“All we need to do—” Ushahin began.
“They’re coming, Dreamspinner!” Tanaros took a deep breath. “We have to seal the Defile. Rally the Tordenstem, get them to those ricks Speros built. They won’t think to do it on their own, they’ll need orders. My lads’ lives depend on it, those that are left.”
“Tanaros,” Ushahin said, shifting the case in his arms. “With the Soumanië, Aracus Altorus can—”
“Time,” Tanaros said abruptly. “Aracus is a mortal Man, he can only do so much. It will purchase time, Ushahin! And lives, too; my lads’ lives. I beg you, don’t let all their sacrifices be in vain.” A muscle in his jaw twitched. “And I pray you, do not make me do more than beg.”
The Defile Gate stood open. They stared at one another.
“All right, cousin,” Ushahin said gently. “You know well that I lack the strength to oppose you. For the moment, I will do your bidding. And afterward, in this time we have earned, you will heed my words.”
“My thanks, Dreamspinner.” Tanaros extended his free hand.
Ushahin clasped it with his right hand, his strong, healed hand. “Go, then, and protect the marrow-fire! I will see your Fjel home safely, all those who remain.”
Together, they passed through the Defile Gate.
Ushahin watched Tanaros lash his mount, sprinting for the fortress. He shook his head as he turned the blood-bay stallion’s course toward the high path along the Defile, thinking of the Grey Dam Sorash, who had raised him as her own, who had given her life to this venture.
It was folly, all folly. Yet he knew well, too well, the cost Tanaros bore this day.
Forgive me, Mother, he thought.
The Tordenstem were glad to see him; pathetic, bounding like dogs, squat, boulder-shaped dogs. Everything had gone wrong, confusing them. Ushahin sighed, riding to the verge of the crags where the easternmost rick was stationed and peering over the edge.
Tanaros’ Fjel were coming, a straggling line of them. It shocked him to see how few they were, how slowly they moved. At the Defile’s Maw, a scant dozen had made a stand, barring the path to Haomane’s Allies, there where it was narrow enough to be defended. They were wielding maces and axes to deadly effect, roaring in defiance.
“Tan-a-ros! Tan-a-ros!”
It wouldn’t last. A spark was moving on the plains; a red spark, a Soumanië, twinned with a diamond-brightness. Aracus Altorus was coming, and Malthus the Counselor with him. They were all coming, all of Haomane’s Allies.
Ushahin sighed again. “How did it come to this?”
Levers in hands, the Tordenstem exchanged confused glances. “Boss?”
“Pay me no heed.” Ushahin shook his head, impatient. “On my word, make ready to loose the first rockslide.”
”Aye, boss!” They positioned their levers.
Ushahin watched, raising one hand. The Fjel were hurrying, hurrying as best they could. Aracus Altorus had arrived at the base of the Defile. He forged a swath through Haomane’s Allies, his Soumanië flashing. Malthus the Counselor was at his side. The path began to crumble beneath the Tungskulder defenders’ feet.
“Tell the others to hurry,” Ushahin murmured to the Tordenstem.
One filled his lungs, his torso swelling. “Snab!” he howled. “Snab!”
The Fjel column hurried, even as the defenders began to fall and die, and Haomane’s Allies to push past them. Not daring to wait, Ushahin let his hand drop. “Now!” he cried.
The Tordenstem heaved on their levers. Rocks tumbled, boulders fell, all in a great rumbling rush, bouncing down the crags, blocking the Defile.
For a time.
Below, the red spark of the Soumanië gleamed, and pebbles began to shift, slow and inexorable.
For a third time, Ushahin sighed. “Let us go to the next station. Perhaps this time we can manage to crush a few of Haomane’s Allies.”
There was scant consolation in the thought, but at least it would take him a step closer to Darkhaven. Glancing uneasily toward the fortress, Ushahin prayed that it would not be too late, that it was not already too late. He remembered the Delta and the words of Calanthrag the Eldest.
Yet may it come later than sssooner for ssuch as I and you … .
In his heart, he feared it had not.
