Shadowfall

25

“You can’t go alone,”Kathryn pressed.

“You heard Chrism,” Tylar said and waved at the Hands. Their eyes blazed. The creatures watched their every move. Tylar wondered how much humanity was left in them. “I have to go alone or he’ll tear down the entire castillion and dump it in the river. And all of Chrismferry will follow.”

They had all heard Chrism’s order and command.

It was no idle threat.

A moment ago, Krevan had attempted to use the outer stairs. None of the Hands tried to stop him, but their eyes watched. Upon setting a foot on the top step, a mighty crack sounded to the south, followed by a crash of heavy stone, louder than thunder. The entire castillion shook.

“Chrism is still master of loam,” Gerrod had warned. “Perhaps he couldn’t tear all his realm apart, but certainly he could shatter this castle, pull down the river’s dikes and levies, flooding the entire city.”

So they had no choice. They were trapped in the High Wing. Only one person could descend.

The godslayer.

“It’s a trap,” Rogger said. “You know that, of course?”

Tylar did not even bother answering the thief’s question.

“This is wrong,” Eylan said stiffly and nodded to Dart. “Chrism seeks to separate you from your sheath. He knows therein lies your strength. He will divide and conquer.”

“We could still run,” Krevan said. “Attempt to escape the castillion before it falls. Stand to fight another day.”

“No,” Gerrod answered. The master was kneeling on the floor, marking in charcoal a rough layout of Tigre Hall, where Tylar was to meet Chrism. The grand hall at the base of the tower was where the god normally conducted his affairs of the realm.

Gerrod leaned back. “Even if we escape, if Chrismferry falls, so falls the First Land. And in such chaos, all of Myrillia will be threatened.”

Tylar nodded. “Right or wrong, we make a stand here.”

“ You make a stand,” Kathryn said sourly.

“This is my battle,” Tylar said. “You all know it. From the moment Meeryn touched my chest, it was to prepare me for this fight.”

Silence met his words.

Finally Krevan stirred. “If you must go alone, then take a part of me with you.” He stepped forward and held out his sword. The golden wyrm glowed along the length of silver. “Serpentfang is only steel, but there is no stronger blade or one as finely balanced. Perhaps what Grace can’t defeat, steel may.”

Tylar accepted the sword and Krevan’s scabbard. He belted it in place.

Rogger came next, shrugging out of his belt of daggers. “I guess these are only going to gather rust.”

Tylar snugged the belt across his chest.

“But I want those back when you’re done,” the thief added. “It’s not like I’m givin’ the blades for keeps or nothing.”

Gerrod waved Tylar over. “All I have is my knowledge.” He pointed to the charcoal sketch. “Best to know the lay of the land when engaging battle.” He quickly went over the map.

Tylar nodded when done.

“There’s a back stair,” Gerrod said, pointing to the far side of the High Wing. “It leads directly to Tigre Hall through a small anteroom.”

Eylan stood next to him. “I have nothing to give but my sworn word,” she said. “I’ll forsake my duty for now. Let you leave with your seed.”

Tylar nodded his awkward thanks.

Dart came up next. “And all I have is my blood, which I’ve given freely.” She had already ignited his sword. “And Pupp won’t leave my side. Not here.”

Tylar knelt and touched Dart’s cheek. “He’s done enough, as have you.”

Dart glanced to her toes. “But there is still one thing left for me to do.” She met his eyes. Again they seemed so much older than the face that held them. The girl’s fingers touched the dagger worn at her belt. Yaellin’s cursed dagger. Her voice was a whisper. “I won’t be captured.”

Tylar opened his mouth to object, but she was already backing away. The girl knew the truth. False hope would only insult her.

Tylar stood as Kathryn stepped to him. She shimmered out of her Shadowcloak and held it out to him. “It’s ripe with power.”

“But I’m no blessed knight.”

“Still, it will serve you for a short time, until it’s bled of Grace. Use the shadows wisely.”

She attempted to help him into it, but it became too awkward. His elbow struck hers. She stepped on his toe. They no longer moved well together. She backed away.

Tylar settled into the cloak on his own, relying on old habit.

