The Grey Dam gave him a terrible smile. “I am willing.”
There was no telling her age. The Were had used the strange magics bequeathed them by Oronin Last-Born to circumvent the very Chain of Being, at least for the Grey Dam. Tanaros knew only that she was ancient. Ushahin Dreamspinner had been a boy when Faranol, Crown Prince of Altoria, had slain the Grey Dam’s cubs and her mate in a hunting excursion, heaping glory upon his kindred during a state visit to Pelmar.
“You are brave, honored one,” Tanaros said.
The ancient Were shook her head. “My successor is chosen.”
Grey her voice, grey her name, grey her being. One year of their lives, that was what each of the Were surrendered that the Grey Dam might endure. So it had been, in the beginning; now, it was more, for their numbers had dwindled. Five years, ten, or more. Tanaros knew naught of what such ceremonies might entail, how it was enacted. Only that the Grey Dam endured, until the mantle was passed, and endured anew.
It had been many centuries since that had happened.
“You know you will die, old mother?”
Ushahin’s voice, raw and aching. It was not the first time he had asked it.
“Little Man-cub, little son.” The old Were’s amber gaze softened, and she patted his misshapen cheek with her padded, hairy palm. “You have assuaged my pain these many years, but the time has come to make an end. It is a good way to die. If the Glad Hunter wills it, my teeth will meet in the flesh of an Altorus before the finish.”
He bowed his head. The Were Brethren growled softly.
Tanaros cleared his throat. “Then you will strike here, honored one, and your Brethren will clear the way. In the confusion, we will make our move, here.” He traced a pathway on the map. “Under my command, a company of Lord Vorax’s men will seize Cerelinde of the Rivenlost, and fall back to the meeting point, where the switch will be made. From thence, they will flee east, with the decoy. Lord Ushahin, weave what visions you may. The remaining men and I will hold them as long as we dare, before we retreat to the tunnels and the Kaldjager Fjel hide our passage.”
And there it was, the first phase of it, in all its risky totality.
“General.” Hyrgolf’s shrewd eyes met his with a soldier’s frankness. “The Fjel are ready to serve. It would be better if you did not command the raid yourself.”
“It must be,” Tanaros said bluntly. “It is his Lordship’s will, and there is no room for error. Hyrgolf, I would trust you to lead it, and I would trust any lieutenant of your appointing. But if we are to convince the Ellylon and the Altorians that this raid originated in Beshtanag, there can be no hint of the presence of Fjeltroll.”
“Cousin, I would command my own—” began Vorax.
Ushahin cut short his words, his tone light and bitter. “You can’t, fat one. Your bulk can’t be concealed under Pelmaran armor, as can the rest of your beard-shorn Staccians, and Tanaros, too.” With a twisted smile, he raised his crippled hands that could grip nothing heavier than a dagger. “I would do it myself, if I could. But I think my skills do not avail in this instance.”
“Enough!” Tanaros raised his voice. “It is mine to do.” For a moment, he thought they would quarrel; then they settled, acceding to his command. He leaned over the map-table, resting his hands on the edges, the southwestern quadrant of Urulat framed between his braced arms. “Are we in accord?”
“We are, brother,” whispered the Grey Dam. “We are.”
No one disagreed.
HIS DREAMS, WHEN HE HAD them, were restless.
Tanaros slept, and awoke, restless, tossing in his bedsheets, and slept only to dream anew, and twist and wind himself into shrouds in his dreaming.
Blood.
He dreamed of blood.
An ocean of it.
It ran like a red skein through his dreams, wet and dripping. Red, like the Souma, like Godslayer, like the star that had arisen in the west and the one that adorned the Sorceress’ brow. It dripped like a veil over the features of his wife, long-slain, and over his own hands as he looked down in horror, seeing them relinquish the hilt of his sword, the blade protruding from his King’s chest.
Tanaros tossed, and groaned.
It went back, further back, the trail of blood; far, so far. All the way back through the ages of the Sundered World, blood, soaking into the earth of a thousand battlefields, clots of gore. Back and back and back, until the beginning, when a great cry rent the fabric of Urulat, a mighty blow parted the world, and the Sundering Seas rushed in to fill the void, warm and salty as blood.
Tanaros awoke, the mark of his brand aching in summons.
He dressed himself and went to answer it.
Downward he went, through one of the three-fold doors and down the spiraling stairs that led to the Chamber of the Font, down the winding way where the walls shone like onyx, and the veins of marrow-fire were buried deep and strong. At the base of the spiral stair a blast of heat greeted him.
