The middle door was waiting.
It gave easily to his push. He strode through it and into the darkness beyond. These were his passageways, straight and true, leading to the forefront of Darkhaven. Tanaros did not need to see to know the way. “Vorax. Speros. Hyrgolf,” he murmured as he went, speaking their names like a litany.
TWENTY-FIVE
THE PASSAGEWAY WAS LONG AND winding, and the marrow-fire that lit it grew dim, so dim that she had to feel her way by touch. But Tanaros had not lied; the passage was empty. Neither madlings nor Fjel traversed it. At the end, there was a single door.
Cerelinde fumbled for the handle and found it began to whisper a prayer to Haomane and found that the words would not come. The image of Satoris Banewreaker hung before her, stopping her tongue.
Still, the handle turned.
Golden lamplight spilled into the passage. The door opened onto palatial quarters filled with glittering treasure. Clearly, these were Vorax’s quarters, unlike any other portion of Darkhaven. Within, three mortal women leapt to their feet, staring. They were fair-haired northerners, young and comely after the fashion of Arahila’s Children.
“Vas leggis?” one asked, bewildered. And then, slowly, in the common tongue: “Who are you? What happens? Where is Lord Vorax?”
Tanaros had not lied.
It made her want to weep, but the Ellylon could not weep for their own sorrows. “Lord Vorax is no more,” Cerelinde said gently, entering the room. “And the reign of the Sunderer has ended in Urulat. I am Cerelinde of the House of Elterrion.”
“Ellyl!” The youngest turned pale. She spoke to the others in Staccian, then turned to Cerelinde. “He is dead? It is ended?”
“Yes,” she said. “I am sorry.”
And strangely, the words were true. Even more strangely, the three women were weeping. She did not know for whom they wept, Satoris Banewreaker or Vorax the Glutton. She had not imagined anyone could weep for either.
The oldest of the three dried her eyes on the hem of her mantle. “What is to become of us?”
There was a throne in the center of the room, a massive ironwood seat carved in the shape of a roaring bear. Cerelinde sank wearily into it. “Haomane’s Allies will find us,” she said. “Be not afraid. They will show mercy. Whatever you have done here, Arahila the Fair will forgive it.”
Her words seemed to hearten them. It should have gladdened her, for it meant that there was hope, that not all who dwelled within the Sunderer’s shadow were beyond redemption. And yet it did not.
What will you do?
What do you think? I will die, Cerelinde.
A great victory would be won here today. She would take no joy in it.
HAVENGUARD WERE AWAITING WHEN TANAROS emerged from the passageway, crowding Darkhaven’s entry. The inner doors were shuddering, battered by a mighty ram. The enemy was past the Gate, had entered the courtyard. They were mounting an offense, coming to rescue the Lady of the Ellylon, coming to fulfill Haomane’s Prophecy.
They would succeed.
And they would fail.
Tanaros grinned at his Fjel, watching them respond to it like a deep draft of svartblod, relishing their answering grins, broad and leathery, showing their eyetusks.
“Well, lads?” he asked them. “Shall we give our visitors the welcome they deserve? I’ll give the greeting myself!”
They roared in acclaim.
“Be certain of it, lads, for it means your deaths!” He touched his branded chest, clad only in his padded undertunic. His armor was lost, vanished in the darkness of the crumbling passageways where the chasm gaped. “In his Lordship’s name, I go forth to claim mine. I ask no one to accompany me who does not seek the same!”
The Havenguard Fjel laughed. One of them shouldered past the others, hoisting a battle-axe in one hand and a shield in the other. “I stand at your Side, General,” he rumbled. “I keep my shield high.”
“And I!”
“And I!”
“So be it.” The words brought to mind an echo of Cerelinde’s farewell. Standing before the great doors, Tanaros paused. He felt keenly the lack of his armor. He wondered about Cerelinde, bound for Vorax’s chambers, and how she would live with her deeds afterward. He wondered about the Bearer, if he lived or died. He wondered about the Bearer’s comrade, who hung in chains in Darkhaven’s dungeons, unable to lift his head. Somewhere, Ushahin was making his way through the hidden passages, Godslayer in his possession.
An Age had ended; a new Age had begun. The Shapers’ War would continue.
The thought made Tanaros smile.
In the end, it didn’t matter.
