Shadowfall

24

The six flippercrafts emptied over the towers and battlements. Shadowknights flew down scores of ropes, dropping to stations throughout the castillion and grounds.

Tylar lost count of the number. Over two hundred.

“The Fiery Cross has come to defend Chrism,” Gerrod said.

Lightning crackled in a mighty arc across the belly of the clouds, threatening the airships. It was foolhardy to ride a lightning storm. But such was the determination of Tashijan.

The winds gusted harder. Rain pelted like hail. One flippercraft brushed too near a tower. Starboard skimmer paddles snapped, sheared away. The ship hove up on its side, fighting for balance.

The damaged flippercraft swung away from the castillion-toward them. It wobbled. A pair of unlucky knights fell from the dangling ropes, jostled loose by the sudden canting. The two plummeted into the gardens, wings of shadow billowing out. They disappeared, their fates unknown.

The ship fared no better, dropping swiftly. It belly crashed through an old garden wall. The cracking splinter of wood sounded like thunder.

“Seems a bad day for flippercrafts,” Rogger mumbled at Tylar’s side.

The ship skidded between their party and the castillion, rolled half on its side, port aeroskimmers high. Bluish fires spat up from the stern end. Rain turned to steam, shrouding the craft.

But not enough to hide the rush of knights and crew escaping the ship.

Behind Tylar, another of the myrrwood trees erupted, gouting flames high. The heat rolled over them. Too near. Fiery branches rained down around them and out into the main gardens.

They had to move or be burned.

“This way,” Tylar said and led them from the flaming forest. “Stay low.”

“Where are we going?” Rogger asked as they headed into the gardens.

“To the stoved ship,” Tylar said. “We’re too few. We need to convince those others to aid us.”

“And how are you going to do that?” the thief asked. “Your face isn’t that pretty.”

Tylar nodded to Kathryn. “She’s still castellan of Tashijan, second only to Argent. Shaken up, the few knights here may listen to her.” He lifted his sword. “And if they don’t, we have this.”

Rogger shrugged. “Don’t mind me if I hide behind you, then.”

Tylar took the thief’s words to heart. Their chances were poor.

The group marched through the gardens, trudging a direct route through bushes and flower patches. The rain continued to pour, turning dirt to mud. The crashed flippercraft towered ahead of them.

Tylar stopped by a low stone fence. There was no reason to risk all. “Everyone else stay hidden here. Kathryn and I will go forward alone.”

No one objected. Only Eylan met his gaze.

“Keep the others safe,” Tylar said to her, letting his concern for them ring clear. “That will serve us all best.”

Eylan glanced to the two girls, then nodded. The others had already sunk down and leaned against the wall, seeking some shelter from the wind and rain.

Tylar glanced to Kathryn. She nodded her readiness.

They set off down a gravel path, bordered by hedges and pocked with dancing pools of rainwater. They moved swiftly, falling into an easy rhythm, as if this were any rainy night and they were returning from some engagement together. Still, Kathryn fingered her diadem, the symbol of her station. It might be all that stood between them and a sword through the heart.

She glanced to Tylar, eyes shining with powers drawn from the shadows. There were words behind that gaze.

Tylar feared for them to be spoken aloud and turned away.

He gripped his sword. Its hilt remained warm, flowing to fit his fingers, throbbing slightly under his palm like a heartbeat. He stared down at it. What was he carrying? What was this Godsword?

Lightning crackled brilliantly, drawing his attention. The gardens flashed in stark silver. Darkness shifted. A shadowy shape rose, as if from the path itself, blocking them. A sword threatened.

“Hold!” Kathryn boomed out.

Tylar jumped, surprised at her firm authority.

The knight’s sword lowered slightly.

“I am Castellan Vail,” she continued, not letting the other collect himself. “Take me to your foreknight or whoever’s in charge.”

The sword lowered farther.

But before more could be managed, a deep growl erupted from the left. Something huge ripped through a thorny tangle of elderwytch.

Ilk-beast.

Tylar flew back, sword ready.

It crashed through the neighboring hedgerow, thrusting right through it, hardly slowing. Nothing could be discerned but its dark muscled bulk.

Tylar lunged out with his sword. No matter its size, the Godsword would surely kill it. But before he could strike, a clang of steel knocked his sword high.

Caught by surprise, Tylar stumbled.

Lightning burst overhead, revealing the beast, limned in silver. It was a steaming, slavering monster-but a familiar monster.

“Barrin!” Kathryn called.

The bullhound skidded to a stop, paws sliding in the mud. Its tongue, as wide as a hearthside rug, lolled out. Its rear end wiggled with all the enthusiasm of its stumped tail.