“My Lord.”
Some distance from the center of the chamber, in a ringed pit, the marrow-fire rose from its unseen Source to surge like a fountain through a narrow aperture, blue-white fire rising up in a column, falling, coruscating. And in the heart of it—ah! Tanaros closed his eyes briefly. There in midair hung the dagger Godslayer, that burned and was not consumed, beating like a heart. Its edges were as sharp and jagged as the day it had been splintered from the Souma, reflecting and refracting the marrow-fire from its ruby facets.
“Tanaros.” The Shaper stood before the Font, a massive form, hands laced behind his back. The blazing light played over his calm features, the broad brow, the shadowed eyes that reflected the red gleam of the Souma in pinpricks. “Tomorrow it begin”
He knew not what to say. “Yes, my Lord.”
“War,” mused the Shaper, taking a step forward to gaze at the Font. The preternatural light shone on the seeping trail of ichor that glistened on his thigh, and the marrow-fire took on an edge of creeping blackness, like shadow made flame. “My Elder Brother gives me no peace, and this time he wagers all. Do you understand why this must be, Tanaros? Do you understand that this is your time?”
“Yes, my Lord.” His teeth chattered, his chest ached and blazed.
“I was stabbed with this dagger.” Lord Satoris reached out a hand, penetrating the blue-white fountain, and the flames grew tinged with darkness. “Thus.” His forefinger touched the crudely rounded knob that formed Godslayer’s hilt. Tanaros hissed through his teeth as the dagger’s light convulsed and the scar of his branding constricted. “To this day, the pain endures. And yet it is not so great as the pain of my siblings’ betrayal.”
“My Lord.” Tanaros drew a deep breath against the tightness in his chest. On the eve of war, he asked the question none of the Three had voiced. “Why did you refuse Haomane’s request?”
“Brave Tanaros.” The Shaper smiled without mirth. “There is danger in conversing with dragons. I saw too clearly the Shape of what-would-be if my Gift were withdrawn from Men, uncoupled forever from the Gift of thought. Out of knowledge, I refused; and out of love, love for Arahila, my Sister. Still.” He paused. “What did Haomane see, I wonder? Why did he refuse my Gift for his Children? Was it pride, or something more?”
“I know not, my Lord,” Tanaros said humbly.
“No.” Considering, Lord Satoris shook his head. “I think not. My Elder Brother was ever proud. And it matters not, now.” His hand tightened on Godslayer’s hilt. “Only this. Haomane seeks it, my General. That is what it comes to, in the end. Blood, and more blood, ending in mine—or his.”
“My Lord!” Tanaros gasped, tearing at his chest.
“Forgive me.” The Shaper withdrew from the marrow-fire, his hands closing on Tanaros’ upper arms. The power in them made Tanaros’ skin prickle. “Would you know what is in my heart?” he asked in a low voice. “I did not choose this, Tanaros Blacksword. But I will not go gently, either. Any of them … any of them!” He loosed his hold and turned
away. “Any of them could cross the divide,” he said, softly. “Any of the Six. It is theirs to do, to defy Haomane’s will, to risk mortality. If they did …” He smiled sadly. “Oh, Arahila! Sister, together, you and I …”
Catching his breath, Tanaros bowed, not knowing what else to do before such immeasurable sorrow. “My Lord, we will do our best to deliver you Urulat.”
“Urulat.” The Shaper gathered himself. “Yes. Urulat. If I held Urulat in my palm, would it be enough to challenge Haomane’s sovereignty?” His laughter was harsh and empty. “Perhaps. I would like to find out.”
“It shall be yours, my Lord!” Tanaros said fiercely, believing it, his heart blazing within him like the marrow-fire. “I will make it so!”
Blood yet unshed dripped between them.
“Tanaros.” His name, nothing more; everything. The touch of the Shaper’s lips on his brow, chaste and burning. It had been his Gift, once. The quickening of the flesh, joyful blood leaping in the loins. A crude Gift, but his, cut short by Godslayer’s thrust. “May it be so.”
“My Lord,” Tanaros whispered, and knew himself dismissed.