TWENTY-THREE
TANAROS STRODE THROUGH DARKHAVEN LIKE a black wind.
The shock of his arrival rippled through the fortress with a palpable effect. The Havenguard hurried from far-flung quarters of Darkhaven to meet him, falling over one another in their haste. His abrupt, awful news shocked them into momentary silence, and he had to shout at them twice before they were able to tell him what had transpired in his absence.
Two Men, Charred Folk, madlings caught one …
He wasted precious minutes hurrying into the dungeon, clattering down the slippery stair, hoping against hope to see the Man the madlings had caught. It gave him an unpleasant echo of the memory of Speros, hanging in chains, grinning crookedly with his split lips. Not Speros, no; not the Bearer, either. It was the other Yarru, his protector. Manacled to the wall, scratched and beaten and bloodied, he hung limp, lacking the strength to even stir. The Fjel had not been gentle. Only the slight rise and fall of his scarred torso suggested he lived.
“Where’s the boy?” Tanaros asked, prodding him. “Where’s the boy?”
Unable to lift his head, the prisoner made a choked sound. “Slayer,” he said in a slow, thick voice. “Where do you think?”
Tanaros cursed and ran from the dungeon, taking the stairs two at a time.
He made his way behind the walls, through the winding passages, through the rising heat, to the chasm. To the place he had known he must go. The madlings had scattered, abandoning the places behind the walls, hiding from his fury, from the terrible news. There was only the heat, the light-shot darkness, and the chasm like a gaping wound.
There, he gazed over the edge.
Far below, a small, dark figure was descending laboriously.
Straightening, Tanaros shed his gauntlets. With deft fingers, he unbuckled the remainder of his armor, removing it piece by piece. When he had stripped to his undertunic, he replaced his swordbelt, then lowered himself into the chasm and began to climb.
It was hot. It was scorchingly, horribly hot. The air seared his lungs, the blue-white glare blinding him. Narrowing his eyes to slits, Tanaros willed himself to ignore the heat. It could be done. He had done it in the Unknown Desert. He was one of the Three, and it could be done.
Fear lent his limbs speed. Hands and feet moved swift and sure, finding holds. He took risks, careless risks, tearing and bruising his flesh. The worst thing would be to fail for being too slow, to be halfway down and find the marrow-fire suddenly extinguished.
It did not happen.
Reaching the bottom, Tanaros saw why.
The Source, the true Source, lay some paces beyond the chasm itself. It was not so large, no larger than the circumference of the Well of the World. Indeed, it was similar in shape and size; a rounded hole in the foundation of the earth itself.
But from it, the marrow-fire roared upward in a solid blue-white column. High above, at its core, a spit of flame vanished through an egress in the ceiling. The Font, Tanaros thought, realizing he was beneath his Lordship’s very chambers. Elsewhere, the marrow-fire fanned outward in a blue-white inferno, flames illuminating the chasm, licking the walls, sinking into them and vanishing in a tracery of glowing veins.
And at the edge of the Source stood the Bearer.
It was the boy, the Charred lad he had seen in the Marasoumië. He had one hand on the clay vial strung about his throat and a look of sheer terror on his face. Even as Tanaros approached, he flung out his other hand.
“Stay back!” he warned.
“Dani,” Tanaros said softly. He remembered; he had always been good with names, and Malthus the Counselor had spoken the boy’s. So had Ngurra, whom he had slain. “What is it you think to do here, lad?”
/> Despite the heat, the boy was shivering. His eyes were enormous in his worn face. “Haomane’s will.”
“Why?” Tanaros took a step closer. The heat of the column was like a forge-blast against his skin. “Because Malthus bid you to do so?”
“In the beginning.” The boy’s voice trembled, barely audible above the roaring of the marrow-fire. “But it’s not that simple, is it?”
“No.” Something in the lad’s words made Tanaros’ heart ache, longing for what-might-have-been. In a strange way, it was comforting to hear them spoken by an enemy. It was true, after all was said and done, they were not so different. “No, lad, it’s not.” He drew a deep breath, taking another step. “Dani, listen. You need not do this. What has Haomane done that the Yarru should love him for it and do his bidding?”
