“That scrabbled missive,” Bennifren continued, “inked in Keorn’s own blood. We never did reveal what those words said, only that it was signed by Keorn.”
The Wyr-lord allowed the weight of his words to hang like a raised sword. Then he finally spoke again. “His words were few, already showing a hint of seersong in his inked blood, possibly his last words before he was swallowed up.”
“What did he write?” Brant asked, speaking for the first time, suspense loosening his tongue.
Bennifren didn’t even glance his way, but he did answer his question. “‘The sword must be forged again, made whole to free us all.’”
Tylar stirred. “So there is a way to make the sword complete.”
“And he offered no word about the flaw?” Krevan asked again.
“If you’d found him sooner…before he was just skull and curse…” Bennifren shrugged.
Krevan kept his lips tight, brows hard. “The Flaggers spent much time and coin to just buy whispers and old secrets that bear little weight in the here and now.”
“I believe you’ve been paid well for a sliver of bone,” Bennifren said, his face reddening. “Do not question the honor of our word because you bargained so poorly.”
Krevan began to rise, but Bennifren waved him down.
“Then I will give you something as solid as rock to finish this deal. Something you can touch—though it may burn you.”
Tylar waved Krevan to patience. “What?”
Bennifren again turned those eyes toward Dart. “The Godsword is as much his mother’s inspiration as his father’s. If you are looking for a way to discover more about the sword, perhaps you should start there. I wager that is why Keorn fled down here after Dart’s birth.”
“Why?” she asked.
“He came looking for his mother’s counsel and advice,” Bennifren answered and pointed to the south.
Through a break in the canopy, the mountain blocked the stars. Its flanks flowed with molten streams, bright in the darkness. Fiery tears—not just for a daughter but perhaps also for a son.
“Takaminara was Keorn’s mother.”
Tylar stood up, half in shock, half to better view the volcanic peak. He rested a hand on Dart’s shoulder. He felt her tremble under his touch, her eyes fixed to the same fiery peak. He understood her distress. Buried within the mountain lay not only a god but something she must have been searching for her entire life.
A part of her family.
A great-mother.
“Then the Huntress—Miyana,” Brant said. “She was Keorn’s sister.”
Lorr mumbled, “At the end, he must have been trying to reach her.”
Dart shivered. In days, she had gained an entire family, one drenched in blood and terror. Both in the distant past…and now again.
But any further family reunion would have to wait.
The rogues had to be found.
Tylar turned to Bennifren, but his hobbled knee almost toppled him into the flame. He had been sitting for too long after the hard march.
Bennifren noted his discomfort. “I believe I’ve met my debt well and then some. But there is another debt yet to settle. You were wise in your negotiations in the past, but our bargain has long grown stale.” He eyed Tylar up and down. “And as shiteful as you look now, I fear what is owed will be lost. Especially knowing where you must venture. I believe it time you honored your word, too.”
Tylar inwardly groaned, but he kept his face calm. He walked off and motioned for Bennifren to follow. Rogger and Krevan trailed with them, but Tylar waved the others to their meal. Here was a matter he wanted settled with less of an audience.
Stepping out of the ring of firelight, he faced Bennifren. He had no intention of freely cooperating, and he stated it firmly now. “As you recall, time was a condition of our bargain. My time, my place. I see no reason to relinquish it now.”
“True and well said.” Bennifren’s eyes narrowed behind soft lashes, a wicked gleam of cunning shining through in the dark. “I would think less of you if you had settled without remapping a new bargain. So let me tell you this. We have not been idle while you’ve been traipsing about. The Wyr are well-known here in the hinterlands, valued for our purse as well as expertise. Over these past days, we’ve spent our coin and time well and discovered something that might pry that stubborn seed from your loins.”
Tylar waited. When it came to the Wyr, silence was often the best shield during any negotiations.
“For the last humour you owe us,” Bennifren continued, “we offer you a special encouragement. We offer you maps of the hinterlands.”