As he took his leave, Lord Satoris turned back to the marrow-fire, gazing at it as if to find answers hidden in the ruby shard. The Shaper’s features were shadowed with unease, a fearful sight of itself. “Where is your weapon Malthus, Brother, and what does he plot?” he murmured. “Why must you force my hand? I did not Sunder the world. And yet I have become what you named me. Is that truly what must come to pass, or is there another way?” He sighed, the sound echoing in the Chamber. “If there is, I cannot see it. Your wrath has been raised against me too long. All things must be as they must.”
Tanaros withdrew quietly, not swiftly enough to avoid hearing the anguish in the Shaper’s final words.
“Uru-Alat!” Lord Satoris whispered. “I would this role had fallen to another.”
SIX
“COUNSELOR, FORGIVE ME,” THE ARDUAN croaked, falling to her knees.
The Company of Malthus halted beneath the hammer of the sun, a merciless, white-hot blaze in the vivid blue sky. All around them, the scorched landscape extended farther than the eye could see in any direction, red earth baked and cracking, broken only by the strange, towering structures of anthills.
“I told you it was no journey for a woman.” Although his face was drawn beneath beard-stubble, the former Commander of the Borderguard kept his feet, wavering only slightly. “We should have sent her back.”
“Peace, Blaise:” Even Malthus’ voice was cracked and weary. “Fianna is the Archer of Arduan. It is as it must be. None of us can go much farther.” Drawing back his sheltering hood, the Counselor bowed his head and took the Soumanië from its place of concealment beneath his robes, chanting softly and steadily in the Shaper’s tongue. The gem shone like a red star between his hands.
Ants scurried on the cracked earth as it stirred beneath them, departing in black rivulets. Dry spikes of thorn-brush rattled, trembling.
“Look!” It was the young Vedasian, Hobard, who saw it first, pointing. A green tendril of life emerging from the cracks in the desert floor, questing in the open air. “A drought-eater! Yrinna be blessed!”
It grew beneath the Counselor’s fraying chant, the green stalk thickening, branches springing from the trunk with a thick succulent’s leaves; grew, and withered, even as flowers blossomed and fruited, seeds swelling to ripe globes. A drought-eater, capable of absorbing every drop of moisture within an acre of land and producing fruit that was almost wholly water. Water, held within a tough greenish rind.
They fell upon it, ripping the fruit from its stems even as the branches shriveled. Hobard split his with both thumbs, sucking at the pulpy interior Blaise Caveros, for all his harsh words, had a care with the Arduan woman, cutting the fruit and feeding it to her piece by dripping piece. Malthus the Counselor leaned wearily on his walking-staff and watched them, and among all his Company only Peldras of the Rivenlost, whose light step left no tracks on the red, dusty soil, waited his turn until the rest were sated.
Thirst could not kill Haomane’s Children; only steel.
Peldras shaded his eyes, gazing at the endless vista of baked red earth. If the Counselor’s wisdom were true, they should have found the ones they sought long before; the Charred Ones, who had hidden from the scorching fire of Haomane’s wrath.
“What do you see, my long-sighted friend?” Malthus asked in a low tone.
The Ellyl shook his head. “Nothing.”
“HUSH.”
Staring at the vine-curtained opening, Tanaros lifted a hand for silence. To a fellow, Men and Fjel obeyed him alike. No need to caution the Were, who were silence itself. Only the shuffle and stamp of the horses disturbed the quiet, and even that was minimal. Green light filtered into the tunnel, and beyond the opening he could hear birdsong.
“Go” He motioned to the Were brethren. “Clear the perimeter, and report.”
They went, both of them, like arrows shot from the bow, low to the ground and sleek, traveling at an inhuman gait, muzzles pointed forward, ears pricked and wary.
“Good hunting, brothers,” the Grey Dam murmured.
Tanaros repressed a shudder.
Always, the waiting was the hardest. He felt awkward in the unfamiliar Pelmaran armor; steel plates laced onto boiled leather, and an ill-disguised conical helmet. Their arms had been chosen with care, to give a semblance of Beshtanagi troops in disguise. Tanaros rolled his shoulders, loosened his sword in its sheath. A borrowed sword, not his own, with a Pelmaran grip.
Behind him, Vorax’s Staccians whispered in excitement. This was their moment, the role only they could play. Among them, Vorax had chosen the youngest, the fiercest, the swiftest. They had trained hard, and rehearsed their roles to perfection. They had shaved their beards and stained their skin with walnut dye. Tanaros turned in the saddle to survey them, feeling the battle-calm settle over him.