The boy edged closer to the Source. “What has Satoris the Sunderer done that I should heed his will instead?”
“He left you in peace!” Tanaros said sharply. “Was it not enough? Until-” His voice trailed off as he watched the boy’s expression change, terror ebbing to be replaced by profound sorrow. Somehow, the boy knew. The knowledge lay there between them. In the roaring marrow-fire, it seemed Tanaros heard anew the pleas and cries of the dying Yarru, the sound of Fjel maces crunching. And he knew, then, that whatever conversation he might have hoped to hold with the lad, it was too late.
“Did you kill them yourself?” Dani asked quietly.
“Yes,” Tanaros said. “I did.”
The dark eyes watched him. “Why? Because Satoris bid you to do so?”
“No.” Gritting his teeth, Tanaros drew his sword and drew within reach of the boy. “I begged him. Old Ngurra, the old man. Give me a reason! Do you understand, lad? A reason to spare his life, his people; a reason, any reason! Do you know what he said?”
Dani smiled through the tears that spilled from his eyes, glittering on his brown skin. “Aye,” he whispered. “Choose.”
“Even so.” Tanaros nodded. “And I am sorry for it, as I am sorry for this, but his Lordship did not ask for this battle and I have a duty to do. Now remove the flask, and lay it gently upon the stone, Dani. Gently.”
The boy watched the rising arc of the black sword and his dark eyes were like the eyes of Ngurra, filled with knowledge and regret. “I will ask you what you asked my grandfather,” he said. “Give me a reason.”
“Damn you, I don’t want to do this!” Tanaros shouted at him. “Is your life not reason enough? Relinquish the flask!”
“No,” Dani said simply.
With a bitter curse, Tanaros struck at him. The black blade cut a swathe of darkness through the blinding light. Loosing his grip on the flask, Dani flung himself backward, teetering on the very edge of the Source, almost out of reach. The tip of Tanaros’ sword shattered the clay vessel tied around the lad’s throat, scoring the flesh beneath it.
Fragments of pit-fired clay flew asunder.
Water, clear and heavy, spilled from the shattered flask; spilled, glistening, in a miniature torrent, only to be caught in the Bearer’s cupped palms.
The Water of Life.
Its scent filled the air, clear and clean, heavy and mineral-rich, filled with the promise of green, growing things.
There was nothing else for it; no other option, no other choice. Only the slight figure of the Bearer silhouetted against the blazing column of blue-white fire with the Water of Life in his hands, his pale, scarred palms cupped together, holding the Water, the radiating lines joining to form a drowned star.
“I’m sorry,” Tanaros whispered, and struck again.
And Dani the Bearer took another step backward, into the Source itself.
HE FELT THEM DIE, ALL of them.
So many! It should not have mattered, not after so long; and yet, he had imbued so much of himself in this place. This place, these folk, this conflict. An infinite number of subtle threads bound him to them all; threads of fate, threads of power, threads of his very dwindling essence.
Godslayer hung in the Font of the marrow-fire, pulsing.
It tempted him. It tempted him well nigh unto madness, which was a cruel jest, for he had been losing that battle for many a century.
One of the first blows had been the hardest. Vorax of Staccia, his Glutton. One of his Three, lost. Oh, he had roared at that blow. The power that had stretched the Chain of Being to encompass the Staccian was broken, lost, bleeding into nothingness. Ah, he would miss Vorax! He was all the best and worst of Arahila’s Children combined; tirelessly venal, curiously loyal. Once, long ago, Vorax of Staccia had amused him greatly.
He would miss him.
He would miss them all.
Their lives, the brief lives—Men and Fjel—blinked out like candles. So they did, so they had always done. Never so many at once. Many of them cried his name as they died. It made him smile, alone in his darkness, and it made him gnash his teeth with fury, too.
Godslayer.
He remembered the feel of it in his palm when he’d taken to the battlefield ages ago. Striding, cloaked in shadow, blotting out the sky. Pitting its might against Haomane’s Weapons, his vile Counselors with their bloodred pebbles of Souma. There had been no Three, then; only the Fjel, the blessed Fjel.