The knight who had blocked Tylar’s sword shed his shadows. He reached to his masklin and let it drop.

“Krevan,” Tylar said, relieved.

The other knight on the path stepped nearer. It was Krevan’s right-hand man, the older knight, Corram.

Kathryn joined them. “I don’t understand.”

“Come see,” Krevan said.

He walked them through the ruined hedge. The view opened again. The smoking flippercraft was a mountain to the right, but an arrow’s shot ahead rose the castillion. Its battlements still glowed with torches, as did the terraces and windows. It blazed in the stormy gloom.

In the bright illumination, Shadowknights swept along parapets and flew from terraces down to the garden grounds. The dark wave struck the mass of ilk-beasts in the gardens. Wails and shrieks erupted. A pitched battle began.

“More knights still come by windmares,” Krevan assured them. He turned to Tylar. “We come to aid the godslayer.”

“How… the Warden… the Fiery Cross…?” Kathryn seemed unable to rein in her thoughts. She waved at the other flippercrafts and their flags.

Tylar frowned, no less confused.

“Warden Fields was convinced to listen,” Krevan said. The knight lifted his sword, Serpentfang. “Even someone as well regarded as Argent ser Fields is no match for the Raven Knight returned.” This last was spoken sourly.

Tylar stared up at the flippercrafts. Krevan must have used his notoriety to sway Tashijan to his cause. There must certainly be more story to tell, but it would have to wait.

On the far side of the gardens, screams pierced the low thunder, rising from both beast and knight.

“While we were flying here, a raven arrived from Lord Chrism,” Krevan said. “He warned of a curse that had transformed his troops into monstrous beasts. He claimed the guards were still loyal. Only their appearances had been altered by the curse. A curse placed upon him by the godslayer… and some daemon child.”

“No daemon,” a voice said behind them. Rogger stepped out of hiding. Plainly the thief had been trailing after them, abandoning his hiding place. He waved an arm, and the others appeared, too.

Tylar frowned at them all.

Rogger placed an arm around Dart. “She’s more like a god, actually. A very tiny god.”

Dart stared, gaping at the massive bullhound. It looked capable of swallowing her in one bite.

Krevan’s brow bunched. He studied the group for answers.

“There’s too much to tell,” Tylar said. “First, we must reach Chrism.”

“I have enough men and women to form a phalanx,” Krevan said. “We might be able to forge a path to the castillion.”

“Gather them,” Tylar ordered.

Krevan led them back to the flippercraft, trailed by the bullhound.

They met Lorr on the way back. The tracker bowed his head toward Kathryn. “The big kank still has a nose for you,” Lorr said, cuffing Barrin by the ear. “As soon as he got ground under his paws, he was mewling and drooling. I knew he had your scent.”

Krevan spoke. “When we saw the fire spreading in the woods, we figured you all were somewhere in the gardens. We had planned to land after off-loading our men and search for your group.”

“We landed a bit harder than we intended,” Corram said.

They reached the stoved flippercraft. Krevan sent Corram to gather a dozen knights. A sharp cry erupted from the lee side of the grounded ship.

Tylar turned.

A shape flew at him. He barely got his sword out of the way in time.

Delia threw her arms around him, hugging tight, all but climbing atop him. “Tylar… I knew you still lived.”

He carefully returned her embrace. He felt the tears on his neck.. and her lips. Tylar met Kathryn’s eyes over the young woman’s shoulder. She glanced away.

Delia finally seemed to collect herself, shedding from him like water. She smoothed her cloak and backed away. “I’m sorry…”

Tylar had no words. He still felt her lips on his neck, the heat of her tears. He was saved from responding to Delia’s apology or Kathryn’s silence by Corram’s arrival with a shadowed mass of knights.

“The weakest flank is off by the southeast tower,” Corram said. “We may be able to break through there to the keep.”

Tylar prayed he was right. He stared across at the others. “There’s no need for all to go. The remaining knights here can protect you.” It was no surprise that Eylan stepped forward. The Wyr-mistress had an interest in his surviving… or at least part of him.

Rogger followed her. He pointed to a bare spot under his elbow, among the branded sigils of the gods. “I still have Chrism’s sigil to collect.”

Kathryn joined them. “Tashijan must be represented.”

“As should the Council of Masters,” Gerrod said, stepping up. “And I know the castillion well. It’s easy to get lost.”

The last stood alone, arms tight around her chest, trembling. “The sword may need to be replenished,” Dart said.

Tylar knelt down to meet her eye. “Brave words, but it’s best you and your friend stay here.”

“Mayhap we’ll need her,” Rogger said. “That sword of yours might need a bit more blood.”

