The Heart of What Was Lost

by Tad Williams

  To Porto’s astonishment, the Norn reinforcements barely engaged with Isgrimnur’s besieging force at all but crashed through, killing a few of them and losing a handful of their own. Then they continued upslope where they met reserves from inside the tower who helped to protect the entrance until the Norn riders could get inside. After what seemed only a few dozen racing heartbeats after Porto had first seen them appear from the mists, the new troop of Norn soldiers had disappeared into the tower.

  The hilltop was strewn with bodies, but most of the Rimmersmen who had fought were still standing, faces sagging with surprise, as the Norns forced the gates closed behind them, sealing the tower once more.

  The general lifted off her helmet. Her braided white hair had come undone in the charge and hung across her face until she swept it aside. She had the long chin and narrow nose of the oldest Hikeda’ya families and an expression as stern as some ancient tomb effigy. “Who is the master here?”

  “That would be me, General Suno’ku—Yaarike sey-Kijada, High Magister of the Builders.” Viyeki’s master made a carefully calibrated gesture of welcome. “You arrive hoped-for but unlooked-for. We had thought ourselves beyond the reach of any reinforcements. Our Echoes received no reply to their calls.”

  “It could not be helped,” she said, offering the scantest of ritual salutes in return. “The mortals have one of the Zida’ya with them, and she carries a Witness. We could not risk breaking silence.”

  Viyeki stared at this savior that had arrived seemingly from nowhere, like a hero out of the oldest tales of the Garden. He knew of General Suno’ku, of course—most Hikeda’ya did. She might be no higher in the Order of Sacrifice than Viyeki was among the Builders—a subordinate of the ordinal leader—but because of her family blood she moved in much higher circles than Viyeki could ever dream of joining.

  As he watched her, fascinated, Suno’ku turned to one of her lieutenants. “See to the wounded. Make them well enough that they can ride.”

  “What about those who are too badly injured?” the Sacrifice asked.

  She only stared at him, her expression flat as a frozen pond, then turned back to Yaarike. “How many are you here?”

  “Perhaps two hundred left, more than half of them Builders,” the High Magister said. “We also have the Celebrants you see with the general’s body, half a dozen Singers under Tzayin-Kha, and a few Echoes. The rest are Sacrifices and now fall under your command.”

  “But you stand over us all, High Magister,” the general said. “I would not flout the Queen’s sacred ranks.” Which was only barely true, Viyeki knew. Suno’ku was of the Iyora, the Owl Clan, in the male line of the legendary Ekimeniso himself, Queen Utuk’ku’s long-dead husband. The Iyora were all but co-equal with the queen’s own Hamakha clan, and both of them were as far above even Yaarike’s noble family as the uppermost peak of the great mountain stood above the squares and public markets of the Nakkiga floor. Among the noblest clans, family blood always outweighed the hierarchy of the orders, even the most powerful, like Sacrifice and Song.

  Viyeki’s thoughts and Suno’ku’s quiet conversation with Yaarike were both interrupted by the arrival of League Commander Hayyano and a troop of his warriors leading three mortal prisoners, all with their arms bound behind them. The largest of the captives, a young, muscular, yellow-bearded Northman, was bellowing in his crude tongue. Like most Builders, Viyeki did not speak a word of any mortal language, and he thought the hairy one sounded more like a bear than any thinking creature.

  Suno’ku’s lips twisted a little at one edge. “How I hate the sound of their barbaric yapping. Magister Yaarike, may I kill them all so we can have some quiet?”

  Yaarike shook his head. “No, General, not yet. Hayyano brought them at my request. Will you question them about their numbers? I do not have the skill to do it myself.”

  Viyeki could not help wondering at this, since his scholarly master spoke the mortals’ common tongue better than almost anyone in Nakkiga. He assumed Yaarike was testing the Sacrifice general in some way.

  Suno’ku repeated Yaarike’s questions in the mortal’s own speech, then shared the answers. “He says that he is Floki, son of the great thane Brindur Golden-Hair,” she explained. “He says that if some of his men had not turned coward and fled, he would already have taken all our heads by now and the fighting would be over.” But the prisoner would not tell them anything else, not the numbers of the Northmen waiting outside nor any other useful information.

