Godslayer

by Jacqueline Carey

  DANI OPENED HIS EYES TO see a dark blot swimming in a pool of light hovering above him. His head ached and the bright, blurred light made him feel nauseated. He blinked and squinted until his vision began to clear, and the dark blot resolved itself into the worried face of his uncle, silhouetted against the blue Staccian sky.

  “Dani!” Thulu’s face creased into a grin. “Are you alive, lad?”

  There seemed to be a stone upon his chest. He tried an experimental cough. It hurt in a number of places. “I don’t know,” he whispered. “Are you?”

  “Barely.” Thulu sat back, nodding at him. “You can let go of it now, lad. It’s safe enough.”

  “What?” He realized his right hand was clutching the flask containing the Water of Life so hard it ached, pressing it hard against his flesh. His fingers had cramped frozen, and it took an effort to open them. The pressure on his chest eased when he released the flask. He tried to sit and floundered, finding his left arm bound and useless.

  “Careful.” Uncle Thulu moved to assist him. “There you go.”

  “What’s that for?” Sitting upright, Dani looked at his left arm in bewilderment. It was secured in a damp makeshift sling torn from one of their cloaks, knotted around his neck. He tried moving it. A jolt of pain shot through his shoulder. “Ow!”

  “Careful,” Thulu repeated. “What do you remember, lad?”

  “The river.” He could hear it roaring nearby. The sound of it cleared some of the mist from his thoughts. “The Fjeltroll. We were attacked.” He blinked at his uncle, remembering red blood swirling in the river foam. “You were wounded.”

  “Aye.” Uncle Thulu showed him the gashes, three lines gouged across his chest. He had packed them with clay from the riverbank to stop the bleeding. It had worked, but his skin had a greyish cast. “I had a time getting you out of the river.”

  “We hit a rock.” Dani felt at his head, finding a painful lump. It throbbed beneath his fingertips. He winced.

  “You hit a rock,” his uncle corrected him. “I fished you out.” He padded out of sight and returned to hand Dani a much-battered bowl. “Here. Drink.”

  Dani sipped broth, made from strips of dried hare boiled in river water, and felt a measure of warmth in his belly, a measure of strength return to his limbs. He glanced around the makeshift campsite. It was sparse, little more than a sheltered fire and a few garments drying on the rocks. Their pine-branch float was nowhere in sight. He shifted his shoulders and felt the pain lance through him. It was bad, but bearable. “How badly am I hurt?”

  “I don’t know.” Thulu’s gaze was unflinching. “I think you broke a bone, here.” One calloused finger brushed Dani’s collarbone on the left side. “I bound it as best I could. How’s your head?”

  “It hurts.” Dani squinted. “We’re not safe here, are we?”

  “No.” A deep compassion was in his uncle’s gaze, as deep as the Well of the World. “They’re after us, lad. They’ll follow the river. It won’t be long. If you mean to continue, we’ll have to flee.” He opened his empty hands. “Across dry land, those places the Fjel do not believe sustain life.”

  “You lost your digging-stick!” Dani remembered seeing it, the length of peeled baari-wood jutting from the rib cage of a Fjel corpse. It had saved his life. “Can you still find water’s path beneath the earth?”

  “I believe it.” His uncle stared at his empty palms, then clenched them into fists. “We are Yarru-yami, are we not?” He bared his teeth in a grin made fearful by the loss of fatty flesh, his face gaunt and hollow. “As Uru-Alat wills, I am your guide, Dani. Though we cross dry land, and our enemies pursue us, we will survive. We will flee, cunning as desert rats, until we come to the source of illness. If it is your will to follow the veins of Uru-Alat, I will lead you.”

  “It is, Uncle.” In a gesture of trust, Dani set down his bowl and laid his right hand open like an upturned cup over his uncle’s clenched fists. The radiating lines that intersected his pale palm formed a half a star. “Lead, and I will follow.”

  Thulu nodded, swallowing hard. The apple of his throat moved beneath his skin, and tears shone in his dark eyes. “Finish your broth,” he said gently, “then gather yourself. We dare not wait. The Fjeltroll will not be far behind.”

  “Aye, Uncle.” Dani nodded and picked up the bowl, finishing the last of his broth. With his free hand, he levered himself to his feet. For an instant, the world swam around him—then it steadied, anchored around the pain in his left shoulder, and the weight that hung suspended from his throat. He drew a deep breath. “I am ready.”