He shook his head. “No. It’s risky enough to bring the sword near Chrism. If something goes wrong, I won’t hand him the girl, too.” He stared across the group. “I have Meeryn’s Grace and daemon. You have your swords and shadows. That will have to do until we reach Chrism. If I can’t take him out in the first stroke of the sword, I doubt I’ll ever have a chance for a second.”

Rogger slowly nodded.

“Dart stays here,” Tylar said. With the matter settled, he turned to Delia and Lorr. “Keep the girls safe. No harm can befall them.”

They both nodded.

Dart fell back with the others. Laurelle wrapped her in an embrace. They had seen too much horror. Tylar prayed it would end now.

He faced his knights and companions. “Let nothing stop us.”

Dart watched them set off, sheltered in the lee of the crashed ship. Its fires had been put out. For the moment, it offered security. But Dart knew how tentative such safety could be.

Across the way, the knights formed a wedge of shadow and sword. The godslayer and the others sheltered between, ready to aid with dagger and blade. They moved swiftly away, a black arrow sweeping low across the gardens, skirting ponds and walls, aiming for the southeast tower.

She followed their strike into the flank of the besieged ilk-beast legion. All that could be discerned were a few flashes of silver, like lightning on the ground.

The muzzled man, plainly a wyld tracker from his leather and double belts of knives and daggers, drew alongside Dart. He held something out for her. It was a spyglass. He had a second for Laurelle.

Laurelle shook her head, backing up a step.

Dart took the glass and raised it to her eye. She wanted to watch. It took a moment to center on the fighting. Though drawn closer to the battle, it was still difficult for her to see. Shadows obscured detail as knight fought beast with blade and darkness. She was surprised to hear words whisper at her ear. She heard Tylar’s voice ring out clearly.

“Make for the terrace! We’ll hold them there, then at the door!” Screams and shrieks drowned the rest.

Dart lowered the glass to study it. The din of battle diminished.

“Air blessed,” Tracker Lorr said. “The lens brings both sight and sound closer. Great for hunting dark woods.”

Dart nodded, lifting the glass again.

The woman who had hugged Tylar earlier joined them. Lorr turned to her. “This child here is not much older than you were, Delia, when your father sent you away.”

“He may regret that now,” she answered. “The soothmancers will be running their bloody hands over him for days before they’re done with him.”

Dart followed none of this. Instead, she concentrated on the fighting. Sounds again reached her. Strangled cries, death rattles, and the clash of steel. But it appeared Tylar and the others had broken through the ranks. A clutch of knights burst from the writhing bulk of ilk-beasts, flying up the steps to the terraces below the southeast tower. They were a ragged bunch compared to the orderly wedge of before-but they had escaped. The group reached the door.

“Krevan!”Tylar again shouted. “Hold here! Let none pass!”

The party filtered through the door, leaving behind a knot of shadows at the threshold.

The others vanished away.

“They’re inside,” Lorr said.

Dart glanced to him, lowering her spyglass. The tracker had watched without the need of a lens.

The woman Delia stared, too, but Dart sensed she watched more with her heart than her eyes. Her embrace with Tylar had been a close one.

“I expect the castillion has been emptied out,” Lorr said to Delia. “They’ll make for the High Wing.”

Dart lifted her glass again. She searched the castillion. She sought out the centermost tower, the one over the river.

The High Wing.

Dart wondered what had befallen the other Hands: the rotund Master Pliny, the diminutive Master Munchcryden, the twins Master Fairland and Mistress Tre. Not to mention Matron Shashyl. Had they all been ilked? Were they among the legion?

She heard the cries of the beastly army, punctuated by racking booms of thunder. The storm fell worse atop the castillion. Rains spattered into their shelter now, whipped up by growing winds.

The flippercrafts were forced to retreat, drifting away to settle in neighboring fields or elsewhere in the Eldergarden. The storm drove them to ground.

Droplets struck her lens, sparkling and watering her view of the highest tower of Tashijan.

Still, a voice reached her, dreadful and familiar. “The godslayer comes with the sword,” Mistress Naff said.

“You know what you must do.” The voice still sounded as warm as sun-baked loam. It invited one to listen. It reminded Dart of when she first met Chrism, here in the same gardens, mistaking him for a groundskeep. And though she had witnessed it with her own eyes, she could not balance that memory with what had transpired off in the myrrwood. “Is all in readiness to welcome the godslayer?”

Dart heard the hard smile behind Mistress Naff’s next words. “The trap is set. There will be no escape. For any of them. It will end here.”

Tylar climbed the stairs of the center tower. They approached the High Wing. He led the way with Kathryn at his side. Eylan followed with Gerrod and Rogger. Krevan and Corram guarded their rear.