  When she had tried several times and could get nothing further from the red-faced mortal or his brutish companions, the general unsheathed her sword, a slender span of silvery witchwood that seemed almost too long for her. The mortals could not look away from it, their eyes so wide the whites showed all around. “I suggest it is time to use more direct methods, Magister,” Suno’ku said. “I scarcely blooded Cold Root today, and it still yearns to drink mortal ichor.” She then produced her poniard, long and wickedly sharp, and held both blades before the Northmen. “Or if my lord Yaarike wants the conversation to pass more slowly, I can use Cold Leaf, which will remove smaller pieces.” She leaned close until she was only a hands-breadth from the prisoners’ faces. “Either way, I will make the enjoyment last as long as I can.”

  The mortal who called himself Floki began bellowing again, but this time there was a tone of terror in his voice that had not been there before.

  “Your famous weapons will not teach them what they do not know, General,” said Yaarike in a tone of regret. “I fear we have learned all we can from these.”

  Suno’ku kicked out, knocking the one called Floki to the stone floor. Viyeki heard what sounded like the mortal’s shin breaking. The bearded soldier clutched his leg, rolling back and forth, gasping in pain.

  “Whether they had told us more or not,” Suno’ku said, sheathing her weapons once more, “it would not have changed the nature of our problem. You have two hundred here, Magister. I have scarcely twice those numbers myself. I mustered every last able Sacrifice in Nakkiga and could find and mount less than four hundred to bring with me. But it matters not. What we must do now is prepare to escape.”

  “Escape?” Yaarike was clearly surprised, something Viyeki had seldom seen. “How? The tunnels below us lead nowhere.”

  She shook her head. “Tunnels? No. We shall ride from here—smash our way free if we have to. I did not come so far and so fast to die here in an obscure border fort. I have a more important task.”

  Yaarike nodded. “You came for Marshal Ekisuno’s body, of course. Your foreparent—your ancestor.”

  Suno’ku showed him a harsh smile. “No, High Magister. I came for you and your Builders. Because without you, Nakkiga will be overthrown by the mortals. Your clan, my clan, they will all be slaughtered in dark holes, like rabbits.”

  Unsure of what was happening, the yellow-bearded mortal began to shout again, bellowing threats. Suno’ku gave a sign and one of her Sacrifices drew his sword and struck him hard on the head with the pommel. He did not make another sound, but lay on the floor twitching and drizzling blood from his scalp.

  “I will kill that one myself in a moment and enjoy it like a good meal,” Suno’ku said. “But our time is short, so first we must make our plans.”

  As the general conferred with Magister Yaarike and the plainly overwhelmed Hayyano, who could only gaze at Suno’ku in awe, Viyeki watched with an interest that almost made him forget their terrible situation. He had never seen Suno’ku before, but of course he knew of her. The general was famous for her bravery, and although a few other female officers held equally high rank in the Order of Sacrifice, none of those commanded either the loyalty or the fascination that the ordinary Sacrifices felt for Suno’ku.

  The general had weirdly light eyes, so pale and gray-shot that they seemed like twilight skies compared to the purplish midnight of most Hikeda’ya. She was tall for her sex, but not un
usually so—both Yaarike and Hayyano were taller—and her movements were swift and almost impossibly graceful. She was like a bright flame, Viyeki thought, drawing the eye each time she moved.

  “But only a few of the mortals were destroyed during your arrival,” Hayyano said. “They vastly outnumber us still. Surely we should wait and let them wear themselves down. They are far from home and their supply lines are vulnerable.”

  “And what if there are more of them coming, Commander?” asked Suno’ku. Hayyano blinked; he might as well have flinched. “While we are pinned here in the wreckage of Tangleroot Castle, the outer walls of Nakkiga are in ruins and the mountain gate in the City Walls at Three Ravens is all but undefended. Did you not see that great ram of black iron the mortals have brought? Where do you think that is to be used? Not on these old, decrepit stones. That is for knocking on the very door of our home. They will be breaking into the queen’s own chamber before the summer months have ended, may the Garden preserve her always.” She shook her head. “No. We must break out of this ring now and make our way north as quickly as we can. High Magister Yaarike, do you agree?”