  “All right, then.” Rising from a squat, his uncle scattered the fire with one well-placed kick of a calloused heel. Seizing their lone cooking-pot, he trampled on the coals, grinding them beneath his feet, then kicked pebbles and debris over the site until nothing of it remained. The River Spume surged past, heedless. Thulu exhaled, hard, and doubled over, catching at his chest. Bits of clay mingled with blood flaked loose. “All right,” he said, straightening. “Let’s go, lad.”

  They went.

  SKRAGDAL ROARED.

  The Fjel under his command kept silent and out of his way, keeping to the walls of the Nåltannen moot-hall. A Tungskulder in a rage was a thing to be avoided. Skragdal stormed in a circle, stomping and roaring, waving his arms in an excess of rage. The Nåltannen Elders glanced uneasily at the trembling stalactites on the ceiling of their den’s central chamber. The Gulnagel runner who had brought news of the sighting crouched and covered his head, waiting for Skragdal’s fury to pass.

  Eventually, it did.

  The blood in his frustrated veins cooled from anger’s boiling-point. Skragdal willed himself to stillness and drew a deep breath. Rationality seeped back into his thoughts, the cool battle logic that General Tanaros had tried so hard to instill in him, that Field Marshal Hyrgolf had entrusted him to maintain.

  “Tell me again,” he rumbled.

  Obliging, the Gulnagel stood and repeated his story. The smallfolk had been sighted in the southwestern verge of the Northern Harrow, where the Spume River reemerged from its journey underground. A Tordenstem sentry had given the alarm, and a pack under the command of Yagmar of the Tungskulder had cornered them beside the river. The smallfolk had held them off long enough to make an escape down the river.

  “That,” Skragdal said ominously, “is the part I do not understand.”

  The Gulnagel raised his hands in a shrug. “Who expects a cornered rabbit to fight? It was a narrow path and Yagmar’s folk were taken by surprise. Besides”—he eyed Skragdal’s plated armor, the axe and mace that hung at his belt, “they were not armed by Darkhaven.”

  “Still,” Skragdal said. “They are Fjel.”

  “Yes.” The Gulnagel shrugged. “It happened swiftly. Yagmar followed. He caught them where the river bends. He told them if they gave him the flask you seek, he would let them go. They paid him no heed.”

  Skragdal closed his eyes. “They are Men,” he said softly. “Smallfolk from the desert. They do not speak Fjel.”

  “Oh!” The Gulnagel considered. “Some Men do.”

  “Staccians, yes.” Skragdal opened his eyes. “These are not. And Yagmar should not have tried to bargain. His Lordship’s orders are to kill them.”

  “Yagmar stood this deep,” the Gulnagel said, placing the edge of one hand against his throat. “The river runs fast.” There was a murmur of comprehension among the gathered Fjel. They appreciated the power of the northern rivers, which Neheris-of-the-Leaping-Waters had Shaped herself. Some could be forded; not all, not even by a Tungskulder. And none of them could swim. The density of their body-mass would not permit it.

  Skragdal sighed. “So Yagmar tried to take the flask.”

  “Yes.” The Gulnagel nodded. “And although it was no bigger than his thumb, it make him sink like a stone.”

  “Where are they now?” Skragdal stared at the messenger.

  “Fled.” The Gulnagel grimaced. “Away from the river, ba
ck into the dry mountains. It is what I am sent to tell you. Yagmar found their trail, but it leads away from water. After a day and a half, he had to turn back.” He pointed at the waterskin slung from Skragdal’s belt. “Neheris’ bounty provides. We do not carry tools for hunting far from her rivers, where only small prey dwells.”

  “We are hunting small prey,” Skragdal growled.

  The Gulnagel gave another shrug. “What would you have us do?”

  Skragdal considered the smaller Fjel, then glanced around at his companions. They returned his gaze impassively. None of them would dare advise him; not even Thorun, on whom he relied as a fellow Tungskulder. Dim light filtering through the air-shafts of the moot-hall glinted on their armor and weapons. This was the third den they had visited since leaving Neherinach. It felt strange to be among free-living members of his own people. They seemed vulnerable to him. It was not only the lack of arms, but the simplicity, the innocence. They remembered Neherinach—but that had been before Haomane had sent his Wise Counselors, armed with the Soumanië. Skragdal remembered what had happened in the Marasoumië, and the blasted node-point they had found, the carnage in Earl Coenred’s hall. Those of Neheris’ Children who did not serve Darkhaven had no idea of the forces arrayed against them.