The only sound was the tread of their own steps. Even the cries of battle in the gardens had disappeared, swallowed by the heavy stone. All that interrupted their footsteps was the occasional hollow rumble of thunder.

Where were the folk of the keep?

Surely not all had been corrupted into beasts.

Yet not a single person moved in the halls. The entire keep had become a crypt, haunted and empty. Torches hissed in sconces and braziers crackled. The castillion seemed to be holding its breath, waiting.

The tension dragged their steps. Each crack of thunder stopped them until it echoed away. They had slowly traversed the lower halls from the southeast tower. In the lower holds, they discovered sections of the floor had fallen away, into the river below.

“Our flippercraft must have ripped through some of the castillion’s old underpinnings as it crashed through here,” Rogger had said, peering down into the river. The waters below had churned and roiled with the storm.

But such damage was slight compared to the true blow struck here.

The corruption of a god, the heart of an entire realm.

Tylar stared upward, toward the High Wing.

They climbed another four flights, moving in silence. None dared speak. Tylar rounded the last bend in the stair. The main double doors to the High Wing were not only unguarded, they lay open.

He stopped, suspicious.

They waited, listening for any sign of an ambush.

All that was heard was the rumble of thunder.

Tylar met Kathryn’s eyes. He sheathed his ordinary blade and slid free Rivenscryr. The snick of metal sounded loud on the stair.

He stepped around the bend, hugging the wall, his blade held ready.

He moved up one step, then another.

The rest followed.

In this steady manner, they climbed to the top of the stairs. Tylar tried his best to scan the hall beyond the open doors. Like all the halls, the High Wing appeared deserted. Had Chrism fled?

This worry drove Tylar over the threshold and into the great hall.

Windows lined one side, doors the other. Halfway down the hallway, the central brazier still glowed in the dimness. The crack of a log in the great furnace startled Tylar. It sounded like the break of a bone. A sound he knew too well.

He pushed farther into the hall.

Nothing.

He waved the others to check the closest rooms. All the doors were open, as if they had been left ajar in a mad rush to escape. Kathryn and Gerrod tried the first chamber. Eylan and Rogger the next. Tylar led Krevan and Corram to the third.

Kathryn and Gerrod were already returning. “Empty,” whispered Kathryn, wearing a deep frown of worry.

Rogger appeared at his door. He waved. “Come see this.”

Tylar, Kathryn, and Gerrod followed the thief into the chamber. The air in the room smelled of burned rye and something sickly sweet, like honey gone bad.

Eylan waited for them in the back bedchamber. A figure lay atop the bed, arms folded over the rise of an ample belly. He looked to be in gentle repose, eyes closed. His chest rose and fell evenly. A brazier smoldered in one corner, the source of the room’s reek.

“Master Pliny, one of Chrism’s Hands,” Rogger introduced.

“He won’t wake,” Eylan said.

“Spellcast,” Gerrod said. “Thralled by black Grace.”

A stern voice interrupted them. “Another lies in the same state in the next room,” Krevan said.

They backed out to the main hall.

“Apparently Chrism spared his Hands from the ilking,” Rogger said. “I guess he’s too lazy to train new ones. Good Hands are hard to find.”

The other rooms were quickly checked. Two other Hands were discovered enthralled and slumbering.

“Mistress Naff is still missing,” Gerrod said. He stared around at the others.

All had heard Dart’s accounting of the ceremony in the myrrwood, the chosen few. The remainder of the castillion had not been spared. Chrism must have blood fed the keep staff and guards in secret, drafting all in some hidden manner. Perhaps in wine, perhaps in food. Afterward, they all went about their duties unaware that at a moment’s call all would be lost: their forms, their minds, their humanity.

Tylar felt no real sympathy for those who went willingly to the torch, but so many others had had no choice. He stared up and down the hall. Even the Hands had become puppets.

Everyone gathered again in the hall.

There was only one room left to be searched.

The golden doors to Chrism’s chambers stood closed, lit by the glow of the brazier before them.

Tylar stepped forward, flanked by Krevan and Kathryn. He clutched the Godsword in hand, fingers squeezing the throbbing hilt. The blade seemed to eat the light coming off the brazier and shone brighter for it.

He reached a hand toward the doors’ latch.

Their surface was plated in gold. If locked, it would take time to chop their way inside. Perhaps the closed doors were a ruse. To distract them, while Chrism made his true escape.

Tylar’s fingers touched the latch and the twin doors fell open on their own, swinging inside.

A lone figure stood at the threshold.

She was stunning, slim of waist, generous of curve and breast, auburn hair trailing in lazy curves over one shoulder and down to midback. She leaned slightly to one side, a palm resting on a hip, an inviting glint to her eyes.

