A strangled sound cut short, and the embers of the campfire scattered.
Hunric.
Turin gibbered with fear, scuttling backward crab-wise. Plates of shale beneath his hands and feet, the edges cutting his flesh. Not shale, no; scales, ancient and encrusted, dark as iron. Before him, the long neck stretched high, lifting the massive head to the top of the palodus tree while the throat worked in gulps.
It didn’t take long. Not long enough.
“Please,” Turin whispered as the terrible head swung back his way, arching over its own back, bearded and dripping with moss. “Oh, please!”
A nictitating lid blinked over the yellow-green eye. “Who assssksss?”
“Turin of Staccia.” His voice emerged in a squeak. “I am here in the service of Lord Satoris.”
“Sssatorisss …”
“Third-Born among Shapers.” Summoning a reserve of courage he hadn’t known he possessed, Turin found his feet, confronting the hovering head, fighting his chattering teeth. “This is his place, Lord Dragon, and he sent me here!”
“Yessss.” The yellow-green eye blinked. “Your companion was … tasssssty.”
“Lord Dragon!” Terror threatened to loosen his bowels. “My Lord was a friend to your kind!”
“A friend,” the dragon mused. “Yesss, onssse.”
“Once, and always.” Breathing hard, Turin wrestled his sword free of his pack and held it aloft. Its steel length glinted greenish in the light of the dragon’s eye. “I carry a message for the Sorceress of the East and the Dragon of Beshtanag. Will you not let me pass?”
“I grieve for my brother.” There was something resembling sorrow in the dragon’s fearful mien. “He has chosen his path. There is power in thissss plassse, Sson of Man. It might even have healed Sssatoriss the Ssssower, onssse, but Haomane’s Wrath ssscorched his thoughtss to madnesss, and he fled north to the cooling sssnows. It is too late for the Sssower. Now this is my plassse, and I mussst abide.”
“Who are you?” Turin whispered.
“Calanthrag,” the answer was hissed. “The Eldessst.”
Swift came the attack, the massive head darting. Turin dodged once, striking with his sword, aiming for the glinting eye. He missed, his blade clattering against impervious scales. This, he thought in an ecstasy of terror, is the end. The dragon’s head reared back and swayed atop its sinuous neck, blocking out the sky. Turin’s hand loosened on his sword-hilt. He stood on a dragon back, feeling the warmth under his bare, lacerated soles, and thought of the vows he had taken, the women he had known. A smell of rot hung in the air. The dragon’s eye roiled, yellow-green. Old, so old!
Older than the Delta.
There were things he knew before the end, Turin of Staccia, things he read in the dragon’s roiling eye. Of a knowledge older than Time itself, older than the Chain of Being. Of the birth of dragons, born of the bones of Uru-Alat; first-born, Eldest. Of warring Shapers, and how they had Sundered the earth. Of their Children and their wars, their endless hierarchies and vengeances. Of Lord Satoris, who spoke to dragons; of dragons, who aided him. Of dragons dying by steel borne by Haomane’s Children, by Arahila’s. Of Calanthrag the Eldest, hidden in the Delta.
All these things, and the whole more than the sum of its parts. This was the knowledge vouchsafed to Turin of Staccia, whose yellow hair was caked with mud, who stood barefooted on a dragon’s back, with a useless sword in his limp hand, bannock-crumbs and gold coins at the bottom of his pack.
He was a long way from home.
Oh mother! he thought at the last.
It was fast, the dragon’s head striking like a snake, low and sure and swift. Massive jaws stretched wide, breathing sulfur fumes. A snap! A gulp and a swallow, the impossibly long gullet working, neck stretched skyward. In the swamp of the Delta, the tall palodus tree stood unmoving, while small creatures keened in distress.
Inch by inch, Calanthrag the Eldest settled.
An insect chirruped.
Stillness settled over the Delta, ordinary stillness. Lizards crept, and snakes stirred their coils. Gnats whined, protesting the fall of darkness. A dragon’s talons relaxed their purchase in the mire. Straining wings eased their vanes. A long neck settled, chin sinking into muck. Membranes closed over glowing eyes to the lullaby of the Delta. In the moonlight, a hummock, black as slate, encrusted with moss, loomed above the swamp.
Calanthrag the Eldest slept.
GREEN. GREEN AND GREEN AND green.
