Godslayer

by Jacqueline Carey

  Vorax felt his helmet removed. He squinted upward at the faceless figure above him. It was brightness, all brightness; sunlight shining mirror-bright on steel armor. The figure moved its arms. He felt the point of a sword at his throat and tried to speak, but there was no air in his lungs.

  No more bargains.

  No more meals.

  The sword’s point thrust home.

  No more.

  ON THE PLAINS OF CURONAN, Ushahin-who-walks-between-dusk-and-dawn was present and not present.

  His Lordship’s will had placed him here for the sin of his defiance; his Lordship’s will had placed a blade in Ushahin’s right arm. And so he rode onto the battlefield for the first time in his long immortal life and beheld the pathways between living and dying, casting his thoughts adrift and traveling them.

  Present and not present

  A squadron of Tungskulder Fjel formed a cordon around him. Twice, Rivenlost warriors broke through their line. Ushahin smiled and swung a sword that was present and not present, cutting the threads that bound their lives to the ageless bodies. What a fine magic it was! He watched them ride dazed away to meet their deaths at Fjel hands. One day, Oronin’s Horn would sound for him, as it had sounded long ago when he lay bleeding in the forests of Pelmar. Today he whispered what the Grey Dam had whispered to him, Not yet.

  There were things to be learned, it seemed, upon the battlefield.

  And then death came for Vorax of Staccia, Vorax the Glutton, and the shock of it drove Ushahin into the confines of his own crippled body. One of the Three was no more.

  The horns of the Rivenlost sounded a triumphant note.

  Over the Vale of Gorgantum, an anguished peal of thunder broke.

  TANAROS FLUNG BACK HIS HEAD and shouted, “Vorax!”

  There were no words to describe his fury. It was his, all his, and it made what had gone before seem as nothing. There was no need to hold it, to feed it. It was a perfect thing, as perfect in its way as beauty and love. It filled him until he felt weightless in the saddle. The Helm of Shadows, his armor, the black sword; weightless. Even his mount seemed to float over the field of battle as he broke past the Pelmarans and plunged into the ranks of Haomane’s Allies.

  His arm swung tirelessly, a weightless limb wielding a blade as light as a feather. Left and right, Tanaros laid about him.

  Wounded and terrified, they fell back, clearing a circle around him. What sort of enemy was it that would not engage? He wanted Aracus Altorus, wanted Malthus the Counselor. But, no, Haomane’s Allies retreated, melting away from his onslaught.

  “General! General!”

  Hyrgolf’s voice penetrated his rage. Tanaros leaned on the pommel of his saddle, breathing hard, gazing at his field marshal’s familiar face, the small eyes beneath the heavy brow, steady and unafraid. He had regained his army.

  Across the plains, combatants struggled, continuing to fight and die, but here in the center of the field a pocket of silence surrounded him. The battle had come to a standstill. Hyrgolf pointed past him without a word, and Tanaros turned his mount slowly.

  They were there, arrayed against him, a combined force of Rivenlost and Borderguard at their backs. Ingolin, shining in the bright armor of the Rivenlost. Aracus Altorus, bearing his ancestor’s sword with the lifeless Soumanië in the pommel. Malthus the Counselor, grave of face. Among them, only Malthus was able to look upon the Helm of Shadows without flinching away. The Spear of Light was in his grasp, lowered and level, its point aimed at Tanaros’ heart.

  “Brave Malthus,” Tanaros said. “Do you seek to run me through from behind?”

  The Counselor’s voice was somber. “We are not without honor, Tanaros Kingslayer. Even here, even now.”

  Tanaros laughed. “So you say, wizard. And yet much praise was given to Elendor, son of Elterrion, who crept behind Lord Satoris to strike a blow against him on these very plains, ages past. Do you deny it?”

  Malthus sat unmoving in the saddle. “Does Satoris Banewreaker thus accuse? Then let him take the field and acquit himself. I see no Shaper present.”

  “Nor do I,” Tanaros said softly. “Nor do I. And yet I know where my master is, and why. Can you say the same, Wise Counselor?”

  “You seek to delay, Kingslayer!” Aracus Altorus’ voice rang out, taut with frustration. “You know why we are here. Fight or surrender.”