Haomane’s Allies would Shape this tale as they saw fit. What mattered, what mattered the most, was that the tale did not end here.
“Open the doors,” Tanaros ordered.
The Fjel obeyed, as they had always obeyed, as they had obeyed since his Lordship had fled to take shelter among them, sharing with them his vision of how one day, Men and Ellylon alike would envy their gifts, fulfilling the promise of Neheris-of-the-Leaping-Waters, who had Shaped them.
Tanaros strode through the open doors, flanked by a stream of Fjel. The Men wielding the battering-ram dropped back, gaping at his sudden appearance, at the doors behind his back, unbarred and thrown wide open.
Brightness in the air made him squint. The sun, the symbol of Haomane’s Wrath, had pierced the veil of clouds that hung over the Vale of Gorgantum. It was low and sinking in the west, but it had prevailed.
Tanaros opened his arms.
They were there; they were all there amid the ragged, dying remnants of his Fjel. All his enemies, gathered. Aracus Altorus, grey-faced and exhausted, barely able to hold his shattered hilt aloft, his Soumanië flickering and dim. Malthus the Counselor astride his pale mount, his white robes swirling. The Rivenlost, at once bereft and defiant. The Archer of Arduan, a bow wrought of black horn in her hands.
Behind them, a legion of Haomane’s Allies.
They were silent, watching him.
Gazing at them, Tanaros smiled.
When the last of his strength failed, when arrows pierced his breast, when their sheer numbers bore down his sword-arm and the black sword fell at last from his nerveless fingers, one of them would kill him. It didn’t matter which one. All that mattered, here at the end, was that he would die with his Lordship’s name on his lips, his honor intact in his heart. He would fulfill his duty.
“I am Darkhaven,” he said. “Come and take me.”
USHAHIN’S MADLINGS CLUNG TO HIM.
They surrounded him in a ragged tumult, weeping and apologizing for their failure to find the Lady of the Ellylon, begging him not to leave them. Some of them crawled, gasping at the sight of Godslayer; others sought to touch the case that held the severed Helm of Shadows, keening at Lord Satoris’ death.
“Hush,” Ushahin said, gentling them as he went. “Hush.”
They wept all the harder, grasping his hands and kissing them, the healed and the broken alike.
“All things must be as they must,” he said to them. “And I must leave you. Do not fear. Haomane’s Allies will treat you gently.”
He hoped it was true. They had not bothered to do so when they were ordinary people living ordinary lives. But perhaps the burden of right they had taken so violently on themselves would impel them to kindness.
It crossed his thoughts to send them to Vorax’s quarters. There was time, yet, for the Ellyl bitch to pay for her sins. It would be a fitting ending for her. But the memory of the shadowed pain haunting Tanaros’ eyes forestalled him.
Was it strength or weakness that stayed my hand?
Ushahin did not know. The question begged an answer, and he had an immortality in which to find it … if he lived through the next hour. If he did not, nothing would matter. And vengeance was unimportant in comparison with fulfilling his Lordship’s will and taking his place in the pattern that bound him.
“Do you know which mount is mine?”
he asked instead. “Bring it round to the postern gate near the kitchens.”
The silent madling boy, the one who loved horses, pelted away at a dead run. Ushahin let the others escort him. His people, his wailing, keening throng. It would hurt to leave them. They passed through the kitchens, the fires burned down to unbanked embers, untended for the first time in memory, crowding through the door after him, surrounding him at the postern gate.
There was the stablehand, holding the bridle of his blood-bay stallion.
It was time.
Ushahin lashed the Helm’s case to his saddle. He touched Godslayer’s hilt, making certain it was secure in his belt. He mounted his horse.
“Remember,” he said to them. “Remember Satoris, Third-Born among Shapers. Remember he was kind to you when the world was not.”
The wailing throng swirled and parted, then Meara was there, clutching his stirrup, her tearstained face lifted upward.
“Forgive me,” she gasped. “Oh please, oh please, my Lord, forgive me!”
He gazed down at her, thinking what a piece of irony it was that his Lordship’s downfall should have hinged in part on such a small matter. It was true, Ushahin had failed his madlings. He alone had understood their longings, their vulnerability. He had let himself grow overly concerned with great dangers, forgetful of the small ones. Did he not owe Meara compassion? It was a fit counterpoint to the act of vengeance he had forgone.