  He looked at her for a moment. “Yes. If it must be so, then let it be sooner rather than later.”

  “Good.” Suno’ku put her helmet down on a broken stone pillar rounded by centuries of rain. “Then call all the chieftains and their troops here, leaving only sentries. If a chieftain has died during today’s fighting, Commander Hayyano, appoint one who will do what he or she is told. Do you understand?”

  “But what of your ancestor’s body and its coffin?” asked Yaarike. He pointed to the massive wagon where the chanting Celebrants still knelt. “How will we manage to carry that away while still putting distance between ourselves and the mortals?”

  “We won’t,” said General Suno’ku flatly. “Leave it behind.”

  Yaarike was clearly astonished. “You will desert your great-great-grandfather’s body?”

  She shook her head. “No. That weighs but little. It can be carried on the back of someone’s saddle, and I will offer prayers of regret and penitence to my foreparent for the dishonor. But the sarcophagus itself—that is useless. We will not be weighed down by it. Break it to pieces to keep it from the grubby paws of the mortals.”

  Viyeki was watching the yellow-bearded mortal still writhing in pain between the other two staring prisoners. The murderous invaders showed no bravado now, Viyeki thought. Beneath their hairy pelts these Northmen seemed to hide the hearts of terrified children.

  A thought came to him then, but he waited until both Yaarike and Suno’ku had paused before lifting his hand in submissive request. “If my master and the general will permit me . . .”

  Yaarike turned to look at him. “Yes, Host Foreman Viyeki?”

  “Did I hear you say that Host Singer Tzayin-Kha survived the battle?”

  “Yes,” said his master. “I have seen her. What of it?”

  “If I do not offend by putting myself forward,” Viyeki said, “I may have an idea.”

  The campfires of the duke’s army had been kept small, especially those closest to the ruins. Porto and Endri had been left to guard the catapult, which loomed above them in the flickering light like a watchful dragon.

  “But where did all those White Foxes come from?” Endri asked for perhaps the dozenth time.

  Porto had given up trying to answer him. He poked the fire and then pushed his hands as close as he could without burning them.

  “Are they ghosts? How could they get so close without our scouts hearing them?”

  “Oh, sweet Aedon, they are Norns, not ghosts!” Porto felt as though something inside him wanted to escape, but if it did it might tear the world to pieces with its teeth. This hellish place was driving him into madness. “Fairies can be killed. Did you not see the bodies lying in the snow? Did you not see the blood? Red, the same as ours. And when it runs out of them, they die.”

  “You heard that soldier! He put three arrows in one not an hour ago, but the creature took no hurt from it! Just vanished away. If that is not a ghost, what is?”

  “God’s Blood, man, will you stop this? They are tricky, the Norns. Everybody who was at the Hayholt knows that. They make shadows and cast their voices—but shadows cannot hurt us.”

  “But, still . . .” Endri was almost breathless and could not let it go. “Where did they all—?”

  The fire before them suddenly blazed as if a strong wind had fanned the coals. But instead of the flames bending they grew upward until they danced higher than men’s heads. All around the other campfires were also erupting into wavering pillars of flame. Startled Northmen scrambled on their hands and knees. Porto, who had tumbled backward at the first fiery billow, sat sprawled on the freezing ground while Endri stared in bulge-eyed terror. Some of the soldiers were so frightened that they cried out for God or their mothers, or let out simple, incoherent cries of terror.

  And then a face appeared in the flames in front of Porto—and not just in his campfire, but in every single one throughout the sprawling camp. This fiery mask rippled and billowed like something seen in deep water; the face was female but also not entirely real. Where the eyes should be and in the open mouth, nothing showed but flames.

  “It’s the queen!” someone shouted in fright. “The queen of the White Foxes! She has come back!” Men scrambled away from the fires and began to run in all directions, like animals.

