They came, all of them; obedient to his order, crowding round, struggling to shift the flask from his palm, struggling to lift him. Fjel faces, familiar and worried. And around them the vines crawled like a nest of green serpents. Tendrils grew at an impossible rate; entwining an ankle here, snaring a wrist there. Fjel drew their axes, cursing and slashing. Skragdal, forced to crouch, felt vines encircle his broad torso and begin to squeeze, until the air was tight in his lungs. Snaking lines of green threatened to obscure his vision. No matter how swiftly his comrades hacked, the vines were faster.
He turned his head with difficulty. There was the smallfolk boy, the stricken look in his eyes giving way to fierce determination. His lips continued to move, shaping words, and he held both hands before him, cupped and open. Odd lines in his palms met to form a radiant star where they met.
It seemed the Bearer was not so harmless as he looked after all.
“Forget me.” Unable to catch his voice, Skragdal hissed the words through his constricted throat. “Kill the boy!”
They tried.
They were Fjel; they obeyed his orders. But there were the vines. The entire burial mound seethed with them, creeping and entangling. And there was the older of the smallfolk, finding his courage. He had caught up a cudgel one of the Nåltannen had dropped, and he laid about him, shouting. If not for the vines, Skragdal’s lads would have dropped him where he stood; but there were the vines, surging all about them in green waves.
It wasn’t right, not right at all. This place marked the Fjel dead. It was a terrible and sacred place. But the Water of Life was older than the Battle of Neherinach. That which was drawn from the Well of the World held no loyalties.
Skragdal, pinned and entwined, watched it happen.
There was Thorun, who had never forgiven himself his error on the plains of Curonan where he had slain his companion Bogvar. Green vines stopped his mouth, engulfing him, until he was gone. No more guilt for him. There were the Nåltannen, casting aside their axes to slash with steel talons, filled with the fury of instinctive terror, the rising reek of their fear warring with the Water’s scent. But for every severed vine that dropped, two more took its place, bearing the Nåltannen down, taking them into the earth and stilling their struggles. The largest burial mound on the field of Neherinach grew larger, and its vines fed upon the dead.
There were the Kaldjager, disbelieving. Nothing could stand against the Cold Hunters. Yellow-eyed and disdainful, they glanced sidelong at the creeping tide of vines and shook their hands and kicked their feet, contemptuous of the green shackles, certain they would wrest themselves free.
They were wrong.
It claimed them, as it had claimed the others.
Skragdal wished the vines had taken him first. It should have been so. Instead, they left him for the end. Neherinach grew quiet. He was crouching, enshrouded; a statue in green, one hand pinned to the earth. It ached under the terrible weight. He panted for air, his breath whistled in his constricted lungs. A wreath of vine encircled his head. The loose end of it continued to grow, wavering sinuously before his eyes. Pale tendrils deepened to green, putting out leaves. Flowers blossomed, delicate and blue. It would kill him soon.
A hand penetrated the foliage, thin and dark. Skragdal, rolling his eyes beneath the heavy ridge of his brow, met the smallfolk’s gaze. He wished, now, he had answered the boy’s question.
“I’m sorry,” the boy whispered. “You shouldn’t have killed my people.”
His hand, quick and darting, seized the flask, plucking it from Skragdal’s palm. He lifted it effortlessly and shook it. A little Water was left, very little. He found the cork and stoppered it.
Then he was gone and there was only the vine.
It struck hard and fast, penetrating Skragdal’s panting jaws. He gnashed and spat at the foliage, clawing at it with his freed hand, but vines wound around his arm, rendering it immobile as the rest of his limbs. In his mouth, vine proliferated, still growing, clogging his jaws. A tendril snaked down his throat, then another. There was no more air to breathe, not even to choke. Everything was green, and the green was fading to blackness. The entangling vines drew him down toward the burial mound.
In his last moments, Skragdal thought about Lord Satoris, who had given the Fjel the gift of pride. Did Neheris-of-the-Leaping-Waters not Shape her Children well? This I tell you, for I know: One day Men will covet your gifts.
He wondered if the boy would have understood. Dying, Skragdal lived in the moment of his death and wondered what the day would be like when Men came to covet the gifts of the Fjel. He wondered if there would be Fjel left in the world to see it.