“The godslayer,” she whispered, her lips, rouged red and full, barely moving. “Welcome to the High Wing.”

Tylar froze, transfixed-not so much by her beauty, but her nakedness. She stood unabashed, her nipples bared. Below her throat, no hair marred her smooth white skin.

But it was not unmarked.

Centered on her chest, a black handprint stood out starkly.

A twin to his own.

“They must be warned,” Delia insisted.

“I can send a cadre of knights,” a cloaked figure said, “but that would strip our defenses. I was ordered to keep you all under guard.”

Dart listened to the exchange from the shadow of the downed ship. She had related what she’d overheard in the High Wing, of a trap being set, but nothing was being done. Nothing but talking. Her fists balled up.

She glanced back out into the rain.

She spotted one hope to break this deadlock. She turned to Laurelle. “Can you distract those others?” She waved to Delia and the clutch of bantering knights.

Laurelle stirred, her brows frowned. “Why? What are you going to do?”

“I’m going to strike for the castillion.”

Laurelle’s eyes widened. “Are you mad? What about what Ser Tylar said? To keep you and the sword apart?”

“There are two daemons up there.” Dart remembered the kiss she had witnessed in the Eldergardens between Mistress Naff and Chrism. She remembered the smoky darkness that linked the pair’s lips. “The godslayer will need more than one strike. I’m the only one who can help him.”

Laurelle wrung her hands, but she nodded, her eyes firming with the plan. “I’ll do my best here. But how are you going to get there?”

She reached and hugged Laurelle tight. “Pupp is not the only dog here.” With those words, she set off into the rain.

Laurelle waited a moment, then headed in the opposite direction.

Dart rushed through the pelting rain. It stung now like bee stings, whipped by the winds. But she pushed on. She reached her only hope.

“Tracker Lorr,” she said.

The wyldman seemed unsurprised by her sudden appearance but confused for the reason behind it. “Child?”

She spoke in a rush. “Can your hound carry me to the castillion? I heard before… when you came… that he could smell Castellan Vail.”

“Aye, the big kank can, but that’s not a trip for a mite like you.”

Dart grabbed the edge of his buckskin coat. “I must get there.”

“Because of the trap?” Lorr asked. “Best leave that to your elders.”

Dart sensed time passing too swiftly. She filled her voice with firm conviction. A wyld tracker’s senses were supposed to be acute enough to tell lie from truth. “All will be lost unless I can reach them in time. I know it. Now is not the moment for caution or half steps. I know it’s risky for me to go. But I’m the only one who can help. If we lose now, we lose everything.”

He stared down at her, his eyes slightly aglow.

Dart met his gaze. “I must go.”

A commotion rose by the flippercraft. Laurelle was sobbing, panicked and throwing herself among the knights. They gathered about her, concerned.

“Turning the other’s noses, I see,” Lorr asked.

Dart nodded. “I can’t let them stop me. If you won’t help, I’ll do it myself.” She stalked toward the mountain of dog flesh.

The beast turned its massive head toward her, tongue lolling. Standing full in the storm, he seemed oblivious to the wind and downpour. A pool of saliva had dripped between his paws. The matt of ivy at his feet had gone brown from the poisoned touch of his drool. Plainly the blood on the wind had the dog stirred mightily.

The bullhound shook his mane as she reached him, dousing her with dirty rainwater. The stench of wet fur welled.

Lorr came to her side and knelt down. His voice had grown gruffer, but somehow warmer, too. “I once knew a girl with your spirit.” He glanced to the others. His eyes seemed to fix on the woman Delia. “Back then I had been too cautious, taken half steps to stand up for her, to demand better for her. I knew better.” He shook his head. “I knew better.”

Lorr stood back up and turned to his bullhound. He grabbed him by the nose, pushed his face down, and stared into his eyes. A single nip could take off the tracker’s arm. But the bullhound responded to the dominant manner and dropped to his forepaws, submitting.

“Listen, you ol’ kank. You go find the mistress.” He leaned closer. Lorr’s eyes seemed to glow brighter. “Understand. Find Kathryn,” he said the name slowly. Lorr did not take his eyes from Barrin. “Child, climb on his back.”

Dart faced the hill of hound and balked. Even Pupp shied around the great beast, hackles raised.

“Hurry now,” the tracker urged. “Up on the bent knee, then over his withers. Before I change my mind.”

Goosed by his threat, Dart mounted the dog. It was like climbing a sopping rug. A growl flowed as she hooked a leg and pulled herself over. The rumble was felt in her belly.

“Quiet down, Barrin,” Lorr said firmly.

The growl lowered below hearing level, but Dart still felt it in the pit of her stomach.

