Godslayer

by Jacqueline Carey

  Let it come later than sooner.

  Tears made his vision swim, spiked the lashes that framed his uneven eyes. “Ah, my Lord! No, never. I would not deny it.”

  “Ushahin.” There was tenderness in the Shaper’s voice, a tenderness too awful to bear. “These events were set in motion long ago. Perhaps there was a better course I might have chosen; a wiser course. Perhaps if I had tempered my defiance with deference, my Elder Brother’s wrath would not have been so quick to rouse. But I cannot change the past; nor would it change the outcome if I could. My role was foreordained ere the death of Uru-Alat birthed the Seven Shapers, both its beginning and its ending—and though I grow weary, when that will come, not even Calanthrag the Eldest can say with surety. Thus, I play my role as best I might. I honor my debts. I must be what I am, as long as I may cling to it. And when I cannot, I will not. Do you understand?”

  Ushahin nodded violently.

  “That is well.” Satoris, moving without sound, had drawn near. For a moment, his hand rested on Ushahin’s brow. It was heavy, so heavy! And yet there was comfort in it. Comfort, and a kind of love. “You see too much, Dreamspinner.”

  “I know,” he whispered.

  “Tell me, then, what you see to the north.” The hand was withdrawn, the Shaper resumed his pacing. Where he had stood, the stones drank in his ichor and the dark pool vanished. Another portion of him had become part of Darkhaven. “Have your ravens found the Bearer? Have my Fjel dispatched him yet?”

  “No.” Ushahin shook his head. “Many of your Fjel gather in Neherinach. That much, my ravens have seen. I suspect the hunt is afoot. More, I cannot say.” He hesitated. “There is another thing, my Lord.”

  The red glare of the Shaper’s eyes turned his way. “Say it!”

  “Staccians.” Ushahin cleared his throat. “Those we saw in the Ravensmirror, arming, those along the path the Galäinridder forged … I have touched their dreams, and they make their way to the plains of Curonan, for it is the place toward which all the armies are bound. And yet the Staccians, they were the first to set out. By now they may have reached the outskirts.”

  Lord Satoris laughed. It was an unpleasant sound. “Might they?”

  “Aye.” Ushahin glanced involuntarily at the Helm of Shadows, sitting in its niche. Darkness filled its eyeholes like the promise of anguish. “I could learn more if you would give me leave to walk the plains—”

  “No.” Lord Satoris raised one hand. “No,” he repeated. “I do not need to know what lies in the hearts of these Men, who beheld the flight of Malthus the Counselor and his colorless Soumanië, that is so strange and altered. Still, I may use them as an example. Let Staccia see how I deal with oath-breakers, and Haomane’s Allies how I deal with those who would destroy me.” He smiled. It was not a pleasant sight. “Go, Dreamspinner, and send General Tanaros to me. Yes, and Lord Vorax, too.”

  “As you will,” Ushahin murmured, rising.

  “Dreamspinner?” The Shaper’s voice had altered; the unlikely gentleness had returned.

  “My Lord?”

  “Remember,” Lord Satoris said. “Whatever happens. All that you have learned. All that you have seen. It is all I ask.”

  Ushahin nodded. “I will.”

  SOMEWHERE IN THE MIDDLE OF the night, Uncle Thulu’s strength began to wane.

  Dani felt it happen.

  He had done his part; he had not argued. Once he had regained his breath, they had come to an accommodation. If Uncle Thulu would lower him from his shoulder, Dani would suffer himself to be carried on his uncle’s back.

  He had wrapped his legs around his uncle’s waist, clinging to his neck. Uncle Thulu resumed his steady trot. It made Dani feel like a child again; only this night was like something from a child’s nightmare. What did the desert-born know of rain? After the storm passed, it continued to fall, endless and drumming, soaking them to the skin. It was cold. He had not known it was possible to be so cold, nor so tired. Dani rested his cheek against Uncle Thulu’s shoulder. The vial containing the Water of Life was an uncomfortable lump pressing into his flesh. Still, through the rough wool of his shirt, he could feel the warmth rising from his uncle’s skin, warming him. It was one of the gifts the Water of Life had imparted.

  When it began to fade, he felt that, too. Felt the shivers that raced through his uncle as coldness set into his bones. Felt his steps begin to falter and stagger. Slight though he was, Dani was no longer a child. His weight had begun to tell.