With his dying pulse thudding in his ears, he hoped his Lordship would know how deeply it grieved Skragdal to fail him. He wondered what he had done wrong, where he had gone astray. He smelled the reek of fear seeping from his vine-cocooned hide and thought of the words of a Fjel prayer, counting them like coins in his mind. Words, precious and valued.
Mother of us all, wash away my fear.
Dying, he wondered if it was true that Neheris-of-the-Leaping-Waters would forgive the Fjel for taking Lord Satoris’ part in the Shapers’ War, if she would understand that Satoris alone upon the face of Urulat had loved her Children, whom she had Shaped with such care, tuning them to this place where she was born; to stone and river and tree, the fierce, combative joy of the hunt. The clean slash of talons, the quick kill and hot blood spilling. The warm comfort of a well-worn den with a tender, cunning mate and sprawling pups upon the floor, playing at carving rhios. All those things that he had been Shaped to be, all those things that were no longer his to know.
As the slow throb of his strong heart ceased, he hoped so.
Skragdal of the Tungskulder Fjel was no more.
TEN
TANAROS CHECKED THE VESDARLIG PASSAGE last. Of all the tunnels, it concerned him the most. There were others, farther south, that would be more accessible to Haomane’s Allies, but they were well-kept secrets. The Vesdarlig Passage was an old route, and the Staccians had known of it for many years. Once, that would not have worried him.
No longer.
Patient Gulnagel held torches aloft for him. He had sent Vorax and his Staccians home, keeping only the Fjel to aid him. This deep below the earth, the torches cast wide pools of light, flickeringly only slightly as the draft from the ventilation shafts stirred the dense air. Tanaros examined the pile of rocks and boulders that sealed the tunnel.
It appeared sound. There were boulders there that only a Fjel could move unaided. If he was certain of nothing else, he was certain of their loyalty. With the butt-end of a borrowed spear, he poked at the mound, wedging it in various crevices and shoving hard. A few pebbles skittered to the cavern floor, but he met nothing behind the rock save more rock.
“How deep is it piled?” he asked Krolgun.
The torchlight wavered at the answering shrug. “Fifty paces?” The Gulnagel grinned. “Real paces, boss, not smallfolk strides like yours.”
Tanaros smiled, gauging the distance in his head. It should be well over fifty yards; farther, if Krolgun meant a Gulnagel’s bounding stride. If Haomane’s Allies wanted to cart fifty yards’ worth of stone out of the tunnels, they were welcome to try. Without Fjel aid, it would take weeks, perhaps months. He would enjoy sending out sorties to pick them off meanwhile.
“All right, lads. Let’s go home.”
Although he felt better for having inspected each of the blocked tunnels in person and Vesdarlig Passage most of all, it was a relief to emerge into open air. A cool wind blew across the plains, the tawny grass rippling in undulating waves. Haomane’s Allies were coming. This vast, open expanse would be filled with them. He didn’t like being unable to see across it, even with sentries posted. The Staccian traitors were no anomaly; they were the unwitting vanguard, the first skirmish in what promised to be a long war. He could not afford to be less than wary.
It was dangerous enough that his concentration had
drifted in the skirmish.
Overhead, the sun was shining, moving to the west. The mountains ringing the Vale of Gorgantum cast a stark shadow on the plains. Tanaros skirted the shadow as they headed for Defile’s Maw, ranging unnecessarily wide. It was the last time he would see sunlight for a long, long time. After the Unknown Desert, it had been hard to imagine he’d ever miss it …and yet.
He remembered his first sight of it atop Beshtanag Mountain, gilding the peaks of the trees. After so long, it had gladdened his heart. He thought of Cerelinde, turning her face skyward, opening her arms. Even a glimpse of Haomane’s sun, dim and cloud-shrouded, had brought her joy.
“We are not so different, are we?” he said aloud.
“Boss?” Krolgun, loping alongside him, raised a quizzical face.
“Naught of import.” Tanaros shook his head. “I’m just … thinking. What difference is there, truly, between us and Haomane’s Allies, Krolgun? We breathe, we eat, we sleep. Would you have known one of Lord Vorax’s Staccians from the traitors if your eyes were sealed?”