An act of honor; a small kindness. Things his enemies would never acknowledge.
Leaning down in the saddle, Ushahin laid his misshapen left hand upon her head. “Meara of Darkhaven. In Satoris’ name, I do forgive you.”
Her eyes grew wide. Ushahin smiled his crooked smile.
“Farewell,” he said to them. “When you remember his Lordship, think of me.”
Straightening, he invoked the dark magic taught to him long ago by the Grey Dam of the Were, letting his waking awareness drift. The world shifted in his vision, leached of color. The madlings’ voices faded, and Meara’s last of all.
He beheld the paths between and set out upon them.
THE COURTYARD WAS A PLACE of slaughter.
It was too small to contain Haomane’s Allies in their entirety. The bulk of their warriors were trapped behind the walls flanking the broken Defile Gate. The rest had fallen back before their onslaught, unprepared for fierce resistance.
Tanaros plunged into the thick of battle, laying about him on all sides.
There was no strategy in it, no plan. Men and Ellylon swarmed him and he swung his black sword, killing them. The Havenguard Fjel struggled to protect him, their shields high. Still the enemy came with sword and spear, piercing his guard, his unarmored flesh. For every one he killed, another took his place. He bled from a half a dozen wounds; from a dozen, from a score.
Still he fought, light-headed and tireless.
The flagstones grew slippery with blood. Horses slipped; mounted warriors dismounted, only to stumble over the bodies of fallen comrades. There was no magic here, only battle at its ugliest. Oronin’s Bow was silent, for there was no way for the Archer to take aim in the milling fray.
Aracus Altorus had expended his strength.
But he was a born leader. He gathered his Men instead; the Borderguard of Curonan. Set them to fighting their way around the outskirts of battle, making for the open inner doors. Set them on a course to rescue Cerelinde, to penetrate the secrets of Darkhaven.
“Havenguard!” Tanaros shouted. “Ward the doors!”
They tried. They fought valiantly. He watched them go down, struggling under numbers even a Fjeltroll could not withstand. He watched a handful of Borderguardsmen slip past them, vanishing into the depths of the fortress. He would have led them, once.
It was a long time ago.
In the courtyard, his ranks were thinning. Here and there, bowstrings sang. More of Haomane’s Allies streamed past the Defile Gate. Tanaros took a deep breath and squared his shoulders, meeting them.
Someone’s blade grazed his brow. A young Midlander, his expression terrified. Tanaros shook his head, blinking the blood from his eyes, and killed him. He stood for a moment, wavering on his feet, thinking of Speros.
Another bow sang out; Oronin’s Bow. Its fading echoes called his name. Tanaros felt a sharp punch to his midriff. When he lowered his hand, he found the arrow’s shaft, piercing the padded, blood-soaked tunic over his ribs.
He looked for the Archer.
She was staring at him, her face fixed with hatred and grief. Another arrow was nocked in her bow, Oronin’s Bow. Her arms trembled. Malthus the Counselor had dismounted to stand beside her, an Ellyl sword in his hand, the clear Soumanië on his breast, his aged face grave.
Tanaros blinked again.
Something was wrong with his vision, for the world seemed dim and strange. They stood out brightly, those two; and behind them, another figure. One who rode astride, giving the battle a wide berth and making for a gap in the forces entering freely through the Defile Gate. A Shard of terrible brightness burned at his hip, red as blood and urgent as the rising sun. He glanced in Tanaros’ direction, a glance filled with vivid emotion that had no name.
Overhead, ravens circled and cried aloud.
“Ushahin,” Tanaros whispered. “Go!”
The Counselor’s head tilted, as though to catch a distant strain of sound. He began to turn, his gaze already searching. Tanaros struggled to fill his lungs, hearing his breath catch and whistle, feeling the arrow’s shaft jerk.
“Malthus!” he shouted. “I am here!”
The Counselor’s gaze returned, fixing him. His Ellyl blade swept up into a warding position. To Tanaros’ vision, it seemed limned with pale fire. He laughed aloud, raising his own sword. It burned with dark fire; a wound in the sky, quenched in black ichor. Step by halting step, Tanaros advanced on them.
Oronin’s Bow sang out, over and over.
