The Were cowered, ears flat against its skull. “Eight,” it whimpered in angry protest. “There were eight!”
Eight?
“No,” Ushahin whispered. “Malthus’ Company … Malthus’ Company numbered seven.”
Baring teeth, the young Brother showed him, putting the pictures in his mind, as the Were had done since Oronin Shaped them. There were eight, and the eighth a Staccian, tall and stricken-faced, a burning brand in his hands. A blow struck when the Brethren expected it not. Sparks against the darkness. A branch, a twig to turn a flood.
“Why?” Ushahin groped for a thread of mortal thought. “Why?”
“We have done.” Emboldened, the young Were reared on its haunches, spat its words, red tongue working in its muzzle. “This says the Grey Dam! No more debts, no one’s son. There were eight! We will Hunt for us, only, and fight no more!”
Done.
A slash of talons, a bounding leap. Claws scrabbled on sandstone, and the Were was gone, leaving Ushahin bereft, aching in the cold light of dawn, at last and truly alone.
“Mother.” He whispered the word, remembering her scent, her sharp, oily musk. How she let him seek comfort in her form, burying his aching, broken face in her fur. How her hackles raised at any threat, menacing all enemies and affording him safety, a safety he had never known. He had healed in her shadow.
The Grey Dam is dead, the Grey Dam lives.
Not his.
His shoulders shook as he wept. The Ellylon could only weep for the sorrows of others, but Ushahin the Misbegotten was the child of three races and none, and he wept for his own bereavement.
When he was done he gathered himself and stood, and began to make his long way toward Darkhaven, to the only home left to him.
THERE HAD BEEN A CRY, filled with rage and defeat, when the path was severed. A single cry, echoing in Vorax’s head, filling his skull like a sounding drum. Through the Helm of Shadows he heard it, filled with an eternity of anguish.
Ah, my Lord Satoris, he thought, forgive us!
It anchored him, that cry, kept his feet solid on the rocky floor of the cavern. It gave him a strength he had not known he possessed and kept him tethered to the Marasoumië. He felt it happen, all of it, as Malthus wielded the Soumanië and wrested control of the Ways from them. And there was only one thing he could do.
Through the eyeslits of the Helm, the node-lights twitched in fitful pain and he saw what he could not see with his naked eyes, the truth no one dared voice. The whole, vast network was dying, aeon by aeon, inch by inch. The Sundering of the world was the slow death of the Marasoumië. Not now, not yet, but over ages, it would happen.
Vorax could not prevent it, any more than he could prevent Malthus from seizing control of the Ways, from closing their egress and sending the army of Darkhaven into flailing chaos. All he could do was hold open his end of the path.
He did.
And he gathered them, scattered like wind-blown leaves through the Ways. It was not his strength, this kind of work, but he made it so. He was one of the Three, and he had sworn to protect his Lord’s fortress. What did it matter that his belly rumbled, that the long hours ground him to the bone? He was Vorax of Staccia, he was a colossus. A battle may be lost, but not the war, no. Not on his watch. The army of Darkhaven would endure to fight another day. Like a beacon of darkness, he anchored their retreat, bringing them home.
They surged into the Chamber of the Marasoumië—Fjel, thousand upon thousand of them, stumbling and disoriented, filled with battle-fury and helpless terror. Elsewhere, a struggle continued and he felt the Ways flex and twist under a Soumanië’s influence. Malthus remained at large. It didn’t matter, that. Only this, only securing the retreat for the tens of thousands of Fjel. Node-points flickered out of his control, slipping from his grasp. It didn’t matter. He was the anchor. Wrestling with the portal, he held it open, seeing through the Helm’s eyes the fearful incomprehension of the Fjel. So many! It had been easier with Ushahin anchoring the other end.
On and on it went, Fjel streaming past him, until he saw the last, the hulking Tungskulder who was Tanaros’ field marshal, who had brought them home to Darkhaven intact. And in Hyrgolf’s countenance lay not incomprehension, but a commander’s sorrowful understanding of defeat. No Fjel tramped behind him. He was the last.