“Grab his leather collar,” Lorr said. “And hold tight.”

Dart obeyed, clenching her fingers.

“All right, then.” Lorr backed, then dropped his arm. “Off with you! Find the mistress!”

Muscles surged under Dart. The hound leaped fully to his feet and bounded off. She was thrown high, hanging by her hands. She landed hard between the hound’s shoulders.

Barrin grunted and raced across the gardens.

Shouts erupted behind her.

Dart ignored them. She concentrated on her mount. Every one of her bones rattled, including her teeth, but the hound kept his gait even, allowing her at least to keep her seat. Dart pulled up enough to peer forward over the dog’s head. They raced through the gardens, splashing through shallow ponds, bounding over low shrubs. A hedgeline appeared, taller than she stood.

She lowered herself and closed her eyes.

She felt Barrin’s muscles harden under her. He sped faster. She waited for his leap or his plunge through the woody hedge. Which was worse?

A surge of muscle and they were flying. She opened her eyes. Barrin sailed over the hedge and landed in a smooth curve on the far side, catching her up.

“Good dog,” she said, bouncing only a little.

She stared ahead. They were almost to the battle line. It had mired to large patches of fighting. Barrin sniffed at the bloodshed. He was a war hound. His head stared longingly toward the battle. He slowed.

“Find… find Kathryn,” Dart reminded him, not knowing if he could hear her squeak.

But his ears were sharp. He focused back on the castillion. He bounded through the edge of the battlefield. Bodies were sprawled everywhere. Barrin simply padded over them and away. He avoided the patches of fighting, but the screeches and shouts kept his ears pricked.

“Kathryn,” Dart whispered. “Kathryn…” She was now repeating it over and over. Not so much to guide the dog, as to calm herself, to distract herself from the blood and torn bodies.

At last they reached the castillion. Barrin flew up a set of stairs to a wide terrace. The dead found their way here, too. The tiles were black with blood. Too much for even the storm to wash away. Ahead, the windows had been smashed during the fighting.

Barrin leaped through the widest.

Dart ducked low to his back to avoid the jagged shards poking down from the top frame. Then they were through, racing down empty halls. Dart stayed low, fingers crimped tight to the hound’s collar. Only now did she spare a worry for Tylar and the others.

Was she too late?

Tylar stared at the black handprint resting between Mistress Naff’s breasts. He found himself unable to move, gripped by shock. What did it mean?

That momentary pause proved his undoing.

From the dark print, a jet of oily darkness poured forth, too fast for the eye to follow. It struck him square in the chest. But there was no impact. The darkness shot through him-no, into him, through his own mark.

He felt the swell behind his rib cage. Bones snapped outward. Flesh tore. And as before, once one bone broke, the rest followed. Agony flamed through him. He knew it would end. The shadowbeast would rise and he would cripple again. But at least the pain would go away.

Until then, agony trapped his breath.

Cries rose around him, but they sounded far away now, muffled by an unknown depth of water. He felt himself sinking deeper.

The pain did not end. What was broken, stayed broken. There was no healing.

Through unblinking eyes, he watched smoky black tentacles sprout from the jet of darkness. They shot and coiled in all directions, flailing out. Some struck him, but to no effect. The darkness draped around them, tangling. He and Naff became caged at the heart of a weaving tangle of smoky tendrils.

Tylar knew what trapped him.

Gloom, a tangle of naether.

But as his own daemon’s smoky form caused him no harm, neither could this darkness. Still, he was caught, a fly in a web, a broken fly, unable to move.

Darkness continued to snake into him.

He swelled, filled from the inside.

Too much…

Finally, something woke in Tylar, lashing out. He felt his body wrenched deep inside. His daemon rose to fight the trespasser. He felt the clash, beyond blood and bone. They writhed and tore. Tylar could not breathe. If the fighting continued much longer, he’d be unmoored. Nothing would be left of him.

Perhaps sensing this, the naethryn inside him pushed outward, dragging the other daemon with it. Smoke billowed thicker between Naff and Tylar. Darkness boiled as daemon fought daemon. Vague shapes took form.

An edge of wing, a glimpse of muzzle, smoky claws.

All belonging to his own daemon.

But that was not all. Other apparitions stirred and roiled in the smoky storm: a lash of snaking tail, a tongue of forked flame, a maw of black teeth. Though caught in glimpses, Tylar recognized the shapes.

From Punt.

Here, fighting his own daemon, was the beast who had murdered Meeryn. It lived inside Mistress Naff.

Mirth seemed to rise like steam.

“I was rewarded after I slew Meeryn,” Mistress Naff said. “Given this skin to wear and walk this world. Now it’s your time to follow.”

