Shadowfall

by James Clemens

  “What you did to her . . .” Krevan’s reaction was not an outburst, but a coldly spoken promise. “I will still kill you for that.”

  A tiny arm waved away his threat. “She let you flee the Lair. She had to be punished. But I’m surprised it took two centuries for you to finally come looking for her. Who’s to blame for that?”

  Krevan’s eyes narrowed.

  Tylar read the pain there, deep rooted and old. He had to end this. He spoke up, drawing the Wyr-lord’s attention. “Is there a deal to be struck here or not?”

  “To the point,” Bennifren said, ancient eyes staring out of the pudgy, soft face. “Very good. The council has conferred. We will allow you safe passage through our burrows.”

  “And the price?” Tylar asked.

  “One you can live with, I believe . . . and that is the point of all this, is it not?”

  Tylar smelled sour milk wafting as the Wyr-lord was carried closer.

  “For ages upon end,” he continued, “the Wyr clans have sought divinity in flesh. We have made many strides toward that end. The black knight who led you here was but one success, a mortal man almost unbound by time. But he does age, like myself, only much more slowly. A century or more and he will expire, as will I. That is, if he does not die sooner of severe wounds or sickness like any man. We have some manner to go before we can breed godhood out of mortal flesh—but we grow closer with every passing birth.”

  Tylar had seen the results of such births over the years: children without limbs, creatures of misshapen flesh, Grace-maddened beasts. But the worst were those like the abomination before him. Twisted by alchemies in the womb, yet wise beyond reason. They were dangerous and cunning.

  He would have to tread lightly. He had no misconceptions about the Wyr, and they surely were not blind to his own abilities: from the Grace flowing through his body to the smoky daemon held in check. Yet they allowed him into their Lair without fear. He did not doubt that eyes watched from unseen places, and safeguards were in place to kill them all at the slightest provocation.

  “Then what do you want from us?” Tylar asked again.

  “As payment for saving your flesh, we ask only that you leave a little of it behind.”

  “What do you mean?”

  The eyes of the babe flashed brighter. “You have been blasted by Grace, had it infused into your being. One such as yourself could help us achieve our ancient goal in a single generation.

  “We want nothing more—and nothing less—than a single sample of each of your eight humours. Leave that behind and passage will be granted to all of you.”

  Tylar considered this offer. It was plain enough. He began to open his mouth, ready to agree.

  Rogger mumbled around his pipe, the words barely reaching Tylar’s ears, “Bargain, damn you . . .”

  Tylar realized he had been too ready to seal the deal. “You ask for much,” he stumbled out. “I say my blood alone should buy us passage.”

  “What you offer so freely we could perhaps take by force,” Bennifren countered, eyes squinting with threat.

  “But what will it cost you? You know I am not without weapons.”

  “Your daemon . . .” the Wyr-lord sneered, a disturbing expression on a babe’s face.

  Tylar nodded. Let them believe he could wield the creature like a sword. “You would never find your way out of our burrows. We have traps that can kill even a daemon-cursed man. And what of your friends? Do you throw their lives away so easily?”

  Tylar sighed and countered. “Then I’ll offer blood and both biles.”

  “Shite and piss? That’s how you sweeten the deal. I’m not moved.”

  “Then make a counter.”

  “I will leave you tears and sweat, and take all else.”

  Tylar narrowed his eyes. The Wyr birthed abominations in their drive for divinity. They would want his seed more than anything else. He suspected it was this very reason he was still alive. While the Wyr might harvest most humours from his corpse, his seed would die with him.

  Yet now that he considered it, this was the one humour he would keep to himself. He would not have some twisted child born from the seed of his loins. Not among the Wyr. He had only to consider Krevan’s story to know better.

  “You may have all my humours except one,” Tylar said.

  “You wish to restrain your seed from us,” the babe said, as if reading his mind. “Is this not so?”

  Tylar felt a chill despite the hearth. Dark intelligence shone from the little one’s eyes. He sensed a trap being set but had no choice but to step forward. He nodded his agreement.

  “We will allow this.”

  Tylar could not hold back his surprise and spoke too soon. “Then we have a bargain.”

  “Almost . . . we will allow you to restrain your seed, for now, to keep it safe where it now resides. But we demand a future claim.”

  Tylar frowned at this.

  “Before you die, you must forfeit your seed to the Wyr.”

  He shook his head. “Death can come suddenly, without warning. I cannot promise time to cast my seed.”