With relief, Vorax relinquished the last vestiges of his hold and let the Way close. His thick fingers shook with exhaustion as he lifted the Helm from his head, feeling it like an ache between his palms. He needed sleep, needed sustenance—needed to pour an ocean of ale down his gullet, to cram himself full of roasted fowl, slabs of mutton, crackling pork, of handfuls of bread torn from the loaf and stuffed into his mouth, of glazed carrots and sweet crisp peas, of baked tubers and honeyed pastries, of puddings and confits and pears, of anything that would fill the terrible void inside him where Satoris’ cry still echoed.
“Marshal Hyrgolf.” Was that his voice, that frail husk? He cleared his throat, making the sound resonate in the depths of his barrel chest. “Report.”
“We failed,” the Fjel rumbled. “Malthus closed the Way.”
Vorax nodded. It was what he had known, no more and no less. He wished there was someone else to bear the details of it to Lord Satoris. “And General Tanaros?”
The Fjeltroll shook his massive head. “He stayed to safeguard our retreat from the Counselor. Neheris spare him and grant him a safe path homeward.”
Ah, cousin! Vorax spared a pitying thought for him, and another for himself. He was weary to the bone, and starved lean. Sustenance and bed, bed and sustenance. But there would be no rest for him, not this day. Lord Satoris would demand a full accounting, and he was owed it; pray that he did not lash out in rage. Their plans were in ruins, the Three had been riven. Malthus seizing control of the Marasoumië, and Tanaros lost in the Ways, with no telling whether either lived or died, and the Dreamspinner stranded in Rukhar. A vile day, this, and vilest of all for the Sorceress of the East. Beshtanag would pay the price of this day’s failure.
At least the army had survived it intact, and there had been no Staccian lives at stake. He ran a practiced eye over the milling ranks of Fjel and frowned, remembering how the army had scattered like wind-blown leaves throughout the Ways, how he had tried to gather them all.
Something was wrong.
Vorax’s frown deepened. “Where’s the Midlander?”
“WHERE ARE WE?” THERE HAD been a cavern, and an old man with a staff; a terrified crush of flesh. That was when the world had gone away, carried by the General’s shouting voice. He remembered the rushing force, the terrible sense of dislocation, and then the fearsome impact. Blinded by the throbbing Marasoumië, jostled and swept away, thrown down and unhorsed, Speros of Haimhault had landed … somewhere. He found his feet and staggered, flinging out both arms, hearing his own voice rise in sharp demand. “Where are we?”
“Underearth, boss,” a Fjel voice rumbled.
There was an arm thrust beneath his own, offering support. Speros grabbed at it, feeling it rocklike beneath bristling hide, as he swayed on his feet. “Where?”
“Don’t know.”
“Where’s the General?”
“Don’t know!”
“All right, be quiet.” Speros squinted, trying to clear his gaze. They were. in a vast space. He could tell that much by the echoes of their voices. Somewhere, water was dripping. Drop by drop, slow and steady, heavy as a falling stone. The mere scent of it made him ache to taste it. “How deep?”
There was a shuffling of horny feet. “Deep,” one of the Fjel offered.
It was a pool. Blinking hard, he could see it. A pool of water, deep below the earth. And above it—oh, so far above it!—was open sky. It must be, for there was blue reflected in its depths. Kneeling over it, he made out a dim reflection of his own face; pale, with dilated eyes. “Water,” he murmured, dipping a cupped hand into the pool.
The water didn’t even ripple. As if he had grasped
an ingot of solid lead, his weighted hand sank, tipping him forward. He gasped, his lips breaking the surface of that unnatural water, and he understood death had found him all unlooked-for. How stupid, he thought, trying in vain to draw back from the pool.
One breath and his lungs would fill.
A wet death on dry land.
Then, pressure; a coarse, taloned hand tangled in his hair, yanking his head back and away from the deadly pool. He came up sputtering, his neck wrenched, mouth heavy with water.
“Careful, boss.”
