To be honest, their triumvirate of leaders seemed to sense it; they were dismissive. Once they returned to the campsite, white-bearded Malthus made it clear he had greater concerns on his mind, which was just as well. Speros had no desire to find the wizard’s attention focused on him. Aracus Altorus merely looked him up and down as if gauging his worth and finding it wanting. As far as Ingolin, Lord of the Rivenlost, was concerned, Speros might as well not exist.
But others were at the campsite; hangers-on, no doubt. Blaise Caveros, the Borderguard commander with an unsettling look of the General about him, took Speros to be a legitimate threat. He assigned a pair of guards fitting to his purported station to him; some minor Ellyl lordling and an Arduan archer They took turns keeping watch over him. A woman, no less! She had a strange bow made of black horn, which she cosseted like a babe. At nightfall she brought him a bowl of stew from the common kettle. After he had eaten, Speros grinned at her, forgetful of the gaps where he was missing teeth.
“Very nice,” he said, nodding at her weapon. “Where did you get it?”
She stared blankly at him. “This is Oronin’s Bow.”
“Oh, aye?” He whistled. “So where did you get it?”
The archer shook her head in disgust. “You tend to him,” she said to the Ellyl, rising to survey the campsite.
“Did I say somewhat to offend her?” Speros asked the Ellyl, who smiled quietly.
“Fianna the Archer slew the Dragon of Beshtanag with that bow,” he said. “Surely the knowledge must have reached Darkhaven’s gates.”
“It did.” Speros shrugged. “I was in the desert at the time.”
“Indeed.”The Ellyl, whose name was Peldras, laced his hands around one knee. “Your Lord Vorax spoke of your efforts concerning a certain Well when he offered you into the keeping of the Wise Counselor.”
“You know it?” Speros repressed a memory of the General’s black sword cleaving the old Yarru man’s chest, the dull thud of the Gulnagels’ maces.
“I do.” Peldras regarded him. “You seem young and well-favored to have risen high in the Sunderer’s service, Speros of Haimhault.”
He shrugged again. “I’ve made myself useful.”
“So it seems.” Peldras raised his fair, graceful brows. “Although I fear you may have outlived your usefulness, or Vorax of Staccia would not have been so quick to surrender you. Did I stand in your shoes, young Midlander, I would find it a matter of some concern. The Sunderer’s minions are not known for their loyalty.”
Speros thought of Freg, carrying him in the desert; of the General himself, holding water to his parched lips. He laughed out loud. “Believe as you wish, Ellyl! I am not afraid.”
“You were not at Beshtanag,” Peldras murmured. “I witnessed the price the Sorceress of the East paid for her faith in Satoris Banewreaker, and the greater toll it took upon her people. Are you willing to pay as much?”
“That was different.” Speros shook his head. “I was in the Ways when your wizard Malthus closed them upon us. We would have aided her if we could.”
“The Sunderer could have reopened the Ways of the Marasoumië if he chose.” The Ellyl glanced westward toward the shadowy peaks of the Gorgantus Mountains. “With the might of Godslayer in his hands, not even Malthus the Counselor could have prevented it. He chose instead to destroy them.”
“Aye, in the hope of destroying Malthus with them!” Speros said, exasperated. “You forced this war; you and all of Haomane’s Allies! Will you deny his Lordship the right to choose his strategies?”
“No.” Peldras looked back at him. Under the stars, illuminated by the nearby campfire, his features held an ancient, inhuman beauty. “Ah, Speros of Haimhault! On another night, there is much I would say to you. But I fear sorrow lies heavy on my heart this night, and I cannot find it in me to speak of such matters when on the morrow, many who are dear to me will be lost.”
“Did I ask you to?” Speros muttered.
“You did not.” Rising, the Ellyl touched his shoulder. “Forgive me, young hostage. I pray that the dawn may bring a brighter day. Yet the world changes, and we change with it. It is in my heart that it is Men such as you, in the end, who will Shape the world to come. I can but pray you do it wisely.”
Speros eyed him uncertainly, trying to fathom what trickery lay in the words. “Me?”