  “Uncle.” He spoke into Thulu’s ear. “You must put me down.”

  It took another handful of staggering steps before his uncle obeyed. Dani slid down his back, finding his feet. His limbs had become cramped and stiff, and his right arm did not quite work properly. Every inch of flesh ached, bruised and battered by his flood-borne tumble down the rocky slope. Still, he was alive, and he had recovered enough strength to continue unaided.

  “Can you go on?” he asked.

  Uncle Thulu was bent at the waist, hands braced on his knees, catching his breath. At Dani’s question, he lifted his head. A dull grey light had begun to alleviate the blackness of the eastern skies behind them. It was enough to make out the rain dripping steadily from his face, into his open, exhausted eyes.

  “Aye, lad,” he said roughly. “Can you?”

  Dani touched the clay vial at his throat. “Yes.”

  Once more, they set out at a slow trot.

  Several hundred yards behind them, the watching Kaldjager chuckled deep in their throats and fanned out behind their prey.

  IN THE DIM GREY LIGHT that preceded dawn, Tanaros rose and donned his armor, piece by piece. Last of all, he settled his swordbelt and the black sword in its scabbard around his waist. There were to be no survivors. His Lordship had ordered it so.

  He had misgivings at the thought of leaving Darkhaven unattended; though it wouldn’t be, not truly. There was Ushahin Dreamspinner and his field marshal Hyrgolf, with whom Tanaros had spoken at length. And, too, there was Speros. Though the Midlander was loath to be left behind, he was grateful to be entrusted with a special task: ensuring the safety, in Tanaros’ absence, of the Lady Cerelinde.

  The sojourn would be brief; a quick strike, and then back to Darkhaven. The return journey would afford him a chance to check the perimeter of the Vale, to make certain that any tunnels leading beneath it were well and truly blocked. It would ease his mind to see it firsthand.

  In the end, it didn’t matter. Lord Satoris had ordered it; Tanaros would go.

  And it felt good, after so long, to be doing and not waiting. He had slept deeply that night, nurturing the coal of hatred that burned at the core of his heart. This was a simple task, an easy task. The Staccians who had chosen to follow Malthus had betrayed their ancient accord. They were warriors. They had reckoned the price of their betrayal, as surely as they had reckoned the price of their fealty. It should be easy to kill them.

  A ruddy light was breaking in the eastern skies when they assembled.

  Vorax was there, splendid in his gilded armor. He rode a mount big enough to bear him, his thick thighs wrapped around its barrel. An uncanny awareness was in his mount’s eyes, echoed in the others’. Fifty mounted Staccians followed his lead, all of them riding the horses of Darkhaven. He grinned at Tanaros, his teeth strong and white in the thicket of his ruddy beard. “Shall we go a-hunting, cousin?”

  “Aye.” Tanaros glanced at the throng of Gulnagel that surrounded him, the muscles of their haunches twitching with eagerness. “Let us do so.” He gave the command. “Open the gate!”

  They made good time on the narrow path of the Defile. Tanaros rode with the ease of long familiarity, glorying in the freedom. There was the Weavers’ Gulch; he ducked his head, laying his cheek alongside the black’s neck. The heavy feet of the Gulnagel pounded along the rocks, their talons scoring stone. Here and there, the little weavers scuttled along their vast loom, repairing the torn veils, disapproval in the angle of their poisoned fangs. Behind him,
Vorax and his Staccians thundered.

  Overhead, the Tordenstem sentries roared. Though vibration of their voices displaced showers of rocks, it was a sound of approval. If it had not been, they would be dead. Tanaros craned his neck as he rode, noting the position of the Midlander’s carefully laid traps with approval.

  After the narrow paths came the plains.

  “Go,” Tanaros whispered, flattening himself on his mount’s back. Pricked ears twitched backward, laying close to its skull. It heard, and ran. Long grass parted like the sea. Tanaros looked left and right. To either side, he saw the Gulnagel, running. They surged forward in great bounds, tireless. Behind them, the Staccian contingent pounded. Vorax, at their head, was shouting a battle-paean.