  “Mortals!” The voice rolled out from every fire, from every circle of men, as chill as the ice that had crystallized on the tent ropes. “You will die in these lands! We will take back what is ours!”

  Porto could not tell if the dreadful voice was in the air all around or came somehow from inside his own skull. He saw Endri stumble to his feet and managed to grab at the younger man’s leg as he lurched past, bringing him down heavily into the snowy mud. Porto had no idea what was happening, but he knew if he let him go Endri would run like a maddened beast into the freezing night, never to return. Endri fought back like a terrified child but Porto hung on, even as the apparition in the fire melted and the flames fell back to what they had been. A moment later the fires sputtered and went out entirely, plunging the camp into darkness.

  With that horrible voice still ringing in his thoughts, Porto did not understand at first what else he was hearing, but then he heard men shouting in pain and surprise—brief cries, swiftly ended—and felt rather than saw a flock of swiftly moving shadows sweeping down toward the camp from the ruins atop the hill. Men were suddenly dying all around him at the hands of near-invisible enemies, but Porto could not get free of struggling Endri to unsheathe his blade.

  “They are here!” he hissed into his friend’s ear. “The Norns are here, trying to kill us all! Damn you, man, get up and fight!”

  Endri suddenly stopped struggling, and for an instant Porto thought one of the invisible attackers had stabbed and killed the youth right in Porto’s arms. Then a glare of red from the top of the hill revealed Endri’s face staring up toward the ruins, mouth stretched in a gape of tortured disbelief. Porto turned to find where this new light came from and saw a great blaze at the edge of the ruins, a pillar of flame higher even than the bespelled campfires, almost to the height of the surrounding trees. Now the burning object began to roll down the hill toward the camp, slowly at first, bucking and jouncing over the stony slope, but picking up speed with every one of Porto’s racing heartbeats. Its wheels were as tall as a man.

  It’s a wagon, was his first, confused thought, some kind of giant war-wagon, and that was true enough, but there was also something more. Atop the wain’s vast bed lay a sarcophagus, a huge thing, but its lid was partway off and the insides were aflame so that a tail of fire streamed behind it, marking its hastening career down the hill. And even as Porto stared in astonishment, a screaming figure lurched up out of the monstrous, burning box, knocking the lid aside. The writhing figure
wore a mask and was itself aflame. Burning bandages turned the thing in the casket into a wildly gyrating torch that flailed the air and shrieked and shrieked—the most inhuman noise Porto had ever heard, an unending, whistling scream without words. Any men who had held their ground during the first onslaught of shadow-warriors from the ruins now turned and ran stumbling downhill from the blazing, howling corpse atop its battle wagon.

  The besiegers made no pretense of resistance, but fled the apparition as though one thought controlled them all, raw southern recruits and battle-hardened Rimmersmen alike. Many were struck down by arrows Porto could not see, or surrounded in the darkness by deeper shadows, after which they lay silent in the snow with throats slit or guts spilled.

  Something crashed against Porto’s face, stunning him. It was Endri, who had lashed out in his desperation to escape and was now half-crawling, half-staggering down the slope away from the ruins, mad with fear.

  Porto did not know what to do. The camp was overrun with shadows, and already dozens of his comrades were dead, the rest scattered—he could hear some of them lost in the trees, shouting for God to save them. It had all happened so fast, as if a great wind had blown their army to pieces in an instant.

  He crawled to his feet and ran after Endri. He could do nothing else. He had no one else to save.

  Her song completed, the Host-Singer Tzayin-Kha fell to the uneven floor stones in the central hall of the ruined fortress where she lay gasping like a landed fish, her starvation-shrunken limbs twitching. Viyeki moved to help her.

  “No! Do not touch her!” Yaarike cried. “The fire spirit still flows in her. Look.”

  As Viyeki watched, several more of the red-robed Order of Song moved toward Tzayin-Kha as cautiously as if she were a sleeping dragon. One put a stick beneath her and rolled her over. Viyeki recoiled. The Singer’s face and hands, the only parts of her flesh he could see, smoldered with light beneath the skin, as though she herself had no more substance than a wax candle.