And they had triumphed. Yet it had been a near thing, so near. Already, then, he had endured many long ages sundered from the Souma, wounded and bleeding. An Ellyl sword, stabbing him from behind. He had dropped the Shard. If the courage of Men had not faltered, if a Son of Altorus had not sounded the retreat too soon …
His hand was reaching for Godslayer. He made himself withdraw it.
It was the one thing he dared not do, the one thing he must not do. He was weaker now, far weaker, than he had been. If he risked it, it would be lost. The Counselor would reclaim it in his brother’s name, and Haomane would Shape the world in his image. That was the single thread of sanity to which he clung. He made himself remember what had gone before. The Souma, shattering. Oronin’s face as he lunged, the Shard glittering in his fist.
A gift for his Gift.
He had called the dragons, and they had come. Ah, the glory of them! All the brightness in the world, filling the sky with gouts of flame and winged glory. No wonder Haomane had Sundered the earth to put an end to it. But what a price, what a terrible price they had all paid for the respite.
There would be no dragons, not this time.
He waited to see who would come instead.
Outside, the story retold itself, writing a new ending. The Helm of Shadows, that once he had claimed and bent to his own ends, was broken. The Counselor’s Soumanië was clear, clear as water. The Son of Altorus did not flee, but wielded a bloodred pebble of his own. A weary lad carried a grimy clay vessel into the depths of Darkhaven itself. His faithful ones, his remaining minions, raced desperately to prevent them.
They were coming, they were all coming.
And there was naught to do but wait; wait, and endure. Perhaps, in the end, it was as well. He was weary. He was weary of the endless pain, weary of meditating upon the bitterness of betrayal, weary of the burden of knowledge, of watching the world change while everything he had known dwindled and passed from it, while he diminished drop by trickling drop, stinking of ichor and hurting, always hurting; hurting in his immortal flesh, aching for his lost Gift, diminishing into madness and hatred, a figure of impotent, raging despite.
Still, the story was yet to be written.
It was always yet to be written.
The thought pleased him. There were things Haomane First-Born, the Lord-of-Thought, had never understood. He had not listened to the counsel of dragons. The death and rebirth of worlds was a long and mighty business.
“You are all my Children.”
He whispered the words, tasting them, and found them true. So many lies, so few of them his! One day, perhaps, the world would understand. He was a Shaper. He had been given a role to play, and he had played it.
They were close now.
There was a sound; one of the threefold doors, opening. He lifted his heavy head to see which of them had arrived first.
It was a surprise after all; and yet there were no surprises, not here at the end. The Font burned quietly, spewing blue-white sparks over the impervious stone floor. Within it, Godslayer, the Shard of the Souma, throbbed steadily.
At the top of the winding stair, his visitor regarded him warily.
“My child,” said Satoris Third-Born, who was once called the Sower. “I have been expecting you.”
USHAHIN RODE BACK AND FORTH along the edge of the cliffs high above the Defile, gazing at the path far below.
The surviving Fjel had made a safe return to Darkhaven. If nothing else, his actions had accomplished that much. But Haomane’s Allies had managed to clear the first rockslide; and worse, they had spotted the trap that would trigger the second one.
Now they waited, just out of range.
It was a maddening impasse. He wished Tanaros would return, wished Vorax was alive, or Tanaros’ young Midlander protégé; anyone who would take command of the disheartened Tordenstem.
There was no one. It shouldn’t have mattered; Darkhaven was a fortress, built to be defended. Time should be their ally, and a day ago, it might have been so. But now the army of Darkhaven was in tatters, the Helm of Shadows was broken, Haomane’s Prophecy loomed over the Vale of Gorgantum, and Ushahin’s very skin crawled with the urgent need to be elsewhere.
In the Weavers’ Gulch, the little grey spiders scuttled across the vast loom of their webs, repairing the damage the Fjel had done in passing, restoring the pattern. Always, no matter how many times it was shredded, they restored the pattern.
Watching the little weavers, Ushahin came to a decision.
“You.” He beckoned to one of the Tordenstem. “How are you called?”