Kathryn met his eyes. Tears welled. Again she seemed unable to say something. It was as if they were locked behind some door, waiting for a key. Tylar did not have it. He wasn’t even sure he could find the lock. Too much guilt and grief clouded everything. It was hard to say where hers began and his ended.

And what, in the end, did he have to offer? He touched his chest. He had seen the horror in her eyes when she had viewed the broken form that was his true shape. The body he wore now was only memory, a shell of who he once was. Illusions, echoes, shadows, and light.

He turned away, knowing all was suspect.

Even his heart.

The Hands stirred. Voices raised in that eerie cadence, rising from all the throats together.

“Bring the sword now.” The castillion shook again. Stones toppled deep in the keep. “I will wait no longer.”

Tylar took a steadying breath. He faced the others.

The time for words was over. He gripped the sword and headed for the back door. The others followed, as did the Hands, moving woodenly. Puppets manipulated by the god below. Were any of them freer?

Tylar reached the door, opened it, and without glancing back, he headed down the narrow stair.

Kathryn watched him depart, disappearing down the dark throat. She flashed back to the docks below Tashijan, spying upon Tylar in chains, leaving her life, broken and stripped. Tears finally flowed. She turned away.

The Hands simply stared, eyes on fire.

Kathryn wanted to take a sword to each, to savage them completely. Her shoulders shook. Her fingers clenched on the hilt of her blade. But the folk here were not to blame. To put them to the blade would serve no end.

She stared at the others, her companions.

It was difficult to meet anyone’s eyes.

To do so was to read the hopelessness in each.

Kathryn fell to her knees on the stones. She covered her face, bowing her head to the floor. She had not allowed herself to break down. Not in front of Tylar. Pain wrenched through her. He had left her again, with nothing but her guilt. Her belly ached, remembering an old pain… and blood.

She hated him at that moment.

But as before, on her knees, she wanted only one thing.

Come back.

Tylar stalked down the stairs. The way was narrow. Only a few torches lit it. He kept his mind fixed to what he must face, but at the edges of his perception, he felt the shadow Graces flowing throughout his cloak.

As he swept past a torch, the power ebbed to the deepest folds, and as he descended into darkness again, it flushed anew. This tidal rhythm was as familiar as his own heartbeat… yet it was muffled. He was cut off from it fully. It felt more like memory than reality.

And in many ways, it was.

He descended swiftly, tasting the power, remembering a time when he wore such a cloak without ever feeling it. It was a second skin. But this was not his skin, he reminded himself.

It was Kathryn’s cloak.

She had worn this same cloth when she had sat and denied him in court. Expressed her doubts of him. But then again, how honest had he been with her? She had known nothing of his dealings with the Gray Traders.

At the time, he had been brash enough to believe he could slip between the black and the white. It had all started to raise funds for the orphanages of Akkabak Harbor, where he had grown up. He didn’t want others to face the same cold streets and rough peddling that he had. Few survived. And he’d still had contacts among the Traders from his own days among the alleys.

But slowly things changed. Coins began to find their way into his own pocket. A few at first, then a bit more. It seemed a minor thing, done for the greater good.

Tylar felt old bile rising. It was hard to recognize when gray darkened to black, when twilight became true night.

But it did.

Then there was Kathryn. They were to be one. Her light finally opened his eyes to the darkness. He tried to break away. But mistrust was the coin of the Gray Traders. Murders were laid at his doorstep.

Old anger flared. Old injustices.

If only he had never met her…

He closed his eyes, knowing it wasn’t fair. But the anger still burned, deeper than he cared to admit. And mixed amid it all was a new, rawer guilt. His child. Lost in blood and heart-break. How could she ever forgive him?

And somehow that guilt, that question, only fueled the anger inside him. His steps began to hurry.

He found the cloak suddenly cloying.

But at last, he reached the end of the stairs. There was nowhere else to run. He forced his feet to slow, his breathing to even.

He halted on the bottom step and took a deep breath.

It was time to stop running.

Stepping down, he moved to the door. It led to a small antechamber, the walls lined with benches and pillows. He inspected the room from the doorway, ready for another trap. It was empty. The far door was grander. According to Gerrod’s sketch, it opened to the main hall.

He approached the door, Rivenscryr in hand.

Thunder echoed.