  Tanaros gazed at him through the eyes of the Helm of Shadows, seeing a figure haloed in flickering fire; a fierce spirit, bold and exultant. Still, his face was averted. “I am here, Son of Altorus.” He opened his arms. “Will you stand against me? Will you, Ingolin of Meronil? No?” His gaze shifted to Malthus. “What of you, Counselor? Will you not match Haomane’s Spear against my sword?”

  “I will do it.”

  The voice came from behind them. Blaise Caveros rode forward, unbuckling his helm. He removed it to reveal his face, pale and resolute. With difficulty, he fixed his gaze upon the eyeholes of the Helm of Shadows and held it there. Beads of sweat shone on his brow. “On one condition. I have removed my helm, kinsman,” he said thickly. “Will you not do the same?”

  Malthus the Counselor lifted his head as though listening for a strain of distant music. The tip of the Spear of Light rose, wreathed in white-gold fire, and the Soumanië on his breast sparkled.

  Aracus Altorus drew a sharp breath. “Blaise, stand down! If this battle belongs to anyone, it is me.”

  “No.” Blaise looked steadily at Tanaros. “What comes afterward is your battle, Aracus. I cannot wed the Lady Cerelinde. I cannot forge a kingdom out of chaos. But I can fight this … creature.”

  Tanaros smiled bitterly. “Do you name me thus, kinsman?”

  “I do.” Blaise matched his smile. “I have spent my life in the shadow of your infamy, Kingslayer. If you give me this chance … an honorable chance … to purge the world of its blight, I will take it.”

  Tanaros pointed toward Malthus with his blade. “Do you speak of honor, kinsman? Let the Counselor relinquish yon Spear.”

  “Tanaros,” a voice murmured. He turned his head to see Ushahin Dreamspinner, his mismatched eyes feverish and bright “There is madness in this offer.”

  “Madness, aye,” Tanaros said quietly. “Madness to risk the Helm; madness, too, for Malthus to surrender a weapon of Haomane’s Shaping while Ushahin-who-walks-between-dusk-and-dawn is afoot.”

  The half-breed shivered. “I do not know. Vorax’s death—”

  “—cries for vengeance. Let us provide it for him.” Tanaros reached up to unbuckle the Helm of Shadows. Even through his gauntlets, its touch made his hands ache. Behind him, the Tungskulder Fjel murmured deep in their throats. “What say you, Counselor?”

  Malthus’ hand tightened on the Spear of Light. With a sudden move, he drove it downward into the earth. “Remove the Helm and lay it upon the ground, Kingslayer,” he said in his calm, deep voice. “And I will release the haft and honor this bargain, if it be your will to make it.”

  A bargain was a fitting way to honor the death of Vorax of Staccia. Tanaros glanced around. Word had spread, and stillness in its wake. Across the plains, weary combatants paused, waiting. Some of Haomane’s Allies were using the respite to haul the wounded from the field; behind their lines, figures hurried to meet them. The sturdy Dwarfs aided, carrying wounded Men twice their size. The dead lay motionless, bleeding into the long grass. There were many of them on the left flank, clad in Staccian armor.

  There were no wounded Fjel to be tended. Wounded Fjel fought until there was no more life in them. There were only the living and the dead.

  “Marshal Hyrgolf.” Tanaros beckoned. “Order the Nåltannen to regroup, and move the second squadron of Gulnagel in position to harry the Vedasians. Tell them to hold on your orders. Give none until provoked.”

  “Aye, Lord General, sir!” Hyrgolf saluted.

  Tanaros smiled at him. “Once I remove this Helm, I want your Tungskulder lads to guard it as though their lives depended on it Does any
one of Haomane’s Allies stir in its direction, strike them down without hesitation or mercy. Is that understood?”

  Hyrgolf revealed his eyetusks in a broad grin. “Aye, Lord General, sir!”

  “Good.” Tanaros offered a mocking bow to Blaise Caveros. “Shall we meet as Men, face-to-face and on our feet? Men did so once upon the training-fields of Altoria, before I razed it to the ground.”

  Color rose to the Borderguardsman’s cheeks; with an oath, he dismounted and flung his head back. “Come, then, and meet me!”

  Tanaros sheathed his sword and dismounted. Six Tungskulder stepped forward promptly to surround him. With careful hands, he lifted the Helm of Shadows from his head. He blinked against the sudden brightness, the disappearance of the phantom pain in his groin, the ache in his palms. Astride his foam-white horse, the Wise Counselor watched him, still gripping the planted shaft of the Spear of Light.