They were Gulnagel Fjel; lowlanders, the swift runners, with their grey-brown hides, lean haunches and yellowing talons. They could take down a deer at a dead run, leaping from hill to hill. There were four, and they watched him. Having saved his life, they waited for guidance. Among the races of Lesser Shapers, only Men and Ellylon had received Haomane’s Gift, the gift of thought. Speros crouched by the pool, fervently wiping his numb lips, careful to make sure that not a single drop got into his mouth. Thirsting or not, what it might do inside him, he didn’t dare guess. One thing was sure, he wouldn’t touch that water again.
“All right.” He stared at the reflected blue in its depths, then craned his head, squinting. It hurt to look at the sky, even a tiny disk of it. The shaft stretched above him to dizzying heights, and at the top of it lay open skies and freedom. “Up. We need to go up.”
It was a despairing thought, here at the bottom of the world. To his surprise, one of the Gulnagel grinned and flexed his yellow talons.
“Not a problem, boss,” he said cheerfully. “Up it is”
EVERYWHERE.
Nowhere.
It was dark where he was, and he was not dead. At least he didn’t think so. In the darkness, Tanaros flexed his hands. He had hands; he felt them. The fingers of his right hand closed around something hard.
A sword-hilt, he thought.
And, I am lost in the Marasoumië.
What happened to people who got lost in the Ways? Sometimes the Ways spat them out, in some unknowable location, deep beneath the earth. Sometimes the Ways did not. And then they died, of course.
Unless they were immortal.
It was Malthus’ doing, may he be cursed with the same fate. In the darkness, Tanaros gave a bitter smile. It had been a near thing at the end. He had hesitated when he saw the boy. He shouldn’t have done that. It had given the Counselor time, an instant’s time to invoke the Marasoumië’s power and send them hurtling away, the boy and his protector, flinging them desperately across the warp and weft of the Ways, enfolded in his enchantments.
A pity, that. But it was all, nearly all, the old wizard had left in him. Tanaros had struck, then; had let the rage course through his veins, had swung his sword with all his might at his enemy’s neck. Ah, it had felt good! The black blade had bitten deep into the wood of the wizard’s staff when Malthus had parried; bitten deep and stuck fast in the spellbound wood.
He had welcomed the struggle, moving in close to see the fear in the other’s eyes, wondering, do you bleed, old one? Of what did Haomane Shape you? Do you breathe, does the blood course warm in your veins? Haomane’s Weapon, with my blade so near your throat, do you understand the fragility of your flesh?
And then the Soumanië had flashed, one last time.
The Counselor, it seemed, did not welcome death.
It had cast them both into the oblivion of the Ways. That was his consolation. He had felt it, sensed Malthus spinning adrift, unrooted. Tanaros flexed his hand again, feeling the sword-hilt against his palm, and thought, I am not ready to die either.
There was light, somewhere; a ruddy light, pulsing. So it must seem to a babe in the womb, afloat in blood and darkness. He remembered a birth, his son’s birth; the babe he thought his son. How Calista had cried aloud in her travail, her hands closing on his with crushing force as she had expelled the child.
He had been proud, then, terrified and proud. Awe. That was the word. It had filled him with awe, that she would endure this thing; that she could produce such a thing from the depths of her mortal flesh. Life, new life. An infant wholly formed, perfect in every detail, thrust squalling into the light of day. He had cradled the babe, cupping the still-soft skull in his hands, his capable hands, marveling at the shrunken face, the closed eyes. There had been no telling, then, that the eyes behind those rounded lids were blue, blue as a cloudless sky. No telling that the downy hair plastered slick and dark with birthing was the color of ruddy gold.
Oh, my son!
In the darkness, Tanaros groaned. It bit deep, the old betrayal, as deep as his black blade. He remembered the first time he had seen Calista. She had graced Roscus’ court with her fresh-faced beauty, her sparkling wit. Their courtship had been filled with passionate banter. Who now would believe Tanaros Blacksword capable of such a thing? Yet he had been, once. He had shouted for joy the day she accepted his marriage proposal. And he had loved her with all the ardor in his heart; as a lover, as a husband, as the father of the child she bore. How had she dared to look at him so? Hollow-eyed and weary, with that deep contentment. Her head on the pillow, the hair arrayed about her shoulders, watching him hold another man’s babe.