“Sure, Lord General!” Krolgun flashed his eyetusks and tapped his snout with one wicked yellow talon. “So would you, if you were Fjel. Or Were. The Were can hunt blind, they say. I wouldn’t mind seeing that.”
Tanaros smiled ruefully. The Were would not be aiding them; not soon, maybe never. They had paid too dearly for it. “That’s not what I meant, lad.”
“Sorry, boss.” The Gulnagel shrugged. “I’m not one for thinking. Haomane’s Gift, you know. Ask Marshal Hyrgolf, he’s got the knack of it.” He laughed. “Making decisions and the like, all you made him into.”
“Made him?” Tanaros was startled.
“Aye, boss.” Krolgun glanced cheerfully at him. “Did you not mean to?”
“No,” Tanaros said slowly. “Or, yes, I suppose.” He frowned at his hands, going about their own capable business, maintaining a steady grip on the reins. They were still sun-dark from his sojourn in the desert, scars pale on his knuckles. “It’s just that I never thought of it thusly.”
“Ah, well.” Krolgun gave another shrug. “All the same in the end, isn’t it?”
“Perhaps.” Tanaros nodded. “Perhaps it is.”
Krolgun grinned. “There you are, then!”
HAOMANE’S ALLIES WERE ENCAMPED IN the Midlands.
Their campfires spread wide and far, a hundred twinkling lights echoing the multitude of stars that spangled the canopy of night. It was not the whole of their company; not yet. Pelmaran troops and the knights of Vedasia were still en route. But Seahold’s forces had gathered, and those from the small holdings of the Midlands were there, or flocking to gather. Many of them came with wagon trains of supplies, all that could be spared from the fall harvest.
The Free Fishers were there, laconic and weatherbeaten. A company of Arduan archers had arrived fired with pride at the deed of their countrywoman, who had slain the Dragon of Beshtanag. If neither company was willing to fully accept Aracus Altorus’ sovereignty over their respective republics, still they were eager to fight at his side, prizing freedom above all things. As King of the West, Aracus would respect their independence; the Sunderer, they were certain, would not. Had he not shown as much in laying his trap in Beshtanag?
But the heart of the army was those who had ridden forth from Meronil; the Host of the Rivenlost and the Borderguard of Curonan. And it was their commanders who assembled in a hushed meeting in the tent of Ingolin the Wise; their commanders, and those who remained from the Company that had ridden forth with Malthus.
It was a spacious tent, wrought of silk rendered proof against the elements by Ellylon arts. Three banners flew from its peak, and lowest of all was the argent scroll of the House of Ingolin. Above it fluttered the gilt-eyed sword of Altorus Farseer. And above that, the Crown and Souma of the House of Elterrion flew, in defiant tribute to the Lady Cerelinde, in the defiant belief that she yet lived.
Inside, it was quiet, dimly lit by Ellylon lamps.
Those who were present gathered around the table, eyeing the closed coffer. It was inlaid with gold, worked with the device of the Crown and Souma. The gnarled hands of Malthus the Counselor rested on its lid. So they had done at every gathering, since the first in Meronil. Soon, he would open it.
Within the coffer lay a tourmaline stone. Once, it had been tuned to the pitch of Malthus’ Soumanië. Now, it was tuned to the Bearer and his burden. It had been one of Malthus’ final acts when he had thrust the lad and his uncle into the Marasoumië, binding them under a spell of concealment.
Malthus the Counselor had wrought his spell with skill; with his Soumanië altered, not even he could break it. But the gem would tell them whether the Bearer yet lived.
“Haomane grant it be so,” Malthus said, opening the coffer.
Pale blue light spilled forth into the tent There on the velvet lining of the coffer, the tourmaline yet shone, shedding illumination from deep within its blue-green core. The cool light like water in the desert, and those gathered drank it in as though they thirsted. For a moment, no one spoke, the atmosphere still taut Ingolin’s gaze lifted to meet Malthus’. The Counselor shook his head, the lines on his face growing deeper.
Aracus Altorus broke the silence, abrupt and direct. “It’s grown dimmer.” He glanced around the tent, gauging the brightness. “Half again as much as yesterday eve.”
“I fear it is so,” Malthus replied somberly.
“who?”
Malthus sighed. “Would that I knew, Aracus.”
