Primed for it, they cheered all the louder.
War was declared on Beshtanag.
WASHED, SALVED AND RESTED, CLAD in the armor of slain a Staccian warrior, Speros of Haimhault looked much improved by daylight. Despite his travail, his eyes were clear and alert and he moved as smoothly as his bandaged wounds allowed, a testament to the resilience of youth.
He hadn’t lied, either, he knew how to handle a sword. At his insistence, Tanaros tested the former prisoner himself on the training-field of Darkhaven. Hyrgolf brought a squadron of Tungskulder Fjel to watch, forming a loose circle and leaning casually on their spears.
Inside the circle of onlookers, they fought.
Speros saluted him in the old manner; a clenched fist to the heart, then extended with an open palm. Brother, let us spar. I trust my life unto your hands. The old traditions died hard in the Midlands. How many times had he and Roscus Altorus saluted each other thusly in their Altorian boyhood?
Too many to count, and the memories were fond enough to hurt.
Tanaros returned the salute and drew his sword. Speros wasted only one glance upon it, briefly disappointed to see that it was not the General’s infamous black sword, but merely an ordinary weapon. As well for him, since the black sword could shear through steel like flesh. Afterward, he ignored it, fixing his gaze on Tanaros himself, watching the subtle shifts in his face, in the musculature of his chest, in the set of his shield, that betokened a shift in his attack.
Flick, flick, flick, their blades darted and crossed, rang on the bosses of their shields. It made a prodigious sound on the training-field. Back and forth they went, churning the ground beneath their boots. Such was the swordplay of his youth, drilled into him a thousand years ago by a grizzled master-of-arms, sharp-tongued and relentless, always on the lookout for a pupil of promise.
“Not bad, horse-thief.” Tanaros found himself smiling. “Not bad at all!”
“I do better …” Speros essayed a thrust and stumbled, wincing, forced to make a desperate parry. “I do better,” he gasped, “when I’ve not been clamped in chains and had hot pokers held to my feet, Lord General.”
“You do well enough.” Putting an end to it, Tanaros stepped inside the young man’s guard, catching his ill-timed swing on the edge of his shield. The point of his sword came to rest in the hollow of the lad’s throat. “I am not displeased.”
Speros, with commendable poise, held himself still, although his brown eyes nearly crossed in an effort to look down at Tanaros’ sword. “I concede, my lord. You have the better of me.”
“Well, then.” Tanaros put up his sword. “We have each other’s measure.”
Deep, booming laughter ensued; Hyrgolf, who stepped forward to clap a massive hand on Speros’ shoulder. It rested there, heavy as a stone, talons dangling. “Give the lad a dram of svartblod,” he rumbled, beckoning to one of his soldiers with his free hand. “He’s earned it.”
To his credit, Speros grinned with gap-toothed fearlessness at the Fjel, sheathing his sword and hoisting the skin one of the Tungskulder proffered. It was a foul liquor, black as pitch, fermented from the blood of sheep that drank the tainted waters of the Gorgantus River, and Speros sputtered as he drank, dark liquid running in rivulets from the corners of his mouth. He shook himself like a wet dog, spattering droplets of svartblod.
The Fjel, who adored the foul stuff, laughed uproariously.
Tanaros touched the carved rhios that hung from his belt. “Take him in hand, Hyrgolf,” he said to his field marshal. “Show him what there is to be seen in Darkhaven, and let him have a look at the forges. He may be worth keeping, this one.”
“General.” Hyrgolf inclined his head. There was a shrewdness in his small boar’s eyes. Fjeltroll he might be, Tungskulder Fjel, broadest and strongest of his mighty race, but he was a father, too, and there were things he knew that Tanaros did not. “Aye, General.”
“Good.” It was a relief, after all, to strip the practice helmet from his head, to raise two fingers to his lips and give the shrill whistle of command that summoned the black horse. Tanaros mounted, gazing down at Hyrgolf. “The Dreamspinner has requested my counsel. We’ll resume drills in two days’ time. See that the Midlander’s taught the rudiments of battle formations and the proper commands. I could use a subordinate on the field.”
“Aye, General.” The tips of Hyrgolf’s eyetusks showed as he smiled.