It whirled in the Ravensmirror, reflected in the sheen of glimmering feathers. Green leaves, palodus and mangrove, a dense canopy. Dark green, pine green, the forests of Pelmar. Softer green, new vines and cedars, wings veering in fear from Vedasia, where death lurked, arrow-tipped.
“ENOUGH!”
Ushahin Dreamspinner pressed his fingertips to his crooked temples, his head aching at Lord Satoris’ roar.
The Ravensmirror shattered, bursting into feathered bits, heads tucked under wings in fearful disarray.
Back and forth he stormed, red eyes glowing like coals. The tower trembled beneath his tread. A smell in the air like blood, only sweeter. “What,” Lord Satoris asked with deceptive gentleness, “is Malthus doing?”
“I don’t know, my Lord,” Ushahin whispered.
“My Lord.” Tanaros executed a crisp bow. “Whatever the Counselor attempts, it matters naught. Our plans proceed apace, and your army stands in readiness. Our course through the Marasoumië is plotted, and Lord Vorax has seen to our lines of supply. Haomane’s Allies walk into a trap unwitting. We are prepared.”
The glowing red gaze slewed his way. “I mislike it.”
“My Lord.” Ushahin cleared his throat. “There is one way.”
“What?”
He flinched under the Shaper’s regard. “Ask the Ellyl. Put her to questioning. I cannot breach Malthus’ defenses, my Lord. I have tried. It may be she knows his plans.”
Tanaros shifted, disturbed.
“No.” The Shaper shook his head. Deep in their throats, ravens muttered. “I am a Shaper, one of the Seven. Let my Elder Brother name me what he will; I will not play into his hands by accepting the role he has allotted me. He holds his pride dearer than I, yet I am not without honor. Would you see it stripped from me? My Elder Brother has made a move, and I have countered it. I will not become the monster he has named me.”
Frustration surfaced in Ushahin’s crooked gaze. “It is better to live a monster than to die with honor, my Lord!”
“No.” There was finality in Lord Satoris’ deep voice. “She is a guest, Dreamspinner, and to be treated as such. I will not allow aught else.”
“My Lord …”
“I said no.”
SEVENTEEN
SUNLIGHT SLANTED THROUGH THE APPLE trees in the orchards of Malumdoorn.
It was an unlikely setting for a meeting of such moment. Carfax only wished he knew what it was about. The Dwarfs had assembled en masse, awaiting them, standing in wary ranks amid the gnarled apple trees.
Hobard, they greeted with respect, giving evidence of a long-standing agreement between their folk and the scions of Malumdoorn. The surly young knight glowed at the attention, in his element.
Yrinna’s Peace, Carfax thought. It was the bargain the Dwarfs had made, taking no part in the battles that divided the Lesser Shapers. Eschewing Lord Satoris’ Gift, they were parsimonious with carnal pleasure, and bore only enough children to ensure their own continuance. In turn, they asked only the freedom to tend the land, making it fruitful as Yrinna Sixth-Born had willed it.
This was the bargain old Vedasian families such as Hobard’s had struck, offering protection and noninterference for the goodwill of Yrinna’s Children, who made their orchards fruitful.
What now threatened it?
“Earth-Tenders.” Malthus’ voice was soft and soothing: he spread his arms, indicating he held naught but his staff. “You know who I am. And you know what I have come for.”
The Dwarfs murmured, a
low sound like the wind through apple leaves.
“We know.” A Dwarf elder stumped forward, thrusting out his stubborn chin. Tangled beard, aggressive eyes, honest dirt ingrained in his hands. “You bring war, Counselor. You breach Yrinna’s Peace. Why? Why should we heed you?”
“Because Satoris Banewreaker will hold sway over the whole of Urulat if you do not,” Malthus said steadily. “Is that your wish, Earth-Tender Haldol? To see the soil of Yrinna’s bosom poisoned with his dripping venom? It shall come to pass, and no seed may grow untainted, no blossom bear fruit.”
It was not true. In the long years that Staccia had held an allegiance with Lord Satoris, its lands had come to no harm. His Lordship sought only to live unmolested by Haomane’s Wrath. Carfax opened his mouth in protest, found his tongue hopelessly stilled, useless as a dried root. Bright sparks burned in the Elder Haldol’s eyes, doubt nurtured by the Counselor.
“We do not take part in the Shapers’ War,” the Dwarf said.
