“That’s what Rogger and I will seek out. Tracker Lorr is down there somewhere. We must find him. We’ll head to the deepest levels of your domain while you raise your fellow masters.”
“And this storm…” Gerrod turned away and strode toward an arched opening into an inner study. “I knew there was something dangerous in its manner-the way it sucked air alchemies to itself. And now, if the Wyr-mistress was correct, it casts out seersong to bend all Grace to its will.”
Tylar followed the master, drawn by any hope of an answer. He still pictured Eylan vanishing into the storm. If there were to be any possibility of fronting a rescue, they would need to know more.
“Seersong is also fueled by air, darkly twisted as it may be,” Gerrod said, stopping before the closed door to his study. “The storm seems tied back to that aspect of Grace. Air. If only we knew more…”
“Mayhap we do,” Rogger said, warming himself beside the hearth. He turned to heat up his backside and eyed Tylar pointedly. “The storm. The face it bore…”
Gerrod glanced to Tylar for elaboration.
Tylar recalled the countenance shaded in streaks of Gloom-a disquietingly familiar countenance. He had not even voiced his misgivings to Kathryn earlier. There had been no time, and Tylar had wondered if he could be mistaken. Here in the warmth, he had begun to doubt what he had seen.
Or maybe he just wished it to be false.
Rogger dashed that hope. “I recognized the face, too.”
The thief yanked up the sleeve of his woolen shirt and bared his upper arm to the firelight. He tapped a scar burned into his flesh.
Tylar read the Littick sigil. The name of a god. The same as whose face had been borne by the storm winds.
Ulf of Ice Eyrie.
“It was the third god-realm I visited for my pilgrimage,” Rogger said and pulled his sleeve back over the branded sigil. “There’s no mistaking that cold face.”
Tylar slowly nodded. It had been long ago, when he was new to his cloak. He had been hunting some bloodrunners with a small group of knights, tracking them into the god-realm of Ice Eyrie. They had been caught in an ice storm, came close to expiring. Rescue had come from Ice Eyrie. The hunting party had been taken to the hollowed-out mountain that was Lord Ulf’s domain. Tylar had spent the rest of the winter in that ice-locked realm. And in all that time, he saw the aloof god only once. Lord Ulf spent most of his time in his castillion atop the windswept peak. Still, it was hard to mistake him, with his snowy hair framing a dour and long face, as craggy as his peak. He was one of the rare gods who did not bear a youthful and pleasant demeanor.
And now here again was his countenance, painted in swirling swaths of Gloom. Tylar met Rogger’s eyes. There was no denying the truth.
Another of the Hundred had been swallowed by the Cabal. Once again, the War of the Gods stirred, striking openly at the heart of Myrillia.
Gerrod took the announcement with his usual armored indifference. “It makes a certain sense. Lord Ulf bears a Grace rich in air. But it still doesn’t explain how he controls this storm. Not even he can wield such power.”
“Perhaps he is aided by the Cabal’s dark forces,” Tylar offered, picturing the swirl of Gloom, the bleeding of the naether into his world.
Gerrod shook his head. “Such power would still have to flow through Lord Ulf. It would have to be wielded by him. Even Chrism, possessed by his naethryn undergod, would have failed to bind this blizzard to his will.”
“Then how is it being done?”
“I can’t say. Not yet. The answer is hidden behind the white cloak of the storm. But I have a growing fear.”
“What’s that?”
“The storm was not born out of nothing. It rose from the north and traveled south across the First Land. It has taken a full half turn of the moon to reach here. Arriving in a timely manner. Tied to the arrival of the Godslayer.”
“Not all of the Hundred were happy with your regency,” Gerrod continued. “Several spoke against you, while others remained silent.”
“Like Lord Ulf,” Rogger said, worriedly scratching at his beard. “He had closed off his realm, freezing his borders.”
Tylar had never given such actions much thought. Lord Ulf’s isolation seemed merely a solidifying of the god’s usual solitary nature, turned inward to protect his realm. But was there a darker purpose to it all?
“It would take the strength of more than one hand to birth this storm and guide its path and wickedness.”