He waited for it to pass, then leaned an ear to the door. He heard nothing, except for a rumble of rushing water under his feet. The Tigre River flowed under this bottommost level. It must be flood high by now.

Stepping back, he gripped the Godsword and reached to the latch with his other hand. He pulled the door open and flowed into the hall, touching the Grace in his cloak to hide his entry. He kept crouched and slid to the neighboring wall.

Tigre Hall spread before him, half in ruins.

He gaped at the destruction. The churn of water burbled louder, echoing up from ragged holes in the floor. It seemed the grand hall had not been spared when the flippercraft tore beneath the keep.

But that was not all the damage.

Torches lit the space sparingly, hanging from sconces, illuminating broken benches, tables, and splintered chairs. It looked as if some mad whirlwind had torn through the hall. The broken floor could not have done all this damage.

Then Tylar smelled it.

A residual odor of burned blood.

Here was where Chrism must have gathered his guard and underfolk, where the humanity was burned from them by corrupted Grace. The destruction was the aftermath of that foul birthing.

“Do not tarry at the door, Godslayer.”

The soft voice came from the far side of the room, where tables and chairs still stood upright. A raised dais was lit by two torches atop poles. They blazed merrily, brighter than those along the walls. Their flickering flames shone upon a row of nine chairs atop the dais. Four smaller seats flanked each side of a taller chair. It had been carved from myrrwood, gone black by age.

The throne of Chrism.

It was empty.

The figure rose from the steps of the dais. He had been righting an overturned pot that supported a dwarf sedge-wood tree. Its fronded crown shook slightly as the pot settled on the floor.

Lord Chrism stood back, staring at it, fists on his hips. Then he reached forward and touched the spindly trunk. The small buds, buried amid the leaves, opened, peeling back opalescent petals.

Satisfied, Chrism lifted his other arm and motioned Tylar to join him.

“This way, Godslayer.”

Chrism climbed the dais and dropped to his throne. He lounged comfortably and waited.

Tylar waded out of shadows and edged warily across the room. He skirted the edges of a hole. The rush of water below sounded like a heavy wind.

He glanced down.

Deeper in the water, a slight glow shone. Perhaps a glowpike working against the stream. Then it vanished, swept away.

Tylar cleared the ruined sections of the hall and continued forward. Behind the dais, another hole cracked the floor, spewing up a bit of spray that scintillated in the torchlight. It was too bright for such a dark moment.

Chrism’s eyes fixed on the Godsword as Tylar stepped forward. Tylar read the desire behind his dispassionate features.

The god waved to a chair by the sedge-wood tree.

Tylar remained standing.

Chrism sighed, a soft, pleasant sound. “I’ve called you down here to make you an offer, Tylar.”

Tylar winced at the god’s familiarity.

Chrism continued. “The Cabal could use someone of your… unique talents. It would be a shame to waste such an opportunity, but we will if we must. Join us freely, turn over the sword, and we’ll spare all your companions in the High Wing.”

Tylar stared at the god before him. He was plainly handsome, unassuming in greens and browns. But Tylar remembered another Chrism. He again touched Mistress Naff’s memories, of Chrism attacking her, abusing her, destroying her with his corrupted seed. Tylar still felt the stubble of his cheek at his throat. He remembered the agony.

There was no kindness or mercy to be had here.

His fingers tightened.

Chrism noted the strain of his muscles. “A shame.”

“Who are you?” Tylar asked. He would know more. From the easy carriage of the god, there was a trap hidden here. He wanted time to discern it, to let it show itself, to let the god drop his guard. He needed every advantage.

But mostly he wanted answers.

“I am still Chrism,” the god answered. “Or rather as much of Chrism as once filled this skin. We are one and the same. Or rather one part of three. Except our aethryn selves have vanished to the aether. Unknowable, untouchable, uncaring of flesh and things beneath it.”

“You’re a naethryn,” Tylar said, realizing the deeper truth behind the god’s words. Disgust filled his words. “You’re Chrism’s undergod.”

Chrism shrugged. “This cloth is as much mine to wear as the one before.”

“How…?” Tylar asked. “What became of the other?”

“Gone. Burned away by the sword you carry with you now.”

“You killed a part of yourself?”