Once, he had been born again in hatred.
Why not twice?
A node-point was near, very near. Such was the light he perceived behind his lids, the beating red light. His circumscribed heart thumped, responding to its erratic pulse. If he could reach it … one, just one. If he could birth himself into the Marasoumië, he would be alive in the world. And where there was one, there was another, in a trail that led him all the way to Darkhaven.
Home.
Tanaros reached.
TWENTY-THREE
BESHTANAG ENDURED, HALF-STARVED AND weary.
From her balcony, Lilias watched her enemies, wondering if they knew. Would it matter? Would they act differently? She thought not. They had never known it for a trap. They went about the siege as they had begun it, with determined patience. By late afternoon the skies had cleared, though rain still dripped from the pines. Here and there Aracus Altorus strode, a tiny figure, recognizable by his hair. He wasted no time, ordering construction to begin anew on their siege-engines.
Three days.
That was how long they would have had to wait, if Darkhaven’s army had arrived at Jakar as planned. Even now, the Fjeltroll would be on the march, trampling the undergrowth beneath their broad feet, commanded by General Tanaros.
Only they were not coming, would never arrive. Lilias knew. She had gone, alone, to the cavern of the Marasoumië, deep beneath Beshtanag. Had gone and stood, wondering if she dared to flee. The node-lights flickered erratically. Something was wrong, very wrong, in the Ways.
Probing, she had found it. There were not one, but two souls trapped within the Marasoumië; no mere mortals, but beings of power, under whose influence the Ways buckled and flexed. One bore a power equal to her own, a very Soumanië, and only the complete exhaustion of his energies kept him from wielding it. The other was one of the Branded, and the mark of Godslayer and a Shaper’s power upon his flesh kept the Marasoumië from devouring him entire. For the rest, it was sheer stubbornness that kept him alive, forcing the Ways to bend to his will.
Either way, it was unsafe to enter.
She had stared at the node-point for a long time. Once, she might have dared it, when she was young enough to be fearless in her abilities. Not now, when she had spent so much of herself, pouring it into the stone and wood of this place. In the end, did it matter? Beshtanag was her home. She didn’t know where she would go if she fled it.
So she had stayed.
A hunting-party emerged from the fringe of the forest, whooping in triumph. They carried long poles over their shoulders, a pair of deer between them. Regent Martinek’s men, clad in his leather armor overlaid with steel rings. Lilias ground her teeth. Already, they had scoured her smallholders’ estates, laying claim to their flocks. Where the armies of Men were camped, the ground
was strewn with mutton-bones. Now, they took the bounty of the forest itself while her people went hungry.
“My lady.”
It was Gergon, his helmet under his arm. He looked unspeakably tired.
“Ward Commander.” Lilias made room for him upon the balcony. “What is it?”
“It is said … “He paused, surveying Haomane’s Allies. In the waning sunlight, the Ellyl herald was stepping forth to give his third utterance of the day, demanding in a clarion voice the surrender of the Lady Cerelinde. Gergon met her gaze, his features blunt and honest “You were heard, in the reception hall, where you took ill, my lady. It is said Darkhaven’s army is not coming. Is it true?”
Lilias did not answer, watching the Ellyl herald. How could armor shine thusly? It flamed in the slanted rays of sunlight as he turned on his heel, marching back to rejoin the Rivenlost. They held themselves apart from the armies of Men, from the Pelmaran encampment and their feast of bones. Only Aracus Altorus strode between them, stitching together their alliance, Haomane’s Children and Arahila’s, keeping them united for the sake of the woman he loved; the woman he believed she held captive.
“Is it true?” Gergon’s voice was soft and insistent.
What folly, what amazing folly! To think that they had come so far and fought so hard for naught. “No,” she said. “It is a lie.”
Her Ward Commander gave a sigh from the depths of his being. “Shapers be blessed! Where are they, my lady? How long will it be?”
She met his eyes unflinching. “Three days. They travel from Jakar.”
Gergon gave a grim nod and bowed to her. “Then we will hold.”