“Or more than one god…” Rogger mumbled.
Silence settled over them.
Tylar now understood the bronze master’s fear. After the Battle of Myrrwood, Tylar had been wary of another move by the Cabal, the dark naethryn forces who sought dominion over Myrillia. But could Gerrod be right? Could the storm herald something even more dire? A faction of the Hundred now turned against him, against his regency?
Tylar held out one hope. “The face in the storm…it was sculpted of Gloom. Surely that must suggest the Cabal is involved here.”
Gerrod sighed. “Not necessarily. As any alchemist can manipulate Graces to dark ends, so too can any god. Though you are right to still fear the Cabal. When gods corrupt their own Grace, they lay themselves open to the dark forces of the naethryn. It is a dangerous path. And I worry that if we challenge Lord Ulf and his fellow gods too fiercely, require them to tap even more deeply into this dark font, then our own efforts could push them over the edge and fully into that dark abyss.”
“So either we succumb without a fight,” Rogger said, “or risk forging an even greater threat?”
Gerrod nodded. “Where there was one daemon-possessed god before, a legion could arise now. Myrillia would be torn apart.”
Tylar allowed all he had heard to sink into his bones. The others stared at him for guidance. He had none. It was a situation a thousandfold more dire than he had first imagined.
The heavy silence was finally broken-but not by anyone in the room.
A distant baying reached them, rising from far below.
Only one beast could howl that loudly.
“It’s Tracker Lorr’s bullhound,” Tylar said, turning to the door, reminded again that they had more to fear than just the storm.
Kathryn swept forward, casting out her cloak between her young page and the guards’ swords. “None will harm her!” she declared.
To one side, the soothmancer still lay on the floor, cradling the burnt stumps of his fingers. The silver bowl of his alchemies still smoked, casting forth a reek of burnt blood. A second mancer crouched over his companion staring daggers toward Dart.
Bloodnullers swept in from sheltered alcoves to either side, fetid with their black alchemies, ready to strip any Grace from the accused.
Kathryn raised a hand against them all, giving them pause. She kept her focus on the bench, on Argent. “She is still my charge. She will not be slain until a full investigation is made!”
Argent was on his feet, flanked by the two adjudicators. The elderly man and younger woman hung back, plainly shocked and unwilling to intervene. They were as much pets of Argent as the knights bearing the Fiery Cross. There was only one true adjudicator here.
The warden’s one eye glared down at Kathryn. “You protect someone who is plainly tainted by the dark arts. Can there be any question now that she did indeed summon a daemon?”
“That can be decided at a later time. For the moment, we have a greater danger to Tashijan. The storm beyond our walls is not a normal blizzard, but one blown up by Dark Grace, brought to bear against our towers.”
Her words silenced the smattering of cries. A few swords lowered. Eyes turned to the high bench.
“Madness…” Argent mumbled, then continued louder. “Storms of Dark Grace? What ale-addled sop has churned up such a tale?”
“It is no tale. Master Rothkild has studied the crashed flippercraft. He found the alchemies of the ship drained from its reservoirs, bled dry by the storm. Tylar-the regent himself went
outside our walls to scrutinize the storm directly. It holds around Tashijan like a whirlwind, while beyond its icy cloak hides a dark force. He saw its face briefly, almost died for the viewing, and lost one of his own for his efforts.”
Kathryn read the wariness in the warden, but also a growing worry.
“And where is the regent now? Why does he not bring this word to me himself?”
Kathryn met the warden’s gaze, wondering if perhaps it had been a mistake to send Tylar off to search the cellars of Tashijan. But she also saw a fire rise in Argent and recognized the manner in which he bit his words upon mentioning Tylar. The two were oil and fire.
“The storm is not the only threat we face. A Hand of Oldenbrook has brought word from Tracker Lorr.” She motioned to the boy named Brant. “Lorr has discovered something foul hidden beneath Tashijan. It stirs now while the storm has us snared. Tylar has gone to seek out the tracker to learn more. The Masterlevels must be cleared. Knights must be gathered to wall and cellar. Before we are caught defenseless.”