“We have maps,” Tylar said dryly.
“But do your maps have the location of the enslaved rogues marked upon them?”
Tylar stared, struggling not to show the depth of his desire.
“And traced upon our maps is the safest route by which to reach the gods,” Bennifren added. “All this, for a few moments of your time…”
Tylar felt the other two men’s eyes upon him. With such a map, the search would be measured in bells rather than days. He could not refuse. All of Tashijan hung in the balance.
Still, he hesitated. Off to the right, he noted Meylan leaning against the pinnacle, buried in shadow, her face lit up by the pipe she was smoking. Her sisters were spread out in groups and singly.
Bennifren misunderstood his attention. “Whichever woman you want—I’ve heard she and her sisters are quite skilled.”
Tylar went cold at that thought, but he also knew he had no choice. The bargain had to be settled, and the offer of the rogues’ location was a price he could not refuse.
He faced Bennifren. “I’ll go along with your new bargain.” He held up one finger. “A single sample for all your maps. Then our deal is finished.”
“Done and bound.” Bennifren waved a small arm in a grand gesture. “I can bring you whichever woman you’d like to help you loosen your seed. Or if you so prefer, a man—or a child.”
“That won’t be necessary,” he said coldly. “A bit of privacy will be enough.”
“This way, then.” Bennifren turned away, carried by his milk mare. “All is ready. You can use my tent. It is the last and largest.”
Tylar noted where he pointed and motioned for Krevan and Rogger to stay. This was a duty that did not require their attendance. He headed toward the tent with Bennifren.
Rogger called after to him. “Remember—don’t work too hard!” Then in the next breath, he added, “No! I take that back! In this matter…”
Tylar shook his head, blocking out the thief’s next words as he rounded the rock, glad to be rid of Rogger. This duty would be difficult enough to accomplish.
“I’ll have a repostilary for your humour brought to you,” Bennifren said and guided his woman off to the side. “And don’t worry, you’ll have your privacy.”
Tylar kept his gaze fixed on the tent ahead. He had never spilled his seed for the sake of Grace. Not even at Chrismferry. He had shared all his other humours with varying degrees of humiliation. But he had always refused to relinquish this one humour, one of the most powerful, second only to blood. It allowed Grace to be imbued into living tissue, essential for a great many alchemies. But there were plenty of gods out there already. As regent, he saw no need to contribute to this storehouse himself.
Until now.
For the sake of Tashijan, he had to relent. No matter what foul alchemies were to be performed on his seed, it was a debt that must be paid. As he walked alone now, he remembered the only child ever birthed from his seed. Long dead, winnowed by grief while in the womb. Had his seed always been cursed?
This dark thought reminded him of Kathryn, of better times, of moments they shared when life was bright and the days seemed endless before them. Now he knew better. He knew it was a black bargain being completed here, but it was done in the hopes of again returning the world to brighter times.
If not for him, at least for others.
He reached
the tent and pulled open the hide flap. Ducking inside, he noted that no lamp burnt, and the thick leather shut out the stars and the moon. He dropped the flap behind him, happy for the darkness, better to hide his shame. But could he hide from himself?
He would not find out.
Somebody already hid here.
From the back, where the darkness was thickest, shadows stirred and birthed a figure in a cloak to match his. A fair face shone back out at him, lit by eyes that flashed with dread fire.
The black ghawl swept toward him, sword raised.
“Perryl…”
Brant approached Dart. She had wandered to the bank of the flooded forest when the strange Wyr-lord and the regent had stepped away to discuss the fate of an old bargain.
She sat on a narrow sandy strand, hugging her knees. She had pulled up the hood of her half cloak against the growing chill.
Ahead, the black water lay flat as glass. The air hung heavy with the promise of rain. Clouds covered what little starlight had shone. The darkness was almost complete.