  “What did you do to my horse, Malthus?” Tanaros called to him.

  “All things are capable of change,” Malthus answered. “Even you, Kingslayer.”

  “As are you, Counselor; for we are Lesser Shapers, are we not? Change is a choice we may make.” Stooping, Tanaros laid the Helm on the trampled grass. “And yet I do not think you gave such a choice to my horse.”

  There was a moment of fear as he straightened; if Haomane’s Allies were to betray their bargain, it would be now. But, no; Malthus had kept his word and released the Spear of Light. There it stood, gleaming, untouched by any hand, upright and quivering in a semicircle of Haomane’s Allies. The eyeholes of the Helm of Shadows gazed upward from the ground, dark with pain and horror. Beyond the Tungskulder, Ushahin nodded briefly at him, his twisted face filled with sick resolve.

  “So.” Tanaros stepped away. A cold breeze stirred his damp hair, making him feel light-headed and free. His world was narrowing to this moment, this hard-trodden circle of ground. This opponent, this younger self, glimpsed through the mirror of ages. He gave the old, old salute, the one he had given so often to Roscus; a fist to the heart, an open hand extended. Brother, let us spar. I trust my life unto your hands. “Shall we begin?”

  Blaise Caveros drew his sword without returning the salute. “Do you suggest this is a mere exercise?” he asked grimly.

  “No.” Tanaros regarded his gauntleted hand, closing it slowly into a fist. He glanced up to meet the eyes of Aracus Altorus; fierce and demanding, unhappy at being relegated to an onlooker’s role. Not Roscus, but someone else altogether. “No,” he said, “I suppose not.”

  “Then ward yourself well,” Blaise said, and attacked.

  NINETEEN

  DARKHAVEN’S KITCHENS WERE FILLED WITH a fearsome clatter.

  That was where Dani and Thulu found themselves herded once the long work of loading half-smoked sides of mutton onto the endless supply-wagons was done. It had been a long nightmare, filled with blood and smoke, the both of them staggering with laden arms along the stony trails. It seemed impossible that no one should notice them, but amid the horde of toiling madlings, they might as well have been invisible. Back and forth, back and forth, until the work was done and the army departed for the plains below.

  And when it was, they were herded into the kitchens under the careless eye of a pair of Fjeltroll guards, who had larger matters on their minds. Darkhaven was buzzing like a hornets’ nest; no one paid heed to a pair of filthblackened Yarru huddled in a corner. The kitchens swarmed with such figures, swarthy with smoke and pitch and dried blood from the long night’s labors.

  Madlings.

  Dani heard the word without understanding. In the kitchens, he understood. The inhabitants—the human inhabitants—of Darkhaven were mad. They had no way to cope with what transpired. It was clear to him, and to Thulu, that the bulk of Darkhaven’s forces had abandoned the premises. Still, the madlings must cook; must prepare, must tend and be useful.

  Pots boiled on stoves. Dishes roasted in ovens. It did not matter that there was no one to eat them. There was a kind of fearful safety amidst the mayhem, but it was not one that could last.

  “Where to, lad?” Uncle Thulu whispered.

  Dani, who had sunk his head onto pillowed arms, raised it with an effort. “I don’t know,” he said dully. “I would ask … I would ask …” He shook his head. “I’m tired.”

  Thulu regarded him. “Would you ask, lad, or do?”

  “I don’t know.” Dani raked his hands through his lank black hair. “Before … ah, Uncle! I wanted to ask. What has the Sunderer done to the Yarru that I should seek to destroy him? And yet …” He was still, remembering. Perhaps your people would not have been slain for your actions. “I fear perhaps we have passed such a point, and Malthus the Counselor had the right of it all along.”

  “Hey!” A figure shouted at them, glowering, brandishing a ladle in one hand. “What idleness is this? Does it serve his Lordship?” A platter was thrust forward, a silver salver with a dish-dome upon it. “Here,” the figure said roughly. “Take it to her Ladyship. She’s been near forgotten in the uproar. Few enough folk want to take the risk of waiting on her now, but you’ll do in a pinch.”

  Dani rose to his feet and took it unthinking, hunching his shoulders and ducking his head; Uncle Thulu was a step behind him.

  “Well?” The cook’s figure loomed. “What are you waiting for? Go!”

  They went.