“Men of your ilk.” Peldras gave his quiet smile. “Builders and doers, eager for glory, willing to meddle without reckoning the cost.” Tilting his head, he looked at the stars. “For my part, I wish only to set foot upon Torath the Crown, to enter the presence of Haomane First-Born, Lord-of-Thought, and gaze once more upon the Souma.”
Since there seemed to be no possible reply, Speros made none. The Ellyl left him then, and the Arduan woman Fianna returned. She pointed out a bedroll to him and then sat without speaking, tending to her bowstring. The scent of pine rosin wafted in the air, competing with the myriad odors of the campsite.
Speros wrapped himself in the bedroll and lay sleepless. The frostbitten ground was hard and uncomfortable, cold seeping into his bones. Oronin’s Bow gleamed like polished onyx in the firelight. He wondered what sound it made when it was loosed, if echoes of the Glad Hunter’s horn were in it.
At least the Ellylon horns were silenced by night, although one could not say it was quiet. The vast camp was filled with murmurous sound; soldiers checking their gear, sentries changing guard, campfires crackling, restless horses snuffling and stamping in the picket lines. He could make out Ghost’s pale form against the darkness, staked far from the other cavalry mounts. Haomane’s Allies gave her a wide berth, having learned to be wary of her canny strength and sharp bite.
There was a tent nearby where the commanders took counsel; too far for Speros to hear anything of use, but near enough that he saw them coming and going. Once, he saw it illuminated briefly from within; not by ordinary lamplight or even the diamond-flash of Malthus’ Soumanië, but something else, a cool, blue-green glow. Afterward, Blaise Caveros emerged and spoke to Fianna in a low tone.
“Haomane be praised!” she whispered. “The Bearer lives.”
At that, Speros sat upright. Both of them fell silent, glancing warily at him. It made him laugh. “He knows, you know,” he said conversationally. “Lord Satoris. The Charred Folk, the Water of Life. There is no part of your plan that is unknown to him.”
“Be as that may, Midlander,” Blaise said shortly. “He cannot prevent Haomane’s Prophecy from fulfillment.”
“He can try, can’t he?” Speros studied the Borderguardsman. “You know who you’ve a look of? General Tanaros.”
“So I have heard.” The words emerged from between clenched teeth.
“He says you’re better with a sword than Aracus Altorus,” Speros remarked. “Is it true?”
“It is,” Blaise said in a careful tone, “unimportant.”
“You never know.” Speros smiled at him. “It might be. Have you seen the Lady Cerelinde? She is … how did the General say it? We spoke of her in the desert, before I’d seen her with my own eyes. ‘She’s beautiful, Speros,’ he said to me. ‘So beautiful it makes you pity Arahila for the poor job she made of Shaping us, yet giving us the wit to know it.’ Is it not so? I think it would be hard to find any woman worthy after her.”
Blaise drew in his breath sharply and turned away. “Be watchful,” he said over his shoulder to Fianna. “Say nothing in his hearing that may betray us.”
She nodded, chagrined, watching as the Borderguardsman strode away. Speros lay back on his bedroll, folding his arms behind his head. “Do you suppose he harbors feelings for his lord’s betrothed?” he wondered aloud. “What a fine turn of events that would be!”
“Will you be silent!” the Arduan woman said fiercely. Her nervous fingers plucked at the string of Oronin’s Bow. A deep note sounded across the plains of Curonan, low and thrumming, filled with anguish. Speros felt his heart vibrate within the confines of his chest. For a moment, the campsit
e went still, listening until the last echo died.
“As you wish,” Speros murmured. Closing his eyes, he courted elusive sleep to no avail. Strangely, it was the Ellyl’s words that haunted him. Men of your ilk, builders and doers. Was it wrong that he had taken fate in his own hands and approached Darkhaven? He had made himself useful. Surely the General would not forget him, would not abandon him here. Speros had only failed him once, and the General had forgiven him for it. His mind still shied from the memory; the black sword falling, the maces thudding. The old Yarru folks’ pitiful cries, their voices like his grandmam’s. His gorge rising in his throat, limbs turning weak.
But the General had not wanted to do it, any more than Speros had. The Ellyl was wrong about that. He did not understand; would not understand. Though Speros did not want to remember it, he did. The General’s terrible sword uplifted, the cry wrenched from his lips. Give me a reason!