  There should have been scouts. Ever since Altoria had fallen—ever since Tanaros had led forth an army, the Helm of Shadows heavy on his shoulders—there had been scouts. The Borderguard of Curonan, keen-eyed and deadly in their dun cloaks.

  There were none.

  There had been none since they had ridden to attend their leader Aracus Altorus upon his wedding in Lindanen Dale. As the sun moved slowly across the unclouded sky, they rode, unchallenged. All of the armies of Haomane’s Allies were spread across the face of Urulat, moving slowly toward this place. Now, it was empty. The ghosts of Cuilos Tuillenrad lay still, only whispering at their passage.

  Those who betrayed Lord Satoris would pay.

  AT SUNRISE, THE RAIN CEASED.

  Dawn broke with surprising glory over the reach, golden light shimmering on the wet rocks, turning puddles of standing water into myriad, earthbound suns. Where the moss grew, it brought forth an abundance of delicate white flowers.

  It revealed another surprise, one that Dani hailed with a low cry of joy. They had come to the western verge of the empty reach. Ahead lay a craggy decline in which green trees grew in profusion, and mountains rising to the north. Somewhere, there was birdsong and the sound of rushing water.

  Uncle Thulu summoned a weary smile. “That’s our river, lad. Shall we find it?”

  “Aye.” Dani took a deep breath. “Give me a moment.” He turned behind him to gaze at the sun with gratitude. Although his sodden clothes made him shiver, the sun’s first warmth dispelled some of the chill. The sky overhead was pale gold, the underbellies of the dispersing clouds shot through with saffron.

  And there …

  Dani froze. “Fjeltroll,” he whispered.

  They were coming, a long, ranging line of them. Distance made the figures small, but they were drawing steadily nearer, moving at the effortless lope that had not diminished in the slightest. Sunlight glinted on their hides, still wet from the night’s rainfall; on a few, it glinted on armor. One of them hoisted a waterskin, raising it as if in mocking salute, then tilted it to drink deep. Its pace never faltered.

  Uncle Thulu swallowed audibly. “Run!”

  They ran.

  At a hundred paces, they reached the verge and began scrambling down the crags. Dani used hands and feet alike, ignoring the scraping pain in his palms and soles. Something gave way with a tearing sound near his right shoulder and a fresh jag of pain wrenched at him. He ignored that, too.

  “This way!” Thulu plunged into the trees at the base of the decline. Checking the clay flask at his throat, Dani ran after him. Behind him, he could hear the sound of talons on rocks and the hunting cries of the Fjel.

  Under the canopy of trees, it was cool and green. The loamy ground was soft, muting their footfalls. Gilded shafts of sunlight pierced the green. Drops of gathered rain slid from the leaves overhead, shining as they fell. Over the sound of water and birdsong and the harsh breath rattling in his lungs, Dani could hear the calls of the Fjel as they spread out through the woods. He found a burst of new energy in fresh terror.

  They ran.

  “Come on.” Uncle Thulu panted grimly, veering northward toward the sound of rushing water. “Maybe the river …” He slowed, saving his breath as they rounded the trunk of a massive ash tree and came upon it; the White River, plunging down from the mountains in a series of cataracts. Water gathered in pools, spilling downward. “Maybe …”

  Dani stifled a shout and pointed.

  Beside one of the pools, one of the Fjel crouched on its powerful haunches, grey and motionless as a boulder. Its yellow eyes gleamed in its narrow visage. The intelligence in them was almost human. It shook its head slowly, baring its eyetusks in a predator’s grin.

  “Go!” Thulu shoved Dani back the way they had come. “Go, lad, go!”

  They fled due west, straining their ears for the sounds of pursuit. If any was forthcoming, it was inaudible over the river-sound and their own labored breathing. Dani, running hard, felt the sharp stitch of pain return in his left side.

  “South,” Uncle Thulu gasped. “We’ll cut south and pick up the river later!”

  For a time it seemed it would work. They ran unimpeded. The ground rose sharply, but the path ahead was clear. Dani ran half-doubled with pain, clamping his left elbow hard against his ribs. It eased the stitch, but a bolt of pain shot through his right arm with every stride. He grabbed his right elbow with his left hand and staggered onward, hugging his rib cage. He had to lower his head to make the incline, bare toes digging into the loam, step by exhausted step.