Brant sank down next to her, dropping to one knee. He hated to disturb her. She plainly wanted a moment alone to settle her thoughts, but what he had come to suspect could not wait.
“Dart—”
Her face lowered farther.
“I’m sorry to bother you.”
A hand wiped at her cheek. “What is it?” Her voice was tremulous with tears.
He began to straighten, suddenly regretting his intrusion. “I’m sorry. Perhaps another—”
She sniffed, once and hard, clearing her throat. A hand reached and touched his shoulder. “No. What is it?” A bit of firmness returned to her voice. She wiped her cheeks with a corner of her sleeve and shook back her hood, facing him.
His voice died for a moment, struck silent as the firelight brushed across her damp face, glistening and warm.
“Brant…?”
He blinked and swallowed. Finally he settled beside her. “I wanted to ask you something away from others. I’m probably wrong, but it was something you said a while back. Up in the flippercraft as we approached the Eighth Land. When you asked to see my stone.”
Brant offered his hand, opening his palm. The stone rested there, unthreaded again from its cord. He’d felt its warmth as he had neared Dart. Pupp must be close, watching with his ghostly eyes. It was one of the reasons he had come. He had to be certain.
Pupp…the sword…
A single line furrowed between her brows as she stared at his stone.
“I don’t understand,” she said.
“You said something up in the flippercraft,” he mumbled. “About the stone. I dismissed it before. But after what we just heard…”
She looked up at him a bit more firmly, hearing the hope in his voice. Even his hand trembled a bit. If he was right, it could make his father’s death mean something…make all of this mean something.
But was he right?
He remembered Dart’s description of his stone.
It’s beautiful…the way it catches every bit of light.
Brant also remembered his words to his father when he first picked up the stone.
It’s only a rock.
That was what everyone else saw, just a dull, drab stone, something of no great acclaim, especially as Brant kept silent about where it had come from. A secret between father and son.
Now Dart, a girl with sharper eyes, saw something more.
Was it what he suspected—hoped for?
“All I see is a plain black stone,” Brant explained. “Dull and wan.”
Her eyes flicked to him, confusion shining. “But it’s not dull—”
“I know. You see something else.” He held out his hand, trembling. “Show me what no one else sees. Like Pupp. Or the sword.”
She knew then. He saw the understanding in her eyes. Not everything, not yet.
“My blood…”
He nodded.
Before either could move, a shout erupted from steps away. They both turned to find Lorr running straight at them, bearing aloft a fiery torch. “Get back! Get away from there!”
Brant’s fingers clenched over the stone. He leaned closer to Dart, ready to protect her. But he saw the wyld tracker’s eyes weren’t on them—he looked beyond them.
Toward the water.
Brant twisted around.
Dark figures stood out in the lake, some still rising out of the black water, though not a ripple was stirred, as if the dark flood was mere shadow. Closer still, two dark shapes were already sliding toward Dart and Brant. Again not raising any wave by their passage, wading out of shadows.
Black ghawls.
A dozen strong.
Brant and Dart scrambled back, but the sand was loose and their feet kicked more than gained.
Then Lorr was there, leaping over them with the agility of a spring deer. He splashed into the water’s edge, flaming brand before him, warding against the pair that were closest.
“Here, Master Brant!” Malthumalbaen bellowed behind him. “By the fire!”
Brant finally gained his feet and hauled Dart up with him. They stumbled toward the waiting fire.
Out in the water, knee-deep, Lorr swung his torch before him. The fiery arc forced the two closest ghawls back a step. They were cloaked in shadows, bearing aloft black swords. The torchlight washed away the darkness for a breath, revealing pale, sunken faces of the long dead.
“Git back to the fire!” Lorr called to them.
Heeding his own advice, he backed toward shore, keeping his torch between him and the pair of daemon knights. The flames kept them at bay. But to either side, the other ghawls floated toward shore, again moving without disturbing the water, eerie and silent.
But Lorr kept his focus on the closest pair.
A mistake.