Opening his eyes, Speros blinked at the stars and wondered why so many questions were asked and went unanswered, and what the world would be like if they were not.
TOTAL DARKNESS HAD FALLEN BEFORE Dani and Thulu dared venture from the tunnels. They crept blindly, bodies grown stiff with long immobility, parched with thirst and weak with hunger, fearful of entering a trap.
But no; by the faint starlight illuminating the opening, the larder appeared empty of any living presence. The supplies stacked within it had been diminished, but not stripped. They fell upon what remained, tearing with cracked and broken nails at the burlap wrapping on a wheel of cheese, gnawing raw tubers for the moisture within them. They stuffed their packs with what scraps and remnants remained. The kegs of wine alone they left untouched, fearing that breaching one would leave evidence of their presence behind.
Only after they had assuaged their hunger and the worst of their thirst did they dare peer forth from the opening of the cavern onto the Vale of Gorgantum.
“Uru-Alat!” Dani felt sick. “That’s Darkhaven?”
The scale of it was unimaginable. For as far as the eye could see, the Vale was encircled by a massive wall, broken by watchtowers. It vanished somewhere behind them, blocked by the swell of the slope, reemerging to encompass a small wood of stunted trees. A broad, well-trodden path led from the larder-cavern to the rear gates of the fortress itself. It was huge; impossibly huge, a hulking edifice blotting out a vast segment of the night sky. Here and there, starlight glinted on polished armor; Fjeltroll, patrolling the gates.
“Aye,” Uncle Thulu said. “I don’t suppose they’re likely to let us in for the asking. Any thoughts, lad?”
Dani stared across the Vale. He could make out the Gorgantus River by the gleam of its tainted water. Other lower structures squatted alongside it, lit within by a sullen glow. He could smell smoke, thick and acrid in the air. “What are those?”
“Forges, I think. For making weapons and armor.”
“Do you reckon they’re guarded by night?”
“Hard to say.” Thulu shook his head. “They’re not in use or we’d hear the clamor. But the fires are still stoked, so they’re likely not unattended. It’s a long scramble, and there are guards on the wall, too.”
“Aye, but they’re looking outward, not inward. If we don’t make any sound, move slowly, and keep to the shadow, they’ll not spot us. It’s the armor that gives them away. At least it would get us closer.” Dani studied the fortress. Darkhaven loomed, solid and mocking, seemingly impenetrable. He wished he knew more about such matters. “There has to be another entrance somewhere, doesn’t there?”
“I don’t know.” Uncle Thulu laid one hand on Dani’s shoulder. “But truth be told, I’ve no better ideas. This time, lad, the choice is yours.”
Dani nodded, touching the clay vial at his throat for reassurance. “We can’t stay here forever. Let’s try. We’ll make for the river and follow it.”
It was a nerve-racking journey. They emerged from the mouth of the cavern, abandoning the broad path to clamber down the mountain’s slope where the shadows lay thickest. Both of them moved slowly, with infinite care. One slip of the foot, one dislodged pebble, and the Fjel would come to investigate.
If it had done nothing else, at least their long travail had prepared them for this moment. The inner slopes of the Gorgantus Mountains were gentler than the unscalable crags that faced outward, no more difficult to traverse than the mountains of the northern territories. They had learned, laboring atop the rock-pile, how to place their feet with the utmost care, how little pressure it took to shift a loose stone. Their night vision was honed by their time in the tunnels.
Once they reached level ground, it was another matter. Atop the incline to their right, they could see the curving shoulder of the encircling wall. The distant spark of torches burned in the watchtowers. Dani pointed silently toward the wood. Inching along the base of the slope, they made toward it. From time to time, the low tones of Fjeltroll drifted down from above.
The wood was foreboding, but the gnarled trees would provide cover and allow them to leave the wall. Dani breathed an inaudible sigh of relief when they reached the outskirts. Tangled branches, barren of leaves, beckoned in welcome. He entered their shadow and stepped onto the hoarfrosted beech-mast, grimacing as it crackled faintly beneath his feet.
Uncle Thulu grabbed his arm, pointing.
Dani froze and squinted at the trees.
There, a short distance into the wood; a ragged nest. There were others beyond it, many others. He thought of the dark cloud that had winged toward them on the plains, so vast it cast a shadow, and his heart rose into his throat.