“It was no matter. The Sundering shivered away all that was soft and merciful from me, left it in flesh here. The greater purpose was set aside, forgotten. But not in the naether! We still remembered. Those who served He Who Comes still survived. We banded together.”

“The Cabal,” Tylar mumbled.

A nod answered. “When the time was ripe, the Cabal stole the Godsword, whetted the blade, and buried it into the spot where Chrism bled and settled this land. He knew it, of course, felt its poison in his precious garden, and came to the pillars, to the sword. He was so easily trapped… again.”

“What do you mean?”

Chrism sat straighter. “That’s right. You never knew the truth.” Laughter flowed, darkly complexioned. “The story of Chrism’s settling of this First Land. His great sacrifice. It was not as your illustrious historicals describe. Do you wish to know how your lands truly started?”

Tylar noted the furtive movements behind Chrism’s shoulders. I must keep the god distracted, focused on me.

“What happened?” Tylar asked stiffly, but he shifted the Godsword to catch Chrism’s eye.

Chrism settled back. “It was a dark time when the gods first came to this world. Atrocities were committed across Myrillia, by god and man alike. Chrism was no different. He raved. Did horrible things. He was eventually captured by your folk. Chained between the pillars here. His throat, wrists, and groin were sliced to the bone. They meant to kill the daemon who had slain a hundred children among their villages. But Chrism bled and bled. Undying, he fed the land. His Grace took root here, and his ravings died away. He pledged himself to the land and spent another hundred years chained to that pillar, in servitude, until finally being freed.”

Tylar’s skin went cold at that thought. A century in chains.

“Only after he was freed was his discovery shared among the other gods. Others settled to escape the ravings. But the first… Chrism’s settling was not done by choice or even despair, but by force. A savage and bloody beginning of Myrillia’s new age.”

Tylar shook his head, refusing to believe.

“And the Godsword,” Chrism continued. “Why do you think Chrism slew those children? He was trying to revive our sword. When we were whole, in our own kingdom, we forged it for He Who Comes. Some sense of this persisted in his ravings. He struggled to revive the sword. But once settled, such desire faded. He hid the sword, but others knew of it.”

“Your Cabal.”

Chrism nodded. “For millennia we sought some way to break from the naether and into this world. Rivenscryr was our only hope. And there were those among your people who used Dark Grace to thin our world from yours. We broke through in tiny seepages. Enough to set a foothold here. We lured others to us. We set them on a path to free Myrillia.”

Tylar remembered the screams of freedom by Darjon. Such human Cabalists had been duped, believing they fought for some greater purpose, some illusory freedom that would benefit all of Myrillia, not realizing the Cabal’s darker purpose.

Chrism leaned forward. “Who do you think finally released Chrism from his chains after a hundred years? Who allowed Chrism to spread his peaceful message and start this age?”

Curiosity burned in Tylar. Yet he had to maintain focus. Not let his eyes wander to the silent writhing that rose behind the throne. It had not been a glowpike in the waters under the keep. Tylar’s eyes narrowed.

“It was the Cabal who freed Chrism from his chains. Those first to wear human skin. But not the last.”

“If… if you freed Chrism from his chains then why murder him now?”

“At that place in history, peace served the Cabal. Time was needed to study this land and the odd Graces born to us here. It took millennia to spread ourselves, to root ourselves, to corrupt those of weak mind. But four centuries ago, a new way to whet Rivenscryr was discovered.”

“The godling boy.”

Chrism smiled, a predatory gleam. “Much was wasted until we discovered how to use the boy’s gifts. It was difficult without possessing the sword at the time. The boy died too soon.

He did not have our natural ability to heal from mortal wounds. Who would’ve known that? The offspring of gods was not immortal. So much was wasted. We won’t make that same mistake again.”

Tylar pictured Dart. He couldn’t let this monster have her.

Chrism continued. “But the Cabal did preserve enough of the boy’s blood, saved in crystal. We bided our time. We chose where best to strike first. Two centuries ago, the castillion here was infiltrated, the sword stolen and whetted and planted as a trap in the Eldergarden. The god came, sensing the poisoned touch of the sword in his midst. He found the sword, yanked it free. The fool.”

“The sword had pierced into the naether,” Tylar said.