Behind him, a dark shape lunged out of the water at his heels, catching the tracker off guard. And rightly so, as the water was only ankle-deep—too shallow to hide such a form—but Brant knew it wasn’t truly water from which these creatures welled. They arose out of the darkness that lay across the waters like oil.
Dart screamed, in both warning and surprise.
But it was too late.
Lorr half turned as the daemon knight’s blade buried itself in his back. He was lifted from the water, impaled and arched on the sword. Shadows spread out from the blade. His flesh darkened and sank to his bones. His last breath was a wail of a hunter on a trail.
But where Lorr went to hunt now, they could not follow.
His body was cast aside, to splash facefirst into the waters.
The other ghawls headed toward shore.
Arms grabbed Brant, raising a startled yip.
But it was only Krevan. He snatched Brant’s shoulder and Dart’s arm and all but threw them into the ring of firelight. “Stay by the fire!” he yelled. “It’s the only safety.”
“Where are you—?” Brant started.
The pirate furled out his shadowcloak and vanished into the shadows beyond the firelight. His last words carried back. “To find Tylar.”
They circled each other inside the tent, shifting shadows. Though their blades did not strike for the moment, they still fought, testing each other, feinting for an opening. A shoulder move here, countered by a shift of hip. A leg stepped back, met by a contrary twist of a wrist. Move by move, they danced in a slow circle.
Tylar had taught Perryl well.
He lifted Rivenscryr in his good hand. The blade glowed with its own inner fire, a soft silvery radiance, moonlight given substance. He knew it was the only weapon that could withstand the blade wielded by this daemon knight.
Perryl’s blade glinted with green fire, the same poison that ate through Tylar, weakening both naethryn and its vessel.
As if reading his worry, the daemon spoke for the first time, whispery and low, oily with malevolence. “You are riddled with the blood of Chrism, darkly Graced with old enmity and fury. Nothing in Myrillia, nothing in the naether
can burn this poison away. You are doomed. Better to open your guard and die quickly. A final kindness…”
Proving this point, Tylar stumbled on his bad leg. His chest burnt with every breath. They had come at each other twice already. Tylar had barely kept his footing at the last attack, deflecting the daemon’s blade more by sheer luck than skill.
As they circled, he wondered how Perryl had found him so readily. Was this an ambush by the Wyr? A trap? Or had the ghawl found him by the poison he just described? Sniffed out like a dog on a trail?
Either way, Tylar had to survive.
He heard the screams beyond the tent. Perryl had not come alone. But before Tylar could help any others, he had to deal with this one, plainly the leader. If he could vanquish this daemon lord of the ghawls, the others might take flight.
But how to do that?
Once before, he had speared Perryl through the chest with Rivenscryr and still failed to slay the beast. But perhaps a fiercer blow, a slice through the neck—even a daemon would lose his fight with his head rolling across the floor.
That was Tylar’s only hope.
Tylar’s ankle turned on a knob of root underfoot. He dropped his sword for balance, opening himself up. Perryl blended shadow and speed brilliantly. Tylar had just enough time to appreciate the beauty of the move. A Jackman’s Tie. He attempted a Sweeper’s Row to block, but he knew it would fail.
Then a rustle of tent flap, and a storm of shadows burst into the tent.
A knight shed out of the darkness.
Krevan smashed into Perryl. But Perryl turned the blow to his advantage. Using Krevan’s own weight, he spun on his back heel, coming around as swift as any shadow. His blade sliced for the pirate’s neck.
Krevan rolled to the side—but not fast enough.
Perryl’s sword sliced across Krevan’s raised wrist, cutting through cloth and flesh down to bone.
Normally the pirate would not have faltered, but this was no ordinary blade. A howl escaped Krevan’s lips as he fell back. Shadows fell like water from around the pirate. His outstretched arm sprayed blood, but not enough to wash out the poison. His hand melted from his wrist, then the corruption spread up his arm.
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