There was a fissure in the earth.
It was impossibly, unfathomably deep. It had broadened and grown despite efforts to seal it. The remnants of charred beams and broken slabs of rock clung to its sides. Blue-white light blazed upward, casting stark shadows on the ceiling. Dani fell to his hands and knees, crawling forward to peer over the edge.
The marrow-fire roared. He had found the Source.
He felt faint and rolled onto his back, clutching the clay vial. His lips moved as he murmured the Song of Being.
There was no turning back. There had never been a way back, only forward. The drop was jagged and raw, but it would afford hand- and footholds, provided the heat did not kill him. It shouldn’t. He was the Bearer, desert-born, Dani of the Yarru, whose people had endured Haomane’s Wrath and learned the secrets of Uru-Alat.
Uncle Thulu had sacrificed himself for this.
Still praying, eyes clenched tight, Dani began to descend.
TWENTY-TWO
THE BATTLE WAS JOINED ONCE more.
For all his fury, Tanaros kept his wits about him. The Helm of Shadows was broken. His army was one of the last things standing between Haomane’s Allies and fulfillment of the Prophecy, and he would take no careless risks. With deliberate forbearance, he let the Fjel charge precede him and sow chaos in the ranks of Haomane’s Allies. The Tungskulder waded among them, roaring, laying about with axe and mace.
Men and Ellylon alike fell beneath their onslaught; unhorsed, wounded, trampled. Tanaros smiled grimly. On the left flank, his Gulnagel essayed sorties against the Vedasian knights, striking and wheeling as he had taught them. On the right flank, the Nåltannen were wreaking havoc amid the motley infantry.
But Aracus Altorus was no fool. Wheeling his mount, he shouted orders. His troops rallied, changing tactics. On the front line, fleet riders of the Rivenlost and the Borderguard dodged and swerved, striking at the slow Tungskulder with quick, slashing blows until Hyrgolf was forced to order his Fjel to regroup in a tighter defensive formation. The Dwarfs had retired from the field, but a handful of archers remained in the fray, and these Aracus moved to his right, slightly behind the front lines, setting them to picking off stray Gulnagel. Malthus the Counselor was everywhere, his white Soumanië a beacon of hope.
Still, Tanaros thought, the edge was his.
Darkhaven’s army was too strong, too well trained. The Borderguard and the Host of the Rivenlost might stand against them, but the others—the Seaholders, the Midlanders, the Free Fishermen—were slowly being slaughtered. Even the Pelmarans, flush from victory in Beshtanag, and the Vedasian knights in their heavy armor, had not reckoned with the awesome might of the Fjel.
They fought so beautifully! The sight of them filled Tanaros with fierce pride. They kept their shields high, they held their formations, pressing forward, slow and inexorable. What a thing it would be, what a glorious thing, if Haomane’s Prophecy were yet to be averted—by this, by strength of arms, by dint of long training. Lord Satoris had not sought this war. Haomane’s Allies had pressed it upon him the moment Cerelinde agreed to wed Aracus Altorus. But he had prepared for it for many long years.
As had Tanaros. And though there was little room in his heart for hope, he meant to try nonetheless. He owed Lord Satoris no less.
If Aracus Altorus died, there could be no victory for Haomane’s Allies. Not now, nor ever. There would be no Son of Altorus left living to wed a Daughter of Elterrion. No more royal Altorian bloodline tainted with the betrayal of Tanaros Caveros’ faithless wife.
The sun was high overhead, moving toward the west. How long had the battle lasted? Hours, already. And yet, Tanaros felt no weariness. His mind was clear and keen, as though all his anger, all his grief, had been distilled into a single point of brightness. All he needed was an opening, a single opening.
Tanaros watched his enemies tire as the euphoria of their brief victory faded. The Rivenlost showed no sign of slowing, but the battle was taking its toll on the Men. Their faces were white with exhaustion, their horses lathered. The battlefield stank of blood and ordure.
When the Borderguard began to falter, Tanaros signaled to Hyrgolf.
His field marshal roared orders in the Fjel tongue, and his lieutenants and bannermen conveyed them. On the right flank, a banner rose and dipped in acknowledgment. Two squadrons of Nåltannen abandoned their careful discipline and plunged into the ranks of Haomane’s Allies, cutting a swath through the infantry to mount a rear attack on the combined forces of the Borderguard and the Rivenlost.