Darkness closed around Tylar. The hall dissolved away-but not sight. An inner eye opened. He watched, experienced, lived as someone else. He found himself struggling against someone.

The attacker was impossibly strong.

A tangle of brown hair, stubbled chin, hungry green eyes… Chrism.

No, she mouthed. Why…?

It was Mistress Naff.

She was struck in the mouth, but Tylar tasted the blood. Chrism thrust into her, rough, tearing. Tylar was unprepared. The pain tore his belly, his legs, his groin. She screamed. He screamed.

It stretched endlessly, then the burn of seed spilled into her. He felt it like a wash of fire. It seared through her, through him. They were one. Memories locked.

Raped… by Chrism.

His corrupted seed ate her from the inside. Hollowed her out. All that was once a woman was eaten away. Nothing was left. He felt himself going, too, following.

… NO…

A ring of command shot through him.

… THAT IS NOT YOUR PATH…

The words came from outside, from inside.

… IT IS ECHOES… NOT TO BE FOLLOWED… HERE IS YOUR BODY…

Agony flared anew… a more familiar agony. He knew the break of bones… his bones. He took the pain and claimed it for his own.

… DO NOT LOSE YOUR PATH…

Tylar recognized now the voice of his naethryn daemon.

Vision returned, tunneled and distant.

Corram lunged with a sword, attempting to cut him free. But the naether could not be harmed by mere steel. A lash of Gloom snapped forth, striking Corram in the face. He stumbled back, dropping his sword. He reached for his face. But it was too late. It was already gone.

Corram fell backward, blood pouring from the hollow that was once chin, lips, and nose. He struck the floor, dead.

A dagger flew with deadly accuracy at Mistress Naff’s throat. Thrown by Rogger. But a flow of Gloom turned it to slag in midair. It splattered to the floor. Harmless.

No weapon could pierce the naether tangle.

Save one.

Tylar could not see the Godsword in his hand. But he felt it. The hilt clung to his broken hand, refusing to let go. Tylar willed his body to move, to strike out at the daemon wearing Mistress Naff’s skin, the one who slew Meeryn and won this body. Tylar knew the real woman was long gone. All that was left were shadows and light, meant to trick him, to lure him astray like a will-o’-the-wisp in a dark wood.

Echoes, as his naethryn had claimed.

He struggled to raise the weapon, but he found no strength in his broken limbs. All he had was will. And that wasn’t enough.

Laughter met his struggle.

“We will have the sword… and you,” the daemon promised. A slim arm rose and reached for Rivenscryr. “With it, we will tear open this world, like this shell I wear now, and claim it for our own! We will be free!”

Tylar struggled, broken and hopeless.

There was no escape.

Fingers closed on the Godsword’s hilt.

Dart heard Mistress Naff’s voice from a landing away.

We will have the sword!

Dart hopped from the hound’s back, almost breaking her leg on the stairs. The sudden loss of his rider stopped the bullhound. Dart did not want to be dragged unwilling into the same trap as the others.

She left the hound below. She hoped her command to stay was obeyed.

Reaching the open doors, she crouched and studied the hall.

We will be free!

Dart ignored Mistress Naff. She spotted one knight down on the floor, blood pooling around his head. The others seemed at a loss on how to penetrate a tangled web that locked Tylar and Mistress Naff together. From her hiding place, Dart searched for Lord Chrism, but he was nowhere to be seen.

She returned her study to Tylar… and his sword.

He had to be broken free.

But how?

Kathryn despaired as she watched the daemon woman’s fingers close upon the hilt of the Godsword. She had heard the woman’s mad claim.

But how could they stop her?

Rogger circled the pair, seeking any means to penetrate the snarl of Gloom. He had tried striking from behind, but still the Gloom had thwarted him, burning his dagger to molten steel that dripped and steamed to the stones.

Krevan hovered by his fallen friend. His face was a mask of fury, but there was no outlet for his anger. Eylan and Gerrod stood to the side. Eylan pointed to a torch on the wall, then to the rug at her feet. Plainly she was thinking to set it on fire.

Gerrod wisely shook his head. Even if they could light the rug, it was doubtful flames would fare any better than steel.

Krevan stirred from his vigil and pointed his sword back to the door.

Kathryn turned, dropping lower, wary.

A small figure ran toward them.

It was the child. Dart. What was she doing here?

Kathryn closed upon her, intending to keep her back. The godling must not fall into Chrism’s hands. Especially if the monster recovered the sword. Kathryn’s fingers tightened on her own hilt. She could not let the child be taken alive.

Still, Kathryn stared down at the girl’s small flushed face as she joined her. Do I have the strength to slay this girl if I must?

“Castellan Vail,” Dart gasped. “You must throw your dagger!”