  Darkhaven’s halls made its kitchens seem a haven of comfort. They were massive and windowless, wrought entirely of gleaming black stone. No gentle lamplight alleviated the darkness; only veins of blue-white fire glittering in the walls. Cradling the tray against his hip, Dani laid one hand upon one wall and found it warm.

  “Marrow-fire,” he murmured. “It must be.”

  “Aye, but where’s the Source?”

  “I don’t know.” Dani shook his head. “Below, Malthus said. Somewhere in the depths of the earth, below Darkhaven’s foundation.”

  “I’ve seen no stair.” Thulu sighed. “We’ll have to search, Dani. Best we find a place to hide that tray and ourselves before our luck runs out.”

  “The tray.” Dani glanced at it. “For her Ladyship, he said. Do you suppose …”

  “The Lady Cerelinde?” Uncle Thulu whistled softly.

  “She would know what to do,” Dani said, for it seemed to him it must be true. The Haomane-gaali Peldras had been wise; not as wise as Malthus, but wise and gentle, filled with the knowledge of his long years. Surely the Lady of the Ellylon must be no less! The thought of laying the burden of decision on the shoulders of someone wiser than he filled him with relief. “All we have to do is find her.”

  The task proved easier than they reckoned. After a few more turns, they rounded a corner to see a quartet of Fjeltroll posted outside a door halfway down the hall. They were hulking Fjel with black, bristling hides and gleaming black armor. A madling was speaking to them; a woman.

  Dani stopped with a mind to retreat. It was terrifying enough to have passed to and fro under the noses of the Fjeltroll amid a reeking crowd. This was too dangerous.

  And too late.

  The woman caught sight of them and raised her voice. “Time and more you came! Would you have her Ladyship starve?” She beckoned, impatient, as they stood frozen and staring. “Well, come on!”

  Dani and his uncle exchanged a glance, then proceeded slowly.

  For a moment, a brief moment, he thought they would get away with it. The madling woman snatched the tray from his hands, giving it to the Fjeltroll to inspect. One lifted the domed cover, and another leaned down to smell the dish. Dani began to back away unobtrusively, Thulu behind him.

  “Wait.” One of the Fjel guards spoke. They froze where they stood. It sniffed the air, broad nostrils widening. “These two are new,” it said in its low, guttural voice. “What did the General say to do?”

  Dani wished they had run, then; had run, had hidden, had never tried to find the Lady Cerelinde. The madling came toward them. Her eyes glittered with an unholy gl
ee as she drew near, near enough that he could smell her, rank and unwashed.

  “Who are you?” she asked. “Has General Tanaros been looking for you?”

  Neither of the Yarru answered.

  Slow and deliberate, the madling held up one hand and licked her forefinger, then swiped it down the side of Dani’s face. He held himself still and rigid, staring at her. A layer of soot and river mud came away, revealing the nut-brown skin beneath it.

  “If I were you,” the madling said almost kindly, “I would run.”

  They took her advice, pelting down the hall. Behind them came the clamor of a laden tray falling, and the deep roar of Fjel pursuit.

  MEARA WATCHED THE CHARRED FOLK run. The sight made her laugh as few things did in these dire times. Lord Ushahin Dreamspinner would be proud if he were here; even Tanaros himself would be proud. She took a moment to imagine it—his hands on her shoulders, his dark eyes filled with fondness, a rare smile on his lips as he said, “Meara, today your deeds fill me with pride.”

  Of course, the Fjel had to catch them first. The thought caused her laughter to falter and vanish, replaced by a frown. She shouldn’t have told them to run. She hadn’t thought they really would. The Mørkhar Fjel of the Havenguard were tireless, but not swift, not like the Gulnagel.

  But then, if the Charred Folk hid, the madlings could find them. Meara brightened at the thought. There was nowhere in Darkhaven anyone could hide that the madlings could not find them. Her smile was quite restored by the time the Lady opened the door.

  Suddenly, Meara did not feel proud anymore.

  The Lady Cerelinde looked at the silver dishes, the remains of her meal spattered over the gleaming marble floor of the hall. “Meara, what has happened here?” she asked in her gentle voice.

  “Danger, Lady.” She ducked her head and mumbled. “Strange Men. The Fjel will find them.”

  “What Men?” The Lady’s voice rose when Meara remained silent. It was not harsh, no, it could never be harsh, but it held an edge as keen and bright as a sword. “Meara, what Men?”