Her words stirred the small crowd that had gathered behind her. The two adjudicators had slunk behind Argent’s shoulders and had their heads bent together, speaking hurriedly.
Argent straightened. To his credit, the set of his lips turned thoughtful with concern, ready to take matters from here. He had led many a campaign against forces both human and otherwise. Though lately he had shown a craven lust for power, he was still an able leader of men.
Before he could speak, a sharper shout broke through the murmuring. Kathryn turned to see a squint-faced young squire with piggish eyes push forward, arm pointing, flanked by knights. His voice held a keening edge.
“It is him! That is the boy who helped Page Hothbrin escape! He is in league with her!”
All eyes swung between the accuser and Brant. Even Argent’s. A shadow passed over the warden’s features.
“Brant is a Hand of Oldenbrook,” Kathryn argued. “Just arrived. I have heard his story. He heard my page scream and merely went to her aid.”
Argent looked little mollified. “And according to your testament, he is also the one who brought forth stories of lurkers hiding below Tashijan.”
“He brought such a word from Tracker Lorr-a wyld tracker you’ve known for many a campaign.”
“Then where is Lorr?” Argent held up his hands. “Why does he send a boy to rally Tashijan?”
Kathryn opened her mouth to answer but was cut off.
“No!” Argent leaned forward, leaning fists on the table. “The only dark art I’ve seen with my own eye was the burning of the soothmancer by your page. She has shown herself to be cursed. If there is foulness afoot in Tashijan, perhaps we should look here first for answers.”
“I will let no one harm her,” Kathryn said.
“You have no say in the matter, Castellan Vail. The edict here is final.” Argent stood taller. He waved an arm toward Kathryn and those who had come with her. “Take them all under guard, strip them of their weapons!”
Knights converged from all sides, the Fiery Cross bright on their shoulders. Bloodnullers swept in from sheltered alcoves to either side, ready to strip Grace and power. Kathryn stood her ground as Brant and Laurelle shifted to stand behind her cloak. A dagger appeared in the boy’s hand. He held it low and skilled.
Kathryn’s hand rested on the hilt of her sheathed sword.
To pull it free, to raise it against her fellow knights-such an act would divide their house when it needed to be at its most united. But she had no choice. Dart and her secret had to be preserved. For the sake of all of Myrillia.
“Take them down!” Argent commanded.
Kathryn’s fingers closed on her hilt.
The bullhound bellowed in rage. Tylar followed the echoing howl down the spiral of the narrow stairs. He touched the Grace in his cloak and drew his sword, becoming a flow of shadow.
He had left Rogger and Gerrod far behind. They were rousing the masters from their dens, getting them moving to higher ground.
Tylar needed to know what threat they faced.
Following the howling, he reached the last spiral, the deepest of the Masterlevels, floors long abandoned as the number of those who studied the disciplines waned, matching the decline in shadowknights above. Tylar had not realized the extent of the blight upon Tashijan. They were at their weakest when they needed to be at their strongest.
Pushing back his despair, he burst from the stairs into a dark hall. No lamps lit this level. Dust lay thick on the floor. The strident bawling of the hound drew him deeper. Light appeared ahead.
Tylar rushed toward it, a mothkin to the flame.
As he rounded a bend, he discovered the narrow passage blocked by a shaggy form. The bullhound faced the opposite direction, hunched low to the ground, snarling and gruffing in warning. It backed slowly toward Tylar, retreating from the darker depths of the passage. It herded two forms behind it, one leaning on the other.
“Keep the lamp high!” the taller of the two urged hoarsely.
Tylar closed the distance, recognizing Tracker Lorr. His companion failed to note Tylar’s approach until the last moment. Tylar shed the shadows from his cloak as he entered the pool of lamplight. His appearance startled the younger man, barely older than a boy, plainly a wyld tracker from his muzzled features. The young man squeaked in alarm and came close to fumbling the lamp in his fright.
“Be still, Kytt,” Lorr groaned as he hung on his younger companion. “He’s a friend.”
Tylar held back his shock at the older tracker’s appearance. Lorr’s clothes were burnt to his skin along his left flank. His hair was singed to the roots along the same side, his ear a raw, blistered ruin.