She grabbed the girl’s arm as she tried to move closer. “We already tried. No blade can reach her.”

Dart fought her grip. “Not her.” She freed her arm and jabbed it forward. “Him!”

“Tylar?”

Dart bent and touched Kathryn’s calf. “Strike him here. She may not expect that.”

“But-?”

“Do it!” The small voice chimed with a mix of command and desperation.

Kathryn twisted around, trusting the girl for now. She slipped a dagger free. “Rogger!” she called out. “Strike from behind again! All of you! On my command! Attack together!”

Kathryn pushed Dart behind her. She hoped the additional distraction might allow a blade to slip by the smoky defenses and strike Tylar’s calf.

“Now!”

Blades fell from all sides, aimed for the woman.

Kathryn swiped her dagger low, swinging from the hip. She put all the force of muscle and shadow into her throw.

The blade flew from her fingertips, sent with a prayer.

Elsewhere, steel exploded into fiery, molten splashes.

All done to protect Naff.

Not Tylar.

Kathryn’s blade slipped through a break in the tangle. The dagger struck Tylar’s calf, spearing completely through it.

Kathryn straightened. Nothing happened. The stalemate continued. Tylar did not even seem to notice the blow, too racked in pain already.

She stared down at the girl.

If Tylar lost this battle…

Kathryn lifted her sword. The girl did not even notice. She continued her focus on the two in the smoky tangle.

Dart’s lips moved, a whisper. “Go, Pupp…”

Frowning, Kathryn turned back to Tylar.

At his knee, something formed. A misshapen, molten chunk of bronze. It moved, defining itself into some four-legged creature of sharp points and razored edges. Its nose was pressed to Tylar’s calf, to the dagger.

To his blood!

“Tylar’s Grace!” Gerrod gasped, stepping to them, laying a hand on Dart’s shoulder. “It ignites her creature!”

“Pupp,” Dart corrected.

The bronze creature stalked around Tylar’s leg. Unseen and without substance before, it must have slipped in and waited for a source of Grace.

It found it in Tylar’s blood.

The daemoness finally noted the monster in her midst and jerked back. But it was too late.

Pupp leaped, flying high, all four claws extended. He latched onto Nass’s belly, flaring brighter. She screamed.

Flames shot out her back as Pupp buried his fiery muzzle into her flesh. She fell backward, tumbling out of her protective tangle and into Chrism’s rooms.

As she fell, the web shattered, releasing Tylar. He toppled back, sprawling without strength.

From both their chests, the dark streams receded, sucked back into the void from which they came. Tylar sat up, shaking away the residual shock. He tested his limbs, as if making sure they were still his.

He stood up, but almost fell as he put weight on his impaled leg. He glanced to the dagger, then back up again. He hobbled to Naff.

“That’s enough, Pupp,” Tylar said.

He motioned with his sword. It shone brightly.

Pupp backed away.

The ruin that was Mistress Naff steamed and bled. The reek of charred flesh wafted heavily. But she was still alive. Eyes moved, tracking Tylar. Feeble tendrils of Gloom wormed from her chest print.

Words bubbled with blood. “What you carry is no blessing. It’ll eat you, too. From the inside!”

Ignoring the threat, Tylar lifted his sword and held it high in both arms. “This is for Meeryn… and Mistress Naff.”

The creature at his feet struggled, but its spine had been shattered.

Tylar drove the blade down, through the center of the black mark. It slid to the hilt, despite the stone under the body. Tylar yanked it back. Flames followed the sword up, but the blade was gone.

A wail tore through the hall, issuing from the black well.

Kathryn dropped her sword and clamped her ears. She and the others fell to their knees. The keening ripped at the edges of her mind-then it was gone.

On the floor, Mistress Naff’s body burned away quickly, flaming to ash.

“Only a shell,” Tylar mumbled. He touched his own mark. Kathryn read the fear in his eyes. Was he anything more himself?

She gained her feet and hurried to him. He began to slump, wasted and worn. She caught him, pulled him to her.

Off to the side, Pupp faded again, the blood and Grace burned away.

Rogger clapped Dart on the shoulder. “Clever girl. You’d make a good thief someday. With the proper training, of course.”

Krevan joined them. “And where is Chrism?”

From up and down the hall, laughter echoed forth, tinkling in a handful of voices. Kathryn turned. From doors along the hall, figures stepped forth, moving woodenly, eyes blazing brighter than stars.

Chrism’s Hands.

Laughter flowed from their throats. But it was plainly not their own. Enthralled, the Hands had become Chrism’s eyes and tongue, too.

Their words echoed up and down the hall.

“I will face the godslayer alone… or all of Chrismferry will perish!”