“And I was there, waiting. When he pulled the blade, I swept forth and into Chrism. Bathed in Gloom, he had no defenses. I burned the quick from his flesh, hollowing him out. Then I slipped into him like one slips into a well-worn boot.”

Tylar touched his chest, forgetting himself.

Chrism noted his movement. “Not like you, Godslayer. Or even like the creature you slew in the High Wing, wearing Mistress Naff’s skin. That underling, of low mind and station, served us, carried the whetted sword and slew Meeryn. It was unfortunate Meeryn had learned of the Cabal’s infiltration of Chrismferry; even she did not know how high it had spread. But such knowledge could not be allowed to survive.”

“So you had Meeryn killed,” Tylar said.

“The Cabal will have this world. We will possess it like I do this skin. We will pave the way once again for He Who Comes. Nothing will stop us this time. We acted too hastily in the past, in our own kingdom. We did not understand fully what I had forged.” Chrism stared at the sword again, eyes shining. “But now we do. As before, we will bring a new age to Myrillia. But not one of peace for the crawling vermin of these lands. Such a time has ended. You shall become our chattel and clay. Your blood and flesh will open the way for His coming.”

“Who-?”

Chrism sneered. “Even his name you are not worthy to hear.”

Chrism finally stood. A black mist steamed from his skin. Tylar had seen such a sheen in gods when they were worked up, like when Meeryn had fled her assassin. But while Meeryn’s glow was sunlight and petals, the pall rising from Chrism ate the light and stirred with the winds of the naether. It made his form shimmer, as across baked sands.

“I am not like you or the creature you slew,” he repeated. “You are possessed by smoke and shadow. But as I forged Rivenscryr, it forged me. You are possession. I am fruition, culmination, perfection.”

He lifted his arms. His true form pierced out of his flesh.

“See the face of the Cabal!”

Locked in dark thoughts, Dart stood by the windows of the High Wing. She kept one hand on the dagger at her belt. Tylar had been gone so long. What was happening? She could see the others reflected in the windows. They all seemed lost to their private dungeons. Kathryn had finally risen from the floor, her eyes haunted and empty. Krevan and Eylan, warriors both, seemed boneless now, sunken in. Gerrod had gone very still, becoming a bronze statue, unmoving.

And among them stood the Hands, eyes blazing, watching them all. Two of the Hands stood, sentinels of flesh and Dark Grace. But the other two wandered the hall, keeping a blazing eye on all.

Dart watched for them, keeping away in a slow dance. She didn’t want herself being grabbed and pinned before she could wield the dagger and end her life. Her blood would never be Chrism’s. Pupp kept to her side. He was clearly disturbed by the Hands, too.

So she kept a watch on the room’s reflection while staring out at the storm. The windows of the High Wing faced across all of Chrismferry. The Tigre River snaked outward from the castillion, splitting the city in half.

True night neared, though it was hard to discern through the dark clouds. Lights dotted the city below.

How many went about their ordinary day, oblivious of the terror and bloodshed being waged at the city’s heart? Dart wished for such oblivion, to live a simple life. But wishes would not help her now.

Lightning flashed in a forking display across the skies. For a moment, night became day again. The city appeared in stark, silvery relief. The river below ignited, reflecting the brilliance.

Thunder followed as darkness swept back over Chrismferry. Dart blinked away the flash of the lightning, dazzled. But the brightness would not go away. The river below continued to shine in patches as if the waters had trapped some of the brilliance and refused to let it go.

She leaned closer, her forehead on the cold glass. Her brow wrinkled.

The tiny glows in the water moved as she watched, streaming toward the castillion, against the current. These were no reflections.

“Lights…” Dart mumbled.

Lights under the water.

Fingers closed on her shoulder. She jumped, fearing it was one of the Hands.

“Hush,” Rogger said, a faint whisper at her ear. “Back away.”

Dart, though confused, obeyed. She stared questioningly at Rogger. The thief simply shook his head.

“Help me,” he said as he drew her to the opposite side of the hall, away from the bank of windows. “We need to keep the Hands’ attention away.”

Though she did not fully understand, Dart nodded. She had asked similar of Laurelle earlier. To draw the eyes from what must not be seen.

Dart pulled her dagger. “Struggle with me,” she whispered. “If there is one person here who Chrism is most concerned about, it’s me. He will not wish me to come to harm.”