Uncle Thulu pointed toward the left.
There was nowhere else to go. Step by step, they edged sidelong around the wood. The trick was to do it slowly, lowering their weight gradually with each step until the warmth of their bare soles melted the hoarfrost and prevented it from crackling. It seemed to take forever, and with each step Dani feared the woods would stir to life. He imagined a beady eye in every shadow, a glossy black wing in every glimmer of starlight on a frosted branch. He kept an anxious eye on the sky, fearing to see the pale light of dawn encroaching.
It seemed like hours before they had covered enough ground to put the wood between them and the wall. They backed away from it, away from the danger of sleeping ravens and waking Fjeltroll, and made for the river.
Here was open territory, unguarded. They crossed it as swiftly as they dared. The Gorgantus River cut a broad, unnatural swath through the Vale. Once, it had flowed southward down the Defile, where only a trickle remained. Lord Satoris had diverted it to serve his purposes, but it flowed low and sluggish, resentful despite untold ages at being deprived of its natural course.
And for other reasons.
They crouched on the bank, staring at the water. It looked black in the starlight, moving in slow eddies, thick as oil. An odor arose from it; salt-sweet and coppery.
“Do you reckon we can drink it?” Dani whispered.
Uncle Thulu licked his parched lips. “I wouldn’t.” He glanced at Dani. “You mean for us to get in that filth, lad?”
“Aye.” He touched the flask, steeling his resolve. “The banks will hide us.”
“So be it.” Thulu slid down the bank.
Dam followed, landing waist deep in the tainted water. Cold mud squelched between his toes. Here, at least, they would be invisible to any watching sentries; merely a small disturbance on the river’s oily surface. Lowering their heads, shivering against the water’s chill, they began to make their way downstream. For all their efforts at caution, they slipped and slid, until they were wet, mud-smeared, and bedraggled, all the supplies they carried spoiled by the tainted water.
The sky was beginning to pale by the time they reached the buildings where the forges were housed; not dawn, not yet, but the stars were growing faint and the unalleviated blackness between them was giving way to a deep charcoal. And other obstacles, too, forced them to halt. Ahead of them on the river, a strange structure moved;
a mighty wheel, turning steadily, water streaming from its broad paddles. Beyond it lay the low array of buildings; furnaces and forges, and a ramshackle structure that seemed to have been erected in haste. Despite the fact, it was the site of the greatest activity. Smoke poured from it, dim figures moving in its midst, going to and fro.
For the first time since the tunnels, Dani knew despair.
“What do you suppose that is?” Thulu whispered, leaning on the muddy bank. He sniffed the air. “Smells like … like a meal!”
“I don’t know,” Dani murmured. With an effort, he stilled his chattering teeth and studied the buildings. The nearest one seemed the most abandoned. He nodded at it. “We’ll make for there. It may be we can find a place to hide.”
“Aye, lad.” Thulu extricated himself from the sucking mud. “Come on.”
It was hard to move, cold as he was. Dani took his uncle’s strong hand, bracing his feet against the bank and hauling himself out of the river. They shook themselves, wringing the foul water from their clothes. There was nothing to be done about the mud.
The entire place was wreathed in smoke. It did, Dani realized, smell like a meal; like roasting flesh, at once greasy and savory. His belly rumbled. Attempting to lead the way, he found himself stumbling.
“Hey!” A figure emerged from the smoke, sootblackened and filthy, with unkempt hair and wild, red-rimmed eyes. It clutched a haunch of meat. “Lord Vorax says it’s done enough for Fjel,” it said in the common tongue, freeing one smeared hand to point. “Hurry, we’ve got to get it all moved!”
Tensed for flight, Dani stared in bewilderment as the figure—man or woman, he could not tell beneath the grime—beckoned impatiently. The slow realization dawned on him that in the dark, covered in filth as they were, no one could tell a Yarru from an Ellyl. He exchanged a glance with his uncle.
“You heard him, lad.” Thulu wiped his forearm over his face, leaving a muddy smear that further obscured his features. “Lord Vorax said to hurry!”
Dani nodded his understanding. Keeping their heads low, they plunged into the billowing smoke to follow the beckoning madling.