Under his thighs, the black’s hide rippled. Tanaros raised his hand. “Speros of Haimhault!” he called. “I’m leaving you to the untender mercies of Field Marshal Hyrgolf, who will teach you to be a soldier of Darkhaven. Can you handle it, lad?”
“Aye, Lord General!” Surrounded by Fjel, the former prisoner gave his gap-toothed grin and a cheerful salute. Clearly, Speros found himself at home here, unabashed by the rough camaraderie of the Fjel. “Can I have one of those horses to ride if I do?”
Tanaros rode toward the rookery, a lingering smile on his lips. How long had it been, since one of his countrymen had served Darkhaven? Too long. Loathe though he was to admit it, he’d missed it.
At the outskirts of the beech wood, he turned his mount loose and proceeded on foot, boots sinking deep into the soft mast, his shield slung over his back. Truly, he thought, the lad had fought well. It was no easy chore, to spar when one’s every step was a waking agony. It must be so, with the searing wounds Speros had endured. A good thing Vorax’s own physician had attended him. Though it had done no permanent harm, it had been an ungentle questioning.
Tanaros’ own arrival had differed. He was one of the Three, and Lord Satoris himself had sensed his broken heart and his wounded pride, had used the Helm of Shadows to summon him. And in all the wildness of his despair, Tanaros had answered the summons, had out-faced and outshouted the Thunder Voice Fjel, and made his way through the Defile unaided and undeterred.
And presented himself to the Sunderer, who had asked his aid.
Even now, after so long, he shuddered in remembered ecstasy. The knot of scarred flesh that circumscribed his heart constricted at the memory of his branding, of how the hilt of Godslayer, laid against his skin, had stretched the chains of his mortality. Even now, when his aching joints remembered their endless sojourn, it moved him.
He had spoken the truth to Speros. In the beginning, there had been only rage. It had driven him to Darkhaven in fury and despair, and he had laid it at the feet of Lord Satoris, willing to serve evil itself if it would purge his furious heart. Since then he had come to understand that the world was not as he had believed it in his youth. He had come to love Lord Satoris, who clung to his defiance in the face of the overwhelming tyranny of Haomane’s will, wounded and bereft though he was. Haomane’s Wrath had scorched the very earth in pursuit of Satoris. Were it not for Arahila’s merciful intervention, the Lord-of-Thought might have destroyed Urulat itself.
Tanaros wondered if Haomane would have reckoned it worth the cost. After all, it would enable him to Shape the world anew, the better to suit his desires. It was the will of Uru-Alat, Haomane claimed, that he should reign supreme among Shapers; and yet, each of them held a different Gift. Was the Gift of thought superior to all others? Once, Tanaros had believed it to be so; until the courage and loyalty of the Fjel humbled him.
It was a pity Haomane First-Born had never known humility. Perhaps he would not be so jealous of his station, so quick to wrath, if he were humbled. Perhaps, after all, it was Lord Satoris’ destiny to do so.
He wondered how he could ever have believed in Haomane’s benevolence. Surely it must be the power of the Souma. But as long as Lord Satoris opposed him with Godslayer in his possession, Haomane could not wield its full might. And Tanaros meant to do all in his power to aid his Lordship. Perhaps, one day, he might be healed, and Urulat with him.
O my Lord, he thought, my Lord! Let me be worthy of your choosing.
“Blacksword.”
A dry voice, dry as the Unknown Desert. Ushahin Dreamspinner, seated cross-leg
ged under a beech tree, still as the forest. Lids parted, mismatched eyes cracked open. Sticky lashes, parched lips.
“Cousin,” Tanaros said. “You wished to see me?”
“Aye.” Dry lips withdrew from teeth. “Did you see the ravens?”
“Ravens?” Tanaros glanced about with alarm. The rookery was sparsely populated, but that was not unusual. It was more seldom than not that he espied his tufted friend. “Is it Fetch? Has something happened to him?”
“No.” The half-breed rested his head against a beech bole. “Your feathered friend is safe, for the nonce. He keeps watch, with others, on Haomane’s Allies as they make ready to depart for Pelmar. But something has happened.”
Tanaros seated himself opposite the Dreamspinner, frowning. “What is it?”
“I don’t know.” Ushahin grimaced, raising crooked fingers to his temples. “Therein lies the problem, cousin. All I can do is put a name to it.”