  Near the top, Uncle Thulu loosed a wordless cry and grabbed his arm. Dani lifted his head wearily.

  One of the Fjeltroll awaited them, sitting in an easy crouch, loose-limbed and ready. It pointed west with one taloned hand and said something in its guttural tongue, smiling a terrible smile. Its tongue lolled in its mouth, grey-green and pointed.

  “Back, back, back!” Thulu suited actions to words, scrambling backward down the incline, heedless of the dirt that smeared his skin.

  Dani followed, breathing hard. “Can we get behind them?”

  His uncle nodded grimly. “Let’s try.”

  It was no good.

  They doubled back, retracing their steps; there was another Fjeltroll, two Fjeltroll, stepping out from behind the massive tree-trunks. There was a cunning light in their yellow eyes; almost amused. One spoke to the other, and both laughed. Sunlight glinted on their eyetusks. They pointed westward.

  Westward they ran; zigging and zagging to the north and south, fleeing like coursing hares. As they ran, cries resounded through the wood. And at the end of every avenue of flight that did not run true west along the rushing course of the White River, they found one of the Fjeltroll waiting. Looming among the leaves. Waiting, and pursuing at leisure.

  All the same kind, with smooth grey hide, yellow eyes, and a predator’s smile.

  All pointing west with infinite patience.

  “Uncle.” In the middle of the woods, Dani staggered to a halt. The golden light of dawn had given way to the sinking amber hues of sunset. Under the leafy canopy, insects whined and flitting birds uttered high-pitched calls. Keeping his arms wrapped tight around his aching midsection, he lifted haunted eyes to meet his uncle’s gaze. “I think we are being driven.”

  “Aye.” Uncle Thulu nodded heavily. “I think you are right, lad.”

  “Well, then.” The giddiness of despair seized Dani. Somewhere to his right, to the north, the White River was running, burbling over rock and stone. Around them, unseen, the Fjeltroll were closing, making ready to drive them farther westward. “There’s no point in running, is there?”

  “No.” Thulu shook his head with sorrow. “No, lad. No point at all.”

  Dani touched the vial at his throat. “Then we won’t.”

  Together, they began to walk.

  NINE

  THE STACCIAN TRAITORS HAD ESTABLISHED a tidy campsite on the southern outskirts of the plains of Curonan. One of the wide-ranging Gulnagel spotted it first in the late afternoon of their second day. Tanaros gave the order for the halt, lifting the visor of his helm and staring across the waving sea of grass. Shouts of alarm were borne on the wind, high and faint, as the Staccians caught sight of the attacker
s.

  “Why do you delay?” Vorax drew alongside him. Through the slits in his visor, his face was flushed with betrayal and battle-rage. “Did you not hear what happened in Gerflod? I say we strike now, Blacksword, before they are ready!”

  “No.” Tanaros thought of the news out of Gerflod; of Osric and his men slain out of hand. He weighed it against the memory of Ngurra, the Yarru Elder, unarmed beneath the shadow of his sword. “They are warriors. We will give them a warrior’s death.”

  Vorax made a sound of disgust. “They are dogs and deserve to die like dogs.”

  Tanaros looked hard at him. “Do you contest my command, cousin?”

  “Not yet.” Vorax wheeled his mount, taking his place at the head of his Staccians. “Your word you’ll give me first strike!” he called.

  “My word.” Tanaros nodded.

  Here and there, figures ran among the hide tents, racing to don armor. The Staccians had staked their horses some distance from their campsite, strung in a long line that each might have ample room to graze. Tanaros frowned and wondered what they had been thinking. Had they supposed they would be safe here on the plains? Had they expected Malthus to be here waiting, offering his protection? Did they believe Darkhaven would not take the risk of striking against them?

  If so, they had made a grave error in judgment.

  Perhaps, he thought, they had had no choice at all. Malthus the Counselor had ridden past them like the wind, cutting a swath through Staccía; the Galäinridder, risen from the ruined depths of the Marasoumië, the Bright Rider with a gem on his breast that shone like a star. It no longer held the power to Shape matter; only spirit. Which was more terrible? Had they chosen to betray Lord Satoris and their old bargain? Or had they merely been caught in the net of Malthus’ power, compelled to follow Haomane’s Weapon as the tides followed Arahila’s moon?