Through the stench, Tylar also smelled oil.
“Shattered my lamp,” Lorr coughed out. “Set fire to myself to keep them at bay. Only way to escape. Got too close.”
Tylar could not fathom such a means of defense. “Who…?”
Lorr shook his head against explanations. He lifted an arm toward the far stairs. “Must climb out of the darkness. Away…” The tracker suddenly swooned on his feet. He fell and pulled down the young tracker with him.
Tylar reached and tugged them both up with one arm. He kept his sword raised in the other. “Get Lorr up on the hound. Head back up. I’ll guard your rear.”
The young tracker, Kytt, nodded. With strength born of terror, he helped Tylar heave Lorr across the withers of the hound. “Barrin,” he keened to the bullhound. “Come away.”
Tylar noted how Kytt trembled all over, lamp jittering in his grip. But a brightness shone in his amber eyes. He held back his panic to control the hound. Together they retreated past Tylar, while he stood guard over the passage with his sword.
As Kytt and the burdened bullhound wound back toward the far stairs, the lamplight receded with them. Tylar faced the deeper darkness, drawing the shadows over his shoulders again, fading his form into the gloom.
His sword-Rivenscryr-held the last of the lamp’s glow to its heart, shining in the shadows. He waited a breath. What had Lorr found? What had set the tracker to burning himself to escape?
Down the passage, where no lamp had been lit for a full century, the darkness stirred. Something-someone-flowed toward him. He heard a vague rustle of cloak. Another knight? Buried in shadows like Tylar?
“Who are you?” Tylar challenged.
Silence answered him.
He stepped down the passage, lifting his sword higher, a beacon in the darkness. The shine of silver slowed the roiling shadows, just at the edge of sight.
A figure stood there, more darkness than flesh.
Deeper down the passage, the blackness churned and a deep rustling of chalk on gravestones whispered to him. Tylar knew a legion waited beyond this one’s shoulder, held back more by the glint of his sword than its keen edge.
As they faced each other across the gulf, Tylar’s vision adjusted to the gloom. He discerned eyes shining back at him. They didn’t so much glow with li
ght, but were wells of blackness deeper than any shadow. He risked another step closer. Features of pale flesh appeared out of the darkness like a skull rising out of black dirt, half hidden by masklin.
It was a knight.
One he knew.
“No…” he moaned, stumbling back, his own breath choking him.
The figure followed with a pall of black amusement.
“Perryl…”
It was his former squire, turned knight while Tylar was in exile. He had vanished from Tashijan over a year ago, believed taken for some dark rites by the Fiery Cross. But seeing what was left of Perryl here, Tylar knew his friend’s fate had taken a much darker turn.
Words reached him, whispered with the coldness of deep caverns. “I bend my knee to a new master now.”
Tylar shook his head against the voice-so like Perryl’s, yet not. The blackest corruption oiled his words.
Fired by revulsion, Tylar stabbed at the dark figure. But his blade found only shadow. The knight flowed away, raising a black sword that ate the light, a match to the daemon knight’s eyes.
“I am ghawl now,” Perryl whispered. “Flesh and death are my past.”
The black blade parried Rivenscryr as if the Godsword were mere steel. Tylar felt the hilt spasm in his grip, clenching hard on his fingers, repulsed by the black blade’s touch.
“The darkness of the naether is so much stronger than mere shadow.”
The black sword slid across Tylar’s blade and drove for his heart.
Then light flared behind Tylar, flashing like the first rays of the sun.
The brightness ate away the dark blade before it could strike his chest. The glow also shed the shadows from the daemon knight, revealing cloak and form.
Tylar thrust out with his own sword. He drove his blade through the heart of the figure that wore his friend’s face. It sank deep and cut free a shriek that pierced beyond hearing. A wash of fetid decay billowed out, shivering Tylar’s skin. At the same time, the daemon’s cloak flew open like the wings of some malevolent raven, revealing what was hidden beneath.
Horror drove Tylar back. He bore only the hilt of the Godsword now. The blade had vanished, eaten away as usual until it could be whetted again in blood.
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