“And the name?” A chill tickled Tanaros’ spine.
“Malthus.”
One word; no more, and no less. They gazed at one another, knowing as did few on Urulat what it betokened. Malthus the Counselor was Haomane’s weapon, and where he went, ill followed for those who opposed him.
“How so?” Tanaros asked softly.
Ushahin gave his hunch-shouldered shrug. “If I knew, cousin, I would tell you, and his Lordship, too. All I know is that Malthus’ Company entered the Unknown Desert. Some days past, they emerged. And they brought someone—and something—with them.”
“Bound for Darkhaven?”
“No.” Ushahin shook his head. “They went east That’s what worries me.”
“Toward Pelmar?” Tanaros relaxed. “Then Malthus himself has bought our gambit, and there is no cause for fear—”
“Not Pelmar.” The half-breed tilted his head, the dim, patterned shadow of beech leaves marking his misshapen face. “Malthus’ Company is bound for Vedasia.”
There was a pause, then.
“Send your ravens,” Tanaros suggested.
Ushahin spared him a contemptuous glance. “I did. Three I sent, and three are dead, strung by their feet from an Arduan saddlebag. And now, the circle has closed tight around Malthus’ Company, and there is no mind open to me. I cannot find them. I do not like it. Who and what did Malthus bring out of the Unknown Desert?”
Both of them thought, without saying it, of the Prophecy.
“Does his Lordship know?” Tanaros asked.
Dabbling his fingers in the beech mast, Ushahin frowned. “What he fears, he does not name. And yet I think some part of it is unknown to him, for the desert was much changed by Haomane’s Wrath.”
“It doesn’t matter, does it?” Sitting on the soft ground, Tanaros squared his shoulders. “We’ve already thwarted the first part. The daughter of Elterrion’s line is in our keeping, and the son—” his voice grew hard, “—the son of Altorus’ line is bound for Pelmar at the head of a doomed army.” Crooked lips smiled without humor. “Then why is Malthus bound for Vedasia?”
“Would that I knew. But I am a military strategist, not a spymaster, cousin.” Tanaros unfolded his legs and stood, placing a hand in the small of his back, feeling stiff joints pop. Sparring with the young Midlander had taken its toll. “What, then, does his Lordship say?”
“Watch,” Ushahin said flatly, “and wait. Report.”
“Well, then.” Tanaros nodded, half to himself, gazing about the rookery. Haphazard nests rested in the crooks of trees, a dark flurry of twigs protruding. Which one, he wondered, belonged to Fetch? “I can advise you no better, Dreamspinner. Watch, and wait. Learn what you may. In the meantime, I must bring our forces to readiness and plot our course through the Marasoumië. When your knowledge impinges on the disposition of the army, alert me.”
Two strides he took; three, four, before Ushahin’s voice halted him.
“Tanaros?”
He looked small, seated under a beech tree; small and afraid.
“Aye, cousin?”
“He should kill her, you know.” Muscles worked in the half-breed’s throat as he swallowed. “Nothing’s done, nothing’s averted, while she lives.”
It was true. True and true and true, and Tanaros knew it.
Cerelinde.
“He won’t,” he whispered.
“I know.” Unexpected tears shimmered in the mismatched eyes. “There is hope in him; a Shaper’s hope, that would recreate the world in his image. If it comes to it … could you do it, Tanaros?”
On a branch, a raven perched. Twigs, protruding from a rough-hewn nest. The bird bent low, his head obscured by gaping beaks, coughed up sustenance from his craw. What manner was it? Earthworms, insects, carrion. Even here, life endured; regenerated and endured, life to life, earth to earth, flesh to flesh.
Cerelinde.
“I don’t know.”
THE WEATHER WAS BALMY IN Vedasia.
It was the thing, Carfax thought, that one noticed first; at least, one did if one was Staccian. Summer was a golden time in Staccia, with the goldenrod blooming around the shores of inland lakes and coating the harsh countryside in yellow pollen. It was nothing to this. This, this was sunlight dripping like honey, drenching field and orchard and olive grove in a golden glow, coaxing all to surrender their bounty. Fields of wheat bowed their gold-whiskered heads, melons ripened on the vine, the silvery-green leaves of olive trees rustled and boughs bent low with the weight of swelling globes of apple and pear. This was the demesne of Yrinna-of-the-Fruits, Sixth-Born among Shapers.