Rogger seemed to understand her intent and reached for her hand.

“But be careful of the blade,” Dart added.

“Naturally,” Rogger said, taking hold of her hand. “Shall we dance?”

Dart nodded, raised her voice for all to hear, and feigned a struggle. “I… I can’t stand it anymore! I will take my own life!”

“No, you mustn’t!” Rogger answered.

She and Rogger began their dance, drawing all eyes away from the windows, away from the glow moving against the current.

“See the true face of the Cabal!”

Tylar gaped as Chrism stepped down from the dais. His flesh was pierced by hard black spines. His eyes went black, but still glowed with some inner fire.

“I am no smoky phantom,” he said. His voice quaked at the edges with the keening wail of the naether. “I am naethryn given flesh and form in this world.”

He stepped lower, arms outstretching, spines shattering out his fingertips into great claws. His knees broke as he stepped to the stone floor, bending backward inhumanly. Shining black spurs sprouted from the backs of his legs. They dripped with oil that ate through the stone.

Tylar fell backward, knowing now why Chrism had been so relaxed. He was no daemon, but something greater and deadlier.

Chrism stalked toward him. From either side of his head, behind his ears, a pair of horns spiraled out, winding back in a fierce sweep. He opened his mouth and black fangs uprooted teeth. His tongue burned away to flame.

“Do you think to stand against us, little man?” A laugh as harsh as braided steel burst forth. “Not even your sword can slay me. Why do you think it was left in the gardens, untended, unguarded? Rivenscryr forged me. It cannot unmake me.”

Tylar balked. Was it true?

“WHO ARE YOU TO FACE ME?” Chrism boomed, his words racking through the wail. “YOU ARE NO GODSLAYER!”

Tylar stood before the onslaught. “You know I’m not,” he answered quietly. “Because you took everything from me. My honor, my body, even my humanity.”

“THEN WHAT IS LEFT? WHAT ARE YOU TO DEFY ME?”

Tylar sheathed Rivenscryr and pulled forth Krevan’s sword. “I am a knight.”

He lunged toward the beast, firing all the Grace in his cloak, igniting shadow to speed and strength. He fed it into his one arm, sweeping at the naether monster.

“Now!” he shouted.

By then, the writhing wall of tangleweed had climbed the wall behind the throne, reaching to the ceiling. It had risen silently, growing thicker, bending leaf and vine to sluice the river water. Not even a drip spattered to alert Chrism.

This was no growth of loam, but of water.

Chrism was blind to it.

Upon Tylar’s shout, the wall of tangleweed burst out and crashed over the daemon, ripe with Fyla’s Grace.

Tangleweed wrapped and bound, coiled and snarled.

The poisonous touch of the naethryn burned vine and leaf, but more weed surged to take its place. And there was still flesh that moored the naethryn, Chrism’s old shell. Tendril and stalk rooted deep for purchase.

Still, Chrism bucked and tore. Neither god nor weed could get the upper hand.

Tylar tipped the balance, striking with his borrowed sword. He cleaved into the beast’s shoulder. Steel clanged, like striking rock. The sword was knocked from his grip. But Chrism’s attention was diverted long enough for a ropy vine to snare his claw on one side.

Tylar dove away as the other claw swiped at his belly, ready to rip him in half. But the years in the slave pits had taught him how to roll and dodge. He landed on his shoulder and flipped back to his feet.

Rogger’s daggers rested in both palms.

He threw one, then the other. The first struck Chrism in the throat. The other in his belly. Tylar grabbed another pair from his belt and whipped them, hitting upper arm and lower thigh.

Vines followed, winding out to grab the embedded daggers, finding good purchase to further wrap up the naethryn. A thick trunk lashed around Chrism’s throat.

A ripping howl escaped the creature’s maw.

Chrism was lifted bodily from the floor, dragged up by the neck. Legs kicked, poisoned spurs sliced through the weeds under them.

“Strike now!” a voice rang behind him. Fyla, the Mistress of Tangle Reef, had come, rising through another of the broken holes. “Strike with the Godsword!”

Tylar ran at the writhing naethryn. He dragged Rivenscryr from its sheath and lifted it high, cradling its hilt in both fists.

One strike. That would be all he had.