Tanaros saw Aracus Altorus turn to meet this new threat and signaled again. With a mighty roar, the Tungskulder forged forward, and Tanaros with them.
In this new surge of chaos, it was all hand-to-hand fighting. The battle lines had crumbled. The black sword sang as Tanaros cut his way through the Rivenlost vanguard. An Ellyl warrior was in his path, his shining armor smeared with mud and gore. Tanaros swung his blade, felt it bite deep, and continued without pausing, letting the black horse carry him past, deeper into the fray.
Pennants were all around him; not signal-banners, but the standards of the Rivenlost, carried high above the mayhem, still proud, still glittering. Tanaros ignored them, keeping his gaze fixed on one that lay beyond: no Ellyl badge, but a gilt sword on a field of sable, the arms of the ancient Kings of Altoria.
“Aracus!” he shouted. “Aracus!”
The pennant turned in his direction.
More Ellylon, seeking to assail him on either side. Tanaros slashed impatiently at the one on his right, took a sharp blow to the shoulder from the other, denting his spauldron; and then one of the Tungskulder was there, dragging the Ellyl from the saddle by sheer force. The Tungskulder grinned at his General, then grunted as the unhorsed Ellyl lunged upward, his blade piercing a gap in his armor.
No time for sorrow. Tanaros plunged onward; toward the Altorian banner, toward the dun-grey cloaks of the Borderguard of Curonan.
“Aracus Altorus!”
And he was there, waiting, his standard-bearer beside him. His Men had turned back the Nåltannen attack. It had been a costly diversion, but worthwhile. Tanaros reined his mount, saluting with his sword. “Aracus.”
“Kingslayer.” The word was filled with unutterable contempt. Behind the eyeslits of his helm, Aracus Altorus stared at him. The sword in his hand echoed the one on his standard; his ancestor’s sword. Once upon a time, Tanaros had known it well. The only difference was the lifeless Soumanië in its pommel. “You come at last.”
“As I promised, Son of Altorus,” Tanaros said softly.
Aracus nodded, taking a fresh grip on his sword-hilt. Beneath the contempt, he looked tired and resolute. It seemed like a very long time since they had first laid eyes on one another in the shattered nuptial ceremony in Lindanen Dale. “Shall we put an end to it?”
Tanaros inclined his head. “Nothing would please me more, Son of Altorus.”
There should have been more to say, but there wasn’t.
Settling their shields, they rode at one another.
They struck at the same instant, both catching the blows on their bucklers. Tanaros felt the impact jar his arm to the shoulder. He felt, too, Aracus’ buckler riven beneath the force of his blow, metal plate giving way, wood splitting. Tanaros laughed aloud as the would-be King of the West was forced to discard his useless shield.
“Shall it be now?” Tanaros asked, and without waiting for a reply, struck another blow.
Aracus Altorus parried with his ancestral sword, the sword Altorus Farseer had caused to be forged, the sword Roscus Altorus had borne before him long ago. A symbol, nothing more. It shattered in his grip, leaving him clutching the useless hilt with its curved tangs and dull Soumanië, a few jagged inches of steel protruding from it.
He lifted his bewildered gaze. He had believed, somehow, it would not happen.
Tanaros had thought to taunt him, this Man who sought to wed the Lady of the Ellylon, who sought to destroy Lord Satoris. He had
thought to find satisfaction in this moment; and yet, having reached it, he found none. Aracus’ gaze reminded him too much of Roscus’ at the end; dimly surprised, uncomprehending.
He hadn’t found it in killing Roscus, either.
“I’m sorry,” he said, raising the black sword for the final blow. There was no choice here, only duty. “But you brought this upon yourself.”
At that moment, the Soumanië in the pommel of Aracus Altorus’ shattered sword blazed wildly into life.
HALFWAY UP THE DEFILE PATH, Ushahin felt it happen.
The world gave a sickening lurch and his mount staggered beneath him. An unaltered Soumanië, with the power to Shape matter, had passed to a new owner.Ushahin’s vision veered crazily, and he saw the Defile loom beneath him, pebbles skittering beneath his blood-bay stallion’s scrabbling hooves, bouncing down the crags toward the riverbed below.
He righted himself with an effort that made every ill-set bone in his body ache, twisting in the saddle to glance behind him.
It was bad.