Arrows thudded into his flesh, slowing him. There was pain, distant and unrelated. The air had grown as thick as honey. Tanaros waded through it, shafts protruding from his left thigh, his right shoulder, clustering at his torso. Ellylon and Men assailed him; he swatted their blades away, his black sword shearing steel. One step, then another and another, until he reached the Counselor.
Tanaros raised the black sword for a final blow.
“Malthus,” he said. “I am here.”
Or did he only think the words? The echoes of Oronin’s Bow made it hard to hear. Tanaros fought for breath, his lungs constricted. He felt his grip loosen on the hilt of his sword; his hands, his capable hands, failing him at last. The black sword fell from his hands. The Counselor’s face slid sideways in his vision. Malthus’ lips were moving, shaping inaudible words. The light of the clear Soumanië he bore struck Tanaros with the force of Haomane’s Wrath.
It hurt to look at it, so Tanaros turned his head, looking toward the Defile Gate. The world was growing dark. He understood that he was on his knees, swaying. The flagstones were hard, and sticky with blood; most likely his own. Here at the end, the pain was intense. All his myriad wounds hurt, and his branded heart ached with loss and longing. He fumbled at his breast, finding the shaft of another arrow.
He understood that he was dying.
There was shouting, somewhere, joyous and triumphant. There were Fjel in isolated knots, battling and dying. And there, beyond the Defile Gate, was a bright specter, moving unseen among the wraithlike figures of the living, bearing a spark of scarlet fire. Only Tanaros, caught between life and death, could see it.
He watched it dwindle and vanish, passing out of sight.
It seemed Ushahin Dreamspinner took the light with him, for darkness fell like a veil over his eyes. Tanaros thought of the events that had brought him to die in this place and found he could no longer conjure the old rage. The memory of his wife, of his liege-lord, had grown dim. Had they mattered so much to him once? It seemed very distant. He thought of Cerelinde standing beneath the shadow of his blade, aw
aiting death; and he remembered, too, how she had smiled at him in the glade of the rookery, making his heart glad.
He wished he could see her face once more and knew it was too late.
The sounds of the courtyard faded. The light of Malthus’ Soumanië diminished, until it was no more troublesome than a distant star. The bonds that had circumscribed his heart for so long loosened, falling away. He had kept his vow. His Lordship’s honor was untarnished. Godslayer, freed, would remain in Ushahin’s hands. Tanaros had spent the coin of his death wisely.
His heart, which had beat faithfully for so many centuries, thudded; once, twice. No more. It subsided into stillness, a long-delayed rest.
There was only the long peace of death, beckoning to him like a lover.
Tanaros met it smiling.
ARACUS’ VOICE CUT THROUGH THE clamor of ragged cheers and shouts that greeted her appearance, filled with relief and joy.
“Cerelinde!”
She stood on the steps of Darkhaven, gazing at the carnage in silent horror. Everywhere, there was death and dying; Men, Ellylon, Fjel. Aracus picked his way across the courtyard, making his way to her side.
She watched him come. He looked older than she remembered, his face drawn with weariness. His red-gold hair was dark with sweat, his armor splashed with gore. In one hand, he held the hilt of a shattered sword, set with a dimly flickering gem. A pebble of the Souma, smooth as a drop of blood. Her palm itched, remembering the feel of Godslayer pulsing against her skin.
“Cerelinde.” Aracus stood before her on the steps, searching her eyes. The Borderguardsmen who had found her in Vorax’s quarters began to speak. He silenced them with a gesture, all his urgent attention focused on her. “Are you … harmed?”
“No.” She fought the urge to laugh in despair. “I killed him.”
For a moment, he merely gazed at her, uncomprehending. “The … Sunderer?”
“Yes,” she whispered. “The Shaper.”
His Men did speak, then, relating what she had told them. Behind them, others emerged from the depths of Darkhaven, escorting Vorax’s handmaids and an unarmed horde of weeping, babbling madlings. Aracus listened gravely to his Borderguard. “Get torches. Find the lad and his uncle,” he said to them. “And Godslayer; Godslayer, above all. It lies in the possession of the Misbegotten, and he cannot have gotten far. Search every nook and cranny. He will be found.” He turned back to Cerelinde. “Ah, love!” he said, his voice breaking. “Your courage shames us all.”