Tylar tapped the last of the Grace in Kathryn’s cloak. With a will borne of blood and shadow, Tylar leaped at the naethryn. Chrism’s legs attempted to kick him away. Tylar twisted in midair. A spur caught him in the thigh, but it was too late.

Tylar struck the monster and drove the blade clean through the monster’s chest, through the heart of the naethryn.

Chrism racked, throwing Tylar back.

He tumbled away, hitting the stone hard.

A wail shattered through the room. Torches were blown out. Darkness fell. Tylar scrambled backward.

But glow pods quickly rose from the many holes and cracks in the floor. It was one of those same pods that Tylar had spotted in the river’s current earlier.

Light returned.

Chrism still hung among the weeds, panting heavily, wrapped tight in vines. The beast no longer fought. The sword hilt rested square in the center of the chest.

His fiery black eyes sought Tylar, then Fyla.

“Meeryn’s lover,” Chrism spat, blood flowing from his lips.

Fyla remained silent. She stood naked, resting atop one of her weed pads.

Instead, Tylar, gaining his feet, spoke. His left thigh was on fire, but he ignored it. “It is not only man that will hold this line,” he said coldly and certainly. “We are not alone. Bring this war if you will, but it will not be only a War of Gods… but a War of Gods and Man.”

Chrism writhed again, but the weeds dug deeper into his flesh. “You have not slain me. Rivenscryr cannot harm me.”

“But it can rend your flesh,” Fyla said calmly. A tiny tendril of weed spiraled out, glowing with Grace. It reached across Chrism’s shoulder.

Chrism’s eyes widened with fear.

The fragile sprout touched the tip of the hilt.

Fires blasted outward from the impaled sword. Flesh seared and blackened. Chrism arched backward, screaming flames. His body blazed among the weeds.

Tylar watched as flesh turned to ash, falling fully away, revealing the full extent of the black naethryn. It was the form of a mighty wyrm, clawed and horned. It screamed one last time; then shape without substance dissolved, collapsing in on itself.

With a mighty clap of thunder, it was gone.

The sword tumbled from on high and clattered against the floor. It bounced and rattled, then settled to the stones.

Tylar walked up to it. The blade was still present. It had not vanished. He stared from the intact sword, to Fyla, frowning.

Her weedy pad carried her closer, dropping to the stone.

“The naethryn spoke the truth,” she said.

Tylar bent and retrieved the sword. He stared at the blade. “It did not kill him.”

“No, but he has been banished back to the naether. Without his toehold in flesh here, he could not remain in our world. And with Chrism’s body destroyed, his naethryn will never find a host that will allow him to take such perfect form again. It is a blow that the Cabal will find hard to recover from.”

Tylar stared at the flowing weed, wondering at her arrival. “How..?”

“The raven you sent upon departing Tashijan reached me, calling me to Chrismferry. I was already nearby, hugging the coast of the First Land, hoping to be of use.”

Tylar had forgotten the raven he had sent. Kathryn had sent hers to Yaellin, to alert him to meet them at the school. But his raven had been sent out to sea, to seek out Fyla.

“I had wanted you to come here only to support my claims,” Tylar said. “To speak on my behalf when I met with Chrism.”

She nodded. “But I have ears in many places. I heard of the battle as I was already flowing up the Tigre River from the coast. I came to lend my strength to this war.”

“And that you did.” Tylar held out Rivenscryr to Fyla, resting the blade across his palms. “This is the sword of the gods. You must take it.”

She raised a palm. “That was the past. Like you said to Chrism, this is no longer a war of gods alone. Man has as much stake here in Myrillia as any of us. More so, in fact. Rivenscryr now belongs to the world of man. It is yours to bear.”

“Why me?”

Fyla moved closer. She leaned out from her pad. This was not her realm. Weed and water were her home. Only the river channel allowed her to delve so far into the First Land.

She tenderly brushed Tylar’s lips, sighing between them, then pulled away. “Thank you. For Meeryn. For myself.”

Her pad lifted her up and began to slide away.

Tylar followed a step, lifting the blade. “Why me?”

She met his gaze, eyes shining with Grace, and answered him. “Because you were chosen. Because there is no other.” Her eyes glowed with sadness and sympathy. “Because you must.”