The tide of battle was shifting, surging against them. The horns, the damned Ellylon horns, were raised in their clarion call, echoing and insistent. Everywhere, figures were reeling; the very earth was in motion, the plains lifting in a vast, slow surge, rippling like a wave.
Ushahin tasted bile.
“Oh, my Lord!” he whispered. “You should have let me kill her!”
It was not too late, not yet. Lashing the blood-bay stallion with his reins, Ushahin raced toward Darkhaven.
TANAROS’ FINAL BLOW NEVER LANDED.
For the space of a few heartbeats, they simply stared at one another, wide-eyed and astonished, the Soumanië blazing between them. Then Aracus Altorus whispered a word and the world erupted in rubescent light.
The earth surged and Tanaros found himself flung backward, losing ground, half-blinded and lurching in the saddle as his mount squealed in rage and fought to remain on its hooves. In some part of him, Tanaros understood what must have happened. Somehow, somewhere, the Sorceress Lilias had died; the Soumanië’s power was passing to its wielder: Aracus Altorus, who had been mentored by Malthus the Counselor, whose reserves of inner strength the Soumanië required had never been tapped.
In that instant, everything changed.
Haomane’s Allies knew it. The horns of the Rivenlost rang out joyously, maddeningly. New vigor, new hope infused them, gave them strength. They had a new ally. The very plains themselves rose up in rebellion against the Army of Darkhaven; churning, fissuring.
And in the center of the battlefield, Aracus Altorus sat astride his mount, untouchable, both hands clasped around the hilt of his shattered sword. He had removed his helm to afford a clearer field of vision, and in the wash of ruby light pouring from the Soumanië, his face was at once agonized and transcendent. Malthus had reached his side in a flurry of white robes, was lending him strength and counsel.
And Ingolin, Lord of the Rivenlost, was rallying his troops.
All the hatred Tanaros had been unable to summon on the verge of dealing Aracus his death blow returned tenfold. With no thought in his mind but finishing the job, he spurred his mount back toward Aracus.
It was to no avail. His Lordship’s brand afforded protection against the Soumanië itself, but the earth rose against him in waves, softened beneath him. At twenty paces away, his mount floundered, sunk to its hocks.
Malthus the Counselor gazed at him, grave and implacable.
Tanaros could draw no closer.
With a curse, he wrenched his mount’s head around; and cursed again to see what transpired on the battlefield. The surging earth favored Haomane’s Allies, bore them up. The infantry massed against his Nåltannen, whose numbers had been decimated by the charge Tanaros had ordered. Somewhere, Oronin’s Bow was singing; mired Gulnagel twisted futilely, raising their shields as the archers circled. Riding the crest of its waves, the Rivenlost fell upon the Tungskulder. Still floundering, Tanaros was forced to watch as the Host of the Ellylon rode down his beloved Fjel.
“Hyrgolf!”
The word escaped him in a raw gasp. Hyrgolf knew what had happened, what was happening. He had chosen to meet the charge and buy time for his lads. He stood bravely, knee-deep in a sudden mire, baring his eyetusks in a fierce grin. It took four Ellylon to bring him down, and one was Lord Ingolin himself, who struck the final blow. With a peaceful sigh, Hyrgolf died, measuring his length on the trampled grass of the plains, the last ounces of his life bubbling from his slashed throat.
Tanaros swore, laying about him on either side with his black sword at the warriors who came for him. He gouged his mount’s flanks with his heels, driving it mercilessly onto solid land. He rode unthinking, swerving to follow the shifting crests, killing as he went.
“Retreat!” he bellowed, seizing the nearest Fjel, shoving him toward home. “Retreat to Darkhaven!”
Overhead, the ravens screamed and wheeled.
Someone took up the call, then another and another. “Retreat! Retreat! Retreat!”
It was not in the nature of the Fjel to retreat. Some obeyed, the ragged ends of Tanaros’ discipline holding true. Elsewhere, it frayed at last and Fjel stood, fighting until the end, dying with bitter, bloody grins. And then there were many, too many, trapped by the treacherous earth, who had no choice but to fight and die.
Tanaros wept, unaware of the tears trickling beneath the faceplate of his helm, mingling with his sweat. On the far outskirts of the battlefield, he took a stand, watching the staggering columns of Fjel file past. The earth was stable here; even with Malthus’ aid, Aracus’ strength extended only so far.
It had been far enough.
