coming empty-handed and going laden, and an imposing figure, burly and bearded, directed their efforts. “An army travels on its belly!” he roared, slapping his own vast belly, clad in gilded plate-armor, for emphasis. “Come on, lads, move! I’ve more important matters on my plate!”

Dani winced and wriggled backward into the safety of the deep shadows, careful not to let the clay vial bang against the stony floor. In a soft whisper, he told Uncle Thulu what he had seen.

“Darkhaven’s larder.” Thulu gave a soundless chuckle. “Ah, lad! Time was I could have put a dent in it.”

“What should we do?” The thought of retreating into the tunnels made Dani shudder all over his skin. “Try to find another route to the river?”

“We wait.” Thulu nodded toward the cavern. “The river lies a distance beyond. No point tempting fate; I don’t know if there is another route. Whatever they’re doing, it can’t take forever. Wait for silence and darkness, and then we’ll see.”

Once, Dani would have thought it a bleak prospect; lying on cold, hard stone for untold hours, hungry and thirsty. With fresh air to breathe, the tunnels behind him, and Darkhaven before him, it seemed like bliss. “And after that?” he asked.

Uncle Thulu glanced at him. “I don’t know.” He shook his head. In the dim light, his eyes were wide and dark in his worn face. “After that it’s up to you, lad.”