“I was supposed to protect him.” Blaise’s voice was harsh. “Even that old man among the Yarru said it. Guardian, he called me.” He stared at the shard of tourmaline, clenching and unclenching his fists. “What does it mean?” He looked to Malthus for an answer. “Does it mean Dani is injured? Dying?”
Malthus and Ingolin exchanged a glance, and the Lord of the Rivenlost answered, “We do not know, Blaise Caveros. No Bearer has ever carried the Water of Life outside the Unknown Desert before.” Ingolin’s silvery hair rustled as he shook his head. “What link binds him to that which he Bears? That is a thing only the Yarru may know, and even they may not. We cannot say.”
“That poor boy,” Fianna the Archer murmured. “Ah, Haomane!”
“Do not be so quick to mourn him.” Malthus’ voice deepened, taking on resonance. He summoned a smile, though a shadow of sorrow hovered beneath it. In the depths of his Soumanië, a bright spark kindled. “He is stronger than you reckon, and more resourceful. Take hope, child.”
Fianna bowed her head in acquiescence, even as Lorenlasse of Valmaré lifted his in defiance. “Child!” he said scornfully. “A mortal may be, but I am not, Counselor. If you had protected this Bearer better, we would not have to cling to this desperate hope. Better still if you had spent your vaunted wisdom in protecting the Lady Cerelinde, on whom Haomane’s Prophecy depends.”
“Lorenlasse.” Peldras touched the Ellyl warrior’s arm. “Listen—”
“Let me be, kinsman.” Lorenlasse shook off his touch.
“Child.” Malthus’ voice, gaining in power, rolled around the confines of the tent. He closed the lid of the coffer with a thud, extinguishing the light of the tourmaline. “Haomane’s Child. Do not mistake what we do here! Our hopes ride upon the Bearer as surely as they do upon the Lady; indeed, even more.”
Lorenlasse of Valmaré stared at him with bright Ellyl eyes. “It is too small a hope, Counselor.”
“No.” Malthus spoke the word softly, and although he damped the power in his voice, it surged through his being, emanating from the Soumanië on his breast. He laughed; an unexpected sound, free and glad, his arms spreading wide. Despite fear, despite sorrow, he opened his arms in embrace. The light he had quenched upon closing the coffer resurged threefold, dazzling, from the clear Soumanië. “No, Haomane’s Child. While hope lives, it is never too small.”
They believed, then; they hoped. All around the tent, backs straightened and eyes kindled. Only Aracus Altorus
sighed, bowing his red-gold head. A mortal Man, he felt the burden of those lives he must send into battle.
“Counselor,” he said heavily. “It is in my heart that you are right. The Bearer’s quest is his own, and there is no aid we may give him. All we can do is afford him the opportunity, by pursuing our own goals.” His mouth twisted in a wry smile. “At least insofar as we may. The Sunderer has had many years in which to render Darkhaven unassailable.”
A silence followed his words, but Malthus smiled and the clear light of his Soumanië was undimmed. “Trust me, Son of Altorus,” he said. “I know Satoris Banewreaker. I have a plan.”
THEY FLED FOR SEVERAL LEAGUES before they rested, following the hidden route of the White River, which went to earth outside Neherinach. Once they did, Dani found himself shuddering all over. He felt unfamiliar in his own skin. Within his narrow breast, his heart pounded like a drum.
He could not forget it, the sight of the vines coming to life, engulfing the Fjeltroll. Rampant life, breeding death. Dragging them down, one by one, stopping their mouths, piercing their entrails. It must have been a horrible death. He did not like to imagine it.
But they had killed his people.
Did you not expect his Lordship to strike against his enemies?
He hadn’t.
No one remembered the Yarru. Even Haomane First-Born had forgotten them, bent on pursuing his vengeance. It didn’t matter. The Yarru had survived, and understood. It was the Shapers’ War. They had fled beneath the earth and forgiven Haomane his Wrath; they had understood. That was the greater knowledge with which they had been charged, the understanding of how Uru-Alat, dying, had Shaped the world. And of the Well of the World, and what it meant
Dani had not reckoned on Satoris’ anger.
He willed his trembling to subside, his breathing to slow. At his side, Uncle Thulu did the same. They had not spoken to one another since Neherinach. Now his uncle glanced sidelong at him, a slow smile spreading over his face. He patted himself down, feeling for wounds and finding none.