“Oh, but you do.” Malthus the Counselor’s voice was soft, sweet and cunning. “Yrinna’s Children deny it, yes. But you have withheld that which is not yours, and so doing, you aid the Enemy. Our greatest Enemy, he who would scorch the earth.”
“So you say.” The Dwarf Elder rubbed his chin. “So you say. We have a test, Counselor, for those who would claim Yrinna’s favor. Is your Company willing to attempt the Greening?”
“It is,” Malthus said steadily.
There was a stirring among the Dwarfs, a parting of the ranks. From the rear of the gathering, two approached, bearing an object with reverence. Male and female, they were, gnarled as roots, with eyes that shone at the sanctity of their office. Carfax craned his head to see what they carried.
A staff, like unto Malthus’ own, but untrimmed—a dead branch wrenched whole from the tree. Twigs it sprouted, and a few desiccated leaves, shriveled and brown. Haldol the Elder received it with both hands, raised it to touch his lips to the rough bark before planting it like a spear in the orchard soil of Malumdoorn, driving the butt-end into the earth.
It stood like a standard, brittle and ash-grey.
“The challenge of the Greening is begun,” said Haldol.
“So mote it be.” Malthus bowed his head and grasped the Soumanie.
“No.” The Dwarf’s voice was sharp. “You are Haomane’s weapon, Counselor, and bear his tools. What the Souma may accomplish, we know too well. It is Yrinna’s will the Greening seeks to divine. We shall choose among your Company who shall attempt it.” His deepset gaze roamed over the Company. “You,” he said abruptly, pointing a thick finger at Dani. “The least among them. Let us see if Yrinna favors you.”
“Earth-Tender—” Malthus glowered, the Soumanië flickering.
“It is as it shall be.” The Dwarf Haldol crossed his arms, backed by his people. “Do you gainsay it, Counselor? Son of Malumdoorn, what say you, who brought them here?”
Hobard of Malumdoorn cast a bitter sidelong glance at the young Yarru-yami. “Malthus, I came in faith to Meronil to bring you these tidings, but as I am Vedasian, my sworn oaths are to Yrinna’s Children. I abide by their demands. You drove us into the Unknown to secure the Charred lad, risking all our lives to find him. Let him answer for it, if it is their will.”
Ranked behind the dead branch thrust like a challenge into the earth, the Dwarfs waited. Malthus’ Company shifted, awaiting the Counselor’s decision. Carfax watched them all. Blaise Caveros was tense, small muscles moving along his clenched jaw. The Ellyl, Peldras, was at once watchful and tranquil. There was hunger in the eyes of Fianna the Archer, desperate and keen.
Why, Carfax wondered?
As for the Yarru, they whispered together, fat uncle Thulu bending his head to the boy’s ear, lips moving. What was he saying? Why was the boy smiling? Did he not realize, Carfax thought in frustration, he was naught but a pawn?
“So be it!” Malthus’ voice cracked like thunder, then softened. “Dani. Try. You can but try, lad.”
That he did, Dani of the Yarru, earnest of face, approaching the dead branch in all seriousness. He reminded Carfax, unexpectedly, of Turin, the young Staccian in his command. He’d taken his duties thus seriously, Turin had, given the difficult task of impersonating an Ellyl maiden. It had galled him to be left out of their ill-fated attack on the Company of Malthus. Remembering the barrows of grass where his comrades had fallen, Carfax was glad he’d spared the lad. He wondered if the young Staccian and his two companions had made it safely to Beshtanag, and hoped they had. In the silence of his locked tongue Carfax hoped, very much, that Lord Satoris’ plans were uncompromised.
Dani squatted before the branch, laying hands upon it.
Pale and weathered and grey, the dead wood; the boy’s palms were pale too, lined and weathered. He cupped them together, and the radiating lines met to form a star in the hollow of his palms. He bowed his ragged head as if listening, and his uncle, his fat uncle, chanted low under his breath, grinning. Blaise raised an eyebrow. The Archer bit her lip. In the orchard, with the sweet smell of sun-warmed apples in the air, the Dwarfs gathered close, watching.
Dani uncorked the vial at his neck.
One drop; one drop of water he let gather at the lip of the vial. One drop. And it smelled—oh, Shapers! Carfax inhaled deeply, unable to help himself. It smelled … like water. Like life, dense and condensed, mineral-rich. It swelled, gathering roundness, shining bright as steel. Swelled, rounded …
… dropped.