Their lieutenant met his eye; Carfax, a steady fellow. They exchanged nods. And there, in the vanguard, Turin, the yellow-haired decoy, swallowing hard. Choose one who is fair, his Lordship had said, fair as morning’s first star. He was a youth, still beardless, his skin undyed and pale, clad in bridal silks. The troops had laughed, to see him thus. Now, none laughed.
“We strike a blow this day, brothers,” Tanaros said in a soft, carrying voice, jostling his mount to face them. “A mighty blow! Are you ready?”
They gave a whispered cheer.
“Field marshal.” His gaze roamed past the Staccians, falling upon Hyrgolf, who stood with the massed Fjeltroll at the rear. “Are you ready?”
Hyrgolf of the Tungskulder Fjel stood like a boulder, stolid and dependable. “We are ready, General,” he rumbled. “Bring us the Ellyl lady, and we will conduct her in all speed to Darkhaven”
“Dreamspinner.” Tanaros bent his gaze upon the half-breed, who crouched at the entrance to the tunnels, holding the Helm of Shadows in his trembling hands. “Are you ready, cousin?”
“I am ready.” Ushahin bared his teeth, the enlarged pupil in one eye glittering. In the green light, his face looked ghastly. The thing in his hands throbbed with a darkness that ached like a wound, unbearable to behold. “Upon your command!”
As if summoned by his words, one of the Were brethren dashed through the hanging vines that curtained the entrance, eyes glowing amber, bloodstains upon his muzzle. “The way is clear,” he said, the words thick and guttural in his throat. Sharp white teeth showed as he licked blood from his chops. “Why do you wait? In the Dale, they wed. Go now, now!”
Sorash the Grey Dam lifted her muzzle and keened a lament for her long-slain cubs.
The moment had come.
Tanaros. drew his sword, and though it was not his, still it sang as it cleared the scabbard, a high, piercing sound that echoed inside his head. “Go!” he shouted, digging his heels into his mount’s sides, feeling the surge of muscle as the black horse lunged up the sloping tunnel for the entrance. �
�Go, go, go!”
Lashed by green vines, Tanaros burst through the tunnel entrance, bounding into a forest in the full foliage of spring. A grey form hurtled past him, bound at speed for Lindanen Dale.
Altorus!
The word was a battle-paean in his head, igniting the ancient hurt, the ancient hatred. Altorus! He took a deep breath, filling his lungs with it. Rage, cleansing rage. Tanaros wheeled the black horse, his mind clear and sharp. There, the Staccians, emerging in formation. There, the dim figures of the Kaldjager Fjel, slipping through the trees. There, by the opening, Ushahin Dreamspinner, lowering the Helm of Shadows onto his head.
“Ride!” Tanaros shouted. “Men, ride!”
They rode, pounding through the oak wood, the ancient holdings of Altoria, and the mounts they rode were the horses of Darkhaven, swift-hooved and high-spirited, their glossy coats disguised with mud and burrs. They rode, and the trees passed in a blur, and behind them slid Fjeltroll with yellow eyes and sharp axes, laying a trap for those who would follow—and there four of their number paused, waiting. Here and there lay corpses, Ellylon and Men alike, sentries who grinned in death at the innocent spring leaves. They rode, and death ran before them, Oronin’s Children, grey and implacable.
A league, a league, less than a league.
Ahead, the trees thinned, bright sunlight shining on Lindanen Dale. Tanaros glanced left and right, wind-sprung tears blurring his vision. In the periphery of his gaze, he could see the Staccians following, falling into a wedge formation. The Were had vanished. Let them be there, he thought, a desperate prayer. Oh my Lord, let them be there! Drawing his sword, he loosed a wordless cry as they emerged into the Dale.
Greensward, and flowers hidden in the grass.
Silk tents, with pennants fluttering.
And the host, the nuptial host, milling on the lawn, chaos sown in their midst, with rent garments and blood flowing freely. A harpist, moaning and pale, cradled a torn forearm; others lay unmoving, and their blood spread on the grass, darkening. This, they had not expected. Not the grey hunters of the Were, not Oronin’s Children, who could penetrate any defense not raised behind walls. Ah, and even so! So many, so many of Haomane’s Allies, gathered in one place. Lindanen Dale seethed like a kicked anthill. Unready and unmounted they might be, but they had not come unarmed. Already, the soldiers were gathering their wits. There was one of the Were brethren, dying, his hairy belly slit, entrails dragging on the greensward. And there, the other, brought to bay by the Duke of Seahold’s men, closing in with spears.
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