  He wished, very much, to be one of them.

  The thought made him turn to the Nåltannen Elders. They were gathered in a group, watching and waiting to hear what he would decide. Skragdal bowed his head and addressed Mulprek, who was senior in this den. She was a female, her withered dugs giving testament to the myriad pups she had born. Her mate, he knew, was some years her junior. “Old mother,” he said humbly. “Give me your counsel.”

  “Does the great warrior seek advice?” Mulprek wrinkled her lip and bared dull, yellowing eyetusks. She shuffled forward to peer up at him, laying a hand on his forearm. Her worn talons gleamed like steel against his hide, and she smelled of musk. Despite her age, her eyes were keen and bright. “This is a hunt, not a battle. Your prey has left a trail. You know where they are bound.” She nodded at the Kaldjager Fjel in his company. “Use the Cold Hunters. Flush the prey, and herd them. Lay a trap. So we have always done. So I say.”

  It was good advice.

  Skragdal nodded. “Let all the tribes remain vigilant,” he said. “All hands may be needed for this.” He turned to Blågen, whom he knew best among the Kaldjager. “Can your lads do this thing?”

  “Aye. If you don’t mind losing your scouts.” The Kaldjager’s eyes gleamed yellow. He slapped his waterskin. It made a heavy, sloshing sound. “We’ve no fear of dry land. If the Gulnagel will lead us to the trail, we’ll hunt. We’ll kill them if we can and herd them if we can’t. Where do you want the smallfolk?”

  The image of a green field dotted with vine-laced barrows rose in his mind. It lay on their route, and it would be a fitting place to make an end to it. Why these desert smallfolk had chosen to oppose his Lordship, he could not fathom. Already, they had paid a terrible price for their folly.

  But it didn’t matter, only that the thing was done.

  “Neherinach,” Skragdal said grimly. “Bring them to Neherinach.”

  A RIVER OF WINGS FILLED the Tower of Ravens, black and beating.

  Flying in a circle.

  Tanaros stood outside himself, watching through Fetch’s eyes. He was part and parcel of the endless river, riding the silent current. Curving along the basalt walls. Wings, overlapping like scales, glossy feathers reflecting the blue-white flicker of the marrow-fire. He saw his brethren, bright eyes and sharp beaks. It was important that the wings overlap, beating in intricate layers.

  His Lordship had summoned the Ravensmirror.

  There he stood, at its center. A core of looming darkness, darkness visible. The Ravensmirror revolved around him. He had spoken the words in the ancient Shapers’ tongue. His blood was a tang in the air.

  Through doubled eyes, Tanaros beheld him; and the Three. He saw Vorax, who stood sturdy as a bulwark in the raven’s gaze. To his eyes, the Staccian looked tired and worn. The news out of Gerflod had taken its toll. He saw Ushahin, who shone like a beacon in Fetch’s eyes. Tanaros saw a feverish glitter in the half-breed’s mien. There was power there, gathering and unspent. Where, he wondered, did it come from?

  He saw himself.

  A circling vision, glimpsed in the round. A pale face upraised, tracking the ravens’ progress. A furrowed brow, a lock of hair falling, so. A pair of hands, strong and capable, gentle enough to cup a scrap of life wrought of hollow bones and feathers, a quick-beating heart. The fingers of one hand curled tenderly about the hilt of his black sword, holding it like a nestling.

  Tanaros blinked, clearing his doubled vision. He tightened his grip on his sword-hilt, knuckles whitening.

  Lord Satoris uttered the word. “Show!”

  Around and around the ravens surged, and images formed in the reflection of their glossy wings.

  None of them were good.

  The last time Lord Satoris had summoned the Ravensmirror, it had shown armies of Haomane’s Allies gathering. Now, they were on the move. In every quarter of Urulat, they had departed. In Pelmar, the Five Regents had assembled a massive delegation; they issued forth like a stream of ants, bent on honoring the pacts made at the overthrow of Beshtanag. In Vedasia, long trains of knights wound along the orchard-lined roads, flanked by their squires and attendants. A corps of archers marched forth from the tiny nation of Arduan. Along Harrington Inlet, the Free Fishers drew lots to determine who would stay, and who would fight On the ruffled waters of the bay, ships hurried toward Port Calibus, where Duke Bornin of Seahold awaited with the foot soldiers under his command, returning from the Siege of Beshtanag.