Greenness, dizzying and sudden, as the earth rang like a struck bell. Urgent leaves burst from the dead wood, a riot of green. Twigs sprouted and grew buds, blossoms opened, releasing sweet fragrance. Pierced by plunging roots, the very soil buckled, even as the branch thickened into a sapling’s trunk.
“Aiee!” Dani leapt back, wide-eyed, clutching his flask. “I did that?”
“You did.” Malthus smiled, laying a hand on the little Yarru-yami’s shoulder. There was approval in his grave features, and at his breast, the Soumanië lay quiescent and dark; a red gem, nothing more. “You did, Dani.”
Gazing at the tree, the assembled Dwarfs murmured in awe.
“The Water of Life,” the Elder Haldol said. “That is what he carries.”
“Yes.” Malthus inclined his head, one hand still resting on Dani’s shoulder. “The lifeblood of Uru-Alat. He is the Bearer. Has he met your challenge, Earth-Tender?”
In the silence that followed, Haldol of the Dwarfs sighed, and the weight of the world was in that sigh, his broad, sturdy shoulders slumping. “Yrinna’s Peace is ended,” he whispered, then straightened, a terrible dignity in his features. “So be it. Counselor, that which you sought shall be yours.”
“It was not yours to keep, Elder,” Malthus said gently.
“No.” The Dwarf lifted his chin and met his gaze. “But we kept it well, Wise Counselor. It has never been used, for unlike other of Haomane’s weapons, it may be used only once, and the Counselor Dergail held his hand. I pray you use it well.”
A bright spark wove its way through the ranks of Dwarfs, who shrank at its passage. One more came, wizened and old, eyes closed against the brightness he bore. Even in daylight, it trailed flame. Fianna the Archer stepped forward, her mouth forming a soundless O, hands reaching unthinking.
“Behold,” Haldol said. “Oronin’s Bow, and the Arrow of Fire.”
“They are yours,” Malthus said to the Archer.
Her hand closed on the haft of the bow; black horn, with an immense draw. Kneeling, she set the bottom tip, fingers curling, seeking the string unthinking and drawing it to her cheek. A shaft of white fire tinged with gold, the Arrow flamed, illuminating her cheek, the tendrils of hair curling at her temple. “Oh,” she said, her tone amazed. “Oh!”
Carfax, watching, shivered to the bone.
When the unknown is made known, when the lost weapon is found …
The Prophecy was being fulfilled.
BESIDE THE SWELTERING FURNACE, THE flow of
the Gorgantus River, diverted by Lord Satoris himself, powered a wooden waterwheel. From it led a welter of rods and cranks, turning and clanking. Levered weights rose and fell, pressing down on the spring-boards that powered the bellows, which opened and closed on their leather hinges, blowing strong drafts. Teams of Fjeltroll worked steadily, feeding coal and ore into the endless maw of the furnace.
It was hotter than before, so hot Tanaros could feel the skin of his face tightening. And the metal that emerged was glowing and molten, pure iron, collected in molds to cool. No longer did the Fjel need to beat the impurities from it before it was fit for the forge.
“You see?” Speros, soot-darkened, was grinning. He shouted above the clamor of the smelting furnace. “We use the force of the river to drive the bellows, providing more heat than even the Fjel can muster!”
“I see.” Tanaros had to raise his own voice to be heard. “A commendable innovation! Is it done thus in the Midlands now?”
“No.” Speros shrugged, his restless gaze surveying his efforts. “Only to grind grain, but I thought it might serve. No one ever gave me the means to try it, before. I reckon it will help. No small task, to equip such an army.” He settled his gaze on Tanaros. “We are going to war, are we not, Lord General?”
“Yes.” Tanaros beckoned, leading him a distance from the furnace. Outside, the grass was parched and a reeking cloud of smoke and sulfurous gases hung heavy under the lowering sky, but at least the air did not sear his lungs. “Some of us are, Midlander.”
“I want to ride with you,” Speros of Haimhault said, direct and sure. “You promised me a horse; one such as you ride, General. Have I not done all I promised, and more?”
Of a surety, the lad had done so. His innovations had increased productivity. With the aid of his waterwheel, the forges of Darkhaven smelted iron at twice their usual rate. This was the first chance Tanaros had had to inspect them, but it was said Lord Satoris himself was pleased.
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