They had gained the Traders’ Route shortly after entering Vedasia proper and Carfax’s skin prickled as they rode, knowing himself deep in enemy territory. It was a wonder, though, how few folk noted aught awry. Children, mostly. They stared wide-eyed, peering from behind their mothers’ skirts, from the backboards of passing wagons. They pointed and whispered; at the Charred Folk, mostly, but also at the others.
What, he wondered, did they see?
A grey-beard in scholar’s robes, whose eyes twinkled beneath his fiercesome brows; Malthus, it seemed, had a kindness for children. A frowning Borderguardsman in a dun cloak. An Ellyl lordling, whose light step left no trace on the dusty road. An Arduan woman in men’s attire, her longbow unstrung at her side. A young knight sweating in full Vedasian armor.
A man with nut-brown skin and a rounded belly.
A nut-brown boy with wide dark eyes and a flask about his neck.
They sang as they traveled, the Charred Folk. Monotonously, incessantly. Thulu, the fat one, sang in a bass rumble. Sometimes Carfax listened, and heard in it the deep tones of water passing through subterranean places, of hidden rivers and aquifers feeding the farthest-reaching roots of the oldest trees. The boy Dani sang too, his voice high and true. It was most audible when running water was near. Then his voice rose, bright and warbling. Like rivers, like streams, bubbling over rocks.
Children noticed.
Malthus the Counselor noticed, too, his keen ears and eyes missing little. He nodded to himself, exchanged glances with Blaise of the Borderguard, with Peldras the Ellyl, nodding with satisfaction and fingering the ruby-red Soumanië hidden beneath his beard. Everything, it seemed, went according to Malthus’ plan.
Old man, Carfax thought, I hate you.
And since there was nothing else for him to do, his flesh and his will bound and circumscribed by the Counselor’s Soumanië, Carfax rode alongside them, ate and slept and breathed road-dust, keeping the silence that was his only protection, watching and hating, willing them harm. Sometimes, the children stared at him. What did they see? A man, dusty and bedraggled, his tongue cleft to the roof of his mouth. Deaf and dumb, they thought him. Betimes, there were taunts. Carfax endured them as his due.
What folly, to think Malthus would have surrendered his Soumanië!
Sometimes there were couriers, royal couriers, carrying the standard of Port Calibus. They traveled in pairs. One would sound the silvery horn, hoisting the standard h
igh to display a pennant bearing an argent tower on a mist-blue field. Other sojourners cleared the well-kept road in a hurry at the sight of it, including Malthus’ Company. The old wizard would stand with his head bowed, one hand clutching beneath his beard, muttering under his breath. Whatever charm it was, it worked. The Vedasian couriers took no notice of them.
Within days of their arrival, they began to see companies of knights headed east on the Traders’ Route. Twenty, forty at a time, riding in orderly formations, baggage trains following. More and more frequently couriers appeared, stitching back and forth the length of the country, horns blowing an urgent warning. Commitments were asked and given, numbers were tallied, supplies were rerouted. The rumors were spoken in a whisper, became news, stated aloud.
Vedasia was committing its knights to war.
Stories were passed from mouth to ear along the Traders’ Route. The Sorceress of the East had made an unholy pact with the Sunderer himself, who had promised to make her his Queen in exchange for the head of Malthus the Counselor. She had sent her dragon to abduct the Lady of the Rivenlost and offered a dreadful bargain.
Haomane’s Allies had chosen war instead.
Not all of them, no, but already a mighty force was on the march, moving from Seahold to Harrington Bay, where the Free Fishers had agreed to carry them to Port Calibus. There, a fleet of Vedasian ships would ferry them around the lower tip of Dwarfhorn and on to Port Eurus to unite with a Vedasian company under the command of Duke Quentin, the King’s nephew. Two of the Five Regents of Pelmar had given pledges of war, and the another was expected to agree soon. It was a force the likes of which had not been seen since the Fourth Age of the Sundered World. The Sorceress of the East, all agreed, had overreached.
These were the stories heard along the Traders’ Route, until they turned south onto a lesser road that led unto the heart of the Dwarfhorn.
“Why do you smile?”
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