The horns of the Rivenlost sounded and a company detached to ride in pursuit of the fleeing remnants of Darkhaven’s army. They came swiftly, carrying their standards high, armor glittering beneath the mire, dotted here and there with the dun-grey cloaks of the Borderguard. And at the forefront of them all was the argent scroll of the House of Ingolin the Wise, Lord of the Rivenlost.
“Go!” Tanaros shouted at the retreating Fjel. “Go, go, go!”
They went at a stumbling jog, slow and wounded, passing the supply-trains that Vorax of Staccia had so diligently mustered. Useless, now. Tanaros pushed the memory aside and glanced at the sky. “One last kindness,” he whispered, trying to catch Fetch’s winged thoughts. “One last time, my friend.”
Turning his mount, he charged the oncoming company. The black horse of Darkhaven was not the mount he had trained for many years, but it had born him willingly into battle and it ran now with all the fearlessness of its proud, vicious heart.
A dark cloud swept down from the sky.
Wings, all around him, black and glossy. It was like being in the center of the Ravensmirror, save that the path before him was clear. In front of him, Tanaros saw alarm dawning on the faces of his enemies. And then the ravens were among them, clamoring, obscuring their vision, wings battering, claws scrabbling.
In the chaos, Tanaros struck once, hard and true. Blue sparks flew and metal screeched as his black sword pierced bright Ellylon armor, sinking deep, deep into the flesh below.
“For Hyrgolf,” he whispered, wrenching his blade free.
He did not linger to watch the Lord of the Rivenlost die, though the image stayed with him as he wheeled and raced toward the Defile; Ingolin’s eyes, fathomless and grey, widening in pain and sorrow, the light of Haomane’s regard fading in them. Behind him, the horns went silent and a great cry arose from the Host, echoed mockingly by the rising ravens.
From Darkhaven, nothing.
Fear, true fear, gripped Tanaros, then. Beneath his armor, the brand on his chest felt icy. Worse blows even than this could be dealt against Darkhaven. He remembered his Lordship’s voice, low and strange. He is coming, Tanaros Blacksword. They are all coming, all my Elder Brother’s little puppets … .
At the base of Defile’s Maw, he caught up with the Fjel and shouted, “Follow as swiftly as you c
an! I go to his Lordship’s aid!”
They nodded wearily.
Tanaros glanced behind him. A handful of Ellylon warriors remained with their fallen Lord. The rest were coming, swift and deadly, with hearts full of vengeance. The Defile could be sealed against them; but it would take time for the slower Fjel to get clear, more time than their pursuers allowed. He looked back at his lads, stolid and loyal, even in defeat. “Defile’s Maw must be held. Who among you will do it?”
Twelve Tungskulder stepped forward without hesitation, saluting him. “For as long as it takes, Lord General, sir!” one said.
“Good lads.” Tanaros’ eyes burned. “I’m proud of you.”
Spurring his black horse, he plunged into the Defile.
THE HAVENGUARD WERE slow To open the Defile Gate.
Ushahin shouted with rare impatience; to no avail, for it took two teams of Fjel to shift the gates and one team was absent. Something had passed within the fortress, something that had the Havenguard in an uproar.
A bitter jest, to be powerless before mere stone, while on the plains below, a Man, a stupid mortal brute of an Altorus, wielded the power to Shape matter itself. Ushahin shivered in the saddle, wrapping his arms around the case that held the sundered Helm of Shadows and waiting.
He saw the ravens return, pouring like smoke above the Defile. He knew, then, that the army would follow and prayed that Tanaros would stay with them, would be a good commander and remain with his troops.
But, no; Tanaros Blacksword was one of the Three. Like Ushahin, he knew too well where danger lay at the end. As the Defile Gate began to creak open at last, hoofbeats sounded. And then the General was there, blood-spattered, the black blade naked in his fist.
“Dreamspinner,” he said. “There is a thing that must be done.”
Ushahin raised his head, daring to hope. “The Lady—”
“Damn the Lady!” Tanaros’ voice cracked. “She’s a pawn, nothing more!” Removing his borrowed helm, he passed a vambraced forearm over his face. For an instant, Ushahin imagined that he wiped away tears. “You were right,” he said in a low tone. “The foundation … the foundation is crumbling, and Ushahin, I think he’s coming. The Bearer. It’s all happened, piece by piece. And I need to stop him.”