  Vorax cleared his throat. “They’re coming here this time, aren’t they?”

  “Soon.” Lord Satoris stared at the Ravensmirror. “Not yet.” He turned his unblinking gaze on Vorax. “Shall we see what transpires in the north, my Staccian?”

  The Ravensmirror tilted, images fragmenting, reforming in the shape of mountains and pines, leaping rivers. Where they bordered Fjel territory, the stone fortresses of Staccia were sealed tight in adamant defense. To the southwest, along a narrow swath …

  Vorax grunted at the sight of Staccian lordlings arming themselves for battle, preparing to venture southward. “Too long,” he said. “It has been too long since I went among them and reminded them of our bargain, and the peace and prosperity it has garnered Staccia.”

  “Do not despair.” Tanaros watched the unfolding vision as it veered farther north. All across the peaks and valleys Neheris had Shaped, Fjel hunted; a collection of tough hides and bared eyeteeth, seeking their quarry. There were too many, and the territory too vast, for the ravens of Darkhaven to encompass, but it showed enough for hope. “The Fjel are loyal. If this Bearer is to be found, they will find him.”

  “But Staccia—”

  “No.” Ushahin shook his head. “Do not blame yourself, cousin. The Galäinridder made that path, bursting from the field of Neherinach, if my vision and the Fjel’s tale holds true. I felt him as I rode, sifting through the dreams of Men.”

  Lord Satoris clenched his fists. “Malthus!”

  The Three exchanged a glance.

  “Where is he?” Tanaros asked aloud. “I thought him trapped and done.” He bent his gaze on the shifting Ravensmirror. “Where’s Aracus Altorus? Where are the Borderguard? Where are the Rivenlost?”

  The fragmented visions shattered like a dark mirror, reforming to show something new. Wings beat and whispered, flitting among a copse of trees along the road, keeping a careful distance and staying hidden. The Arrow of Fire was spent, but the Archer’s gaze endured. It was best to be wary. A group; a small group, measured against the numbers they had been shown, but a doughty one. There was the Borderguard of Curonan, in their dun-grey cloaks. There were the Rivenlost, tall and fair, radiant in silver armor. They were leaving Seahold behind them, with all its pennants flying. Toward Meronil the
y rode, the stronghold of Ingolin the Wise, steeped in Ellylon magic.

  Tanaros drew in his breath in a hiss.

  At the head of the company rode two Men; one mortal, with a Soumanië dull and ashen on his brow. He knew him, knew that demanding, wide-set gaze. And the other—the other it hurt to behold, robes rustling like a storm, a diamond-bright gem nestled in his white beard. Tanaros knew him, too. He remembered the shock that had resonated through his arms when the black blade of his sword had bitten deep into the old one’s staff and stuck there. So close, it had been.

  And then the Marasoumië had exploded.

  “Malthus,” he whispered, watching. “Would that I had killed you.” The Counselor rode a mount as white as foam, and something in the arch of its neck, the placement of its hooves and the silvery fall of its mane, made his heart ache. Tanaros remembered it differently, cast in hues of night, as willful as this mount was tranquil. “That’s my horse! What have you done to it?”

  “What, indeed?” Lord Satoris’ smile was like the edge of a knife. “Ah, Malthus! It is a violent resurrection you performed to escape entombment in the Ways. I did not believe it could be done. But it came at a price, did it not? Not dead, but almost as good.”

  Ushahin squinted crookedly at the vision in the Ravensmirror. “He’s spent its power, hasn’t he? The Soumanië. He’s spent it all.”

  “Not all.” The Shaper studied his adversary. “But that which remains is a brightness cast by the Souma, even as matter casts shadow. My Elder Brother’s weapon Malthus no longer has the power to Shape matter, only the spirit.”

  “Dangerous enough,” Tanaros murmured, thinking of the Staccian exodus they had witnessed, the tale Skragdal’s Gulnagel had brought of Earl Coenred’s betrayal. “Where the spirit wills, the flesh follows.”

  “Yes.” Lord Satoris nodded. “But no longer is Malthus the Wise Counselor capable of bringing down the very gates of Darkhaven.”

  Vorax stirred. “He had such power?”