  The Wyr-lord nodded. “We accept this risk, but in doing so, we require one last concession to seal the bargain.”

  “And what is that?”

  “One of the Wyr will journey with you from here, to safeguard our claim, to keep its bearer secure.”

  “You wish to send a guard along with us?”

  “That is our last and best offer.”

  Tylar glanced to Rogger. He had remained silent. His only assistance now was a shrug.

  Tylar faced the Wyr-lord. He still felt the presence of the noose, but they had no other option.

  With a deep sigh, he nodded. “We accept your bargain.”

  “So it is spoken, so it is bound,” the lord finished. The woman turned, obeying some unseen signal, driven and ridden like a barebacked horse. “Meet your guardian.”

  Tylar prepared himself to face some heaving monstrosity, some muscled mix of loam-giant and Wyr-blasted corruption.

  The guardian stepped into the doorway.

  Tylar’s eyes widened in shock.

  She was as tall as Krevan, stately of limb, decked in deer-skin from boots to furred collar, cut low between her ample breasts. The curves of her body seemed to ripple as she entered the chamber, moving like some feral black leopard. Her ebony hair fell straight to her shoulders, unbraided, untamed. Her skin was the hue of bitternut: dark, but mixed with cream. Her black eyes bore the slightest narrowed pinch, accentuating her feline grace. Her lips were full, nose narrow.

  Her calm gaze swept the room and settled on Tylar. A perfume of crushed lilies carried in with her . . . accompanied by a deeper, muskier scent that quickened Tylar’s breath as he attempted to capture it.

  “May I introduce Wyr-mistress Eylan,” the babe-lord said.

  Rogger mumbled behind Tylar, “You’d better keep a close eye on that seed of yours. Something tells me you might be giving it sooner than you expected . . . and willingly at that.”

  So here was the Wyr-lord’s trap.

  Tylar watched Eylan bow, moving with such unassuming grace.

  A trap baited most beautifully.

  Deep underground, Tylar stepped from the steaming chamber where a hot spring bubbled. Smelling of salt and iron, the air had seared and drawn sweat from all his pores. Wearing only a breechcloth, he shivered as he entered the neighboring cell, ready to let his sweat be harvested by Wyrd Bennifren’s alchemist.

  “Tylar . . .”

  The new voice startled him, unexpected as it was.

  Delia stood in the chamber.

  He half-covered his nakedness as she crossed toward him.

  Past her shoulder, at the entrance, he spotted the thicklimbed giant with the bony brow—his guard—and the wizened old alchemist who wheezed constantly. In the company of these two Wyr-men, Tylar had already emptied bowel and bladder. He had spat until his mouth was paste and had sniffed ground nettlecorn until his nose drip
ped heavily. Everything had been collected in crystal receptacles, ready for some dark purpose, the thought of which unnerved Tylar.

  Delia spoke when she reached his side, glancing askance at his body. “I’ve convinced them to allow me to harvest your last three humours. Blood and tears are especially delicate to collect. And as a chosen Hand, I’ve the most experience.”

  He nodded.

  She smelled of sweetwater and lemon. Clearly she had been allowed to bathe. Her hair was damp and combed back behind her ears. It looked even blacker, almost oiled. And she had changed out of her muddy wear and into a soft shift of green linen, belted at the waist with a braid of bleached leathers. The shift clung fetchingly to her. He noted how fair shaped she was: apple-sized breasts, slender waist.

  So young . . . too young, he reminded himself. Still, he could not discount how she shortened his breath, especially now. With the mud of the road washed from her, she came to him less like a fellow companion and more like a woman.

  She stepped to his side and unrolled a silk scarf atop a table, revealing an array of silver and crystal utensils. She picked up a glass blade and crystal cup. She waved him to the table. “Lift your arms.”

  He did as she instructed. “You don’t have to do this . . .”

  “I served Meeryn,” she said. “I will serve her still.”

  She drew the dull edge of the blade along his heat-dampened skin, from shoulder to waist, scraping the sweat from his body. She deftly collected the runoff into the tiny cup, then continued across his back, under his arms, down his legs, not unlike a stableman brushing down a sweated horse.

  But she was no stableman.

  As she stepped around to work his chest, he felt himself stir and fought against it, willing himself to distraction. But she continued her work, moving the blade up and down his chest, scraping delicately and smoothly.

  Unbidden, a shiver trembled through him.

  She finally seemed to note the flush to his skin. She glanced up to his eyes and saw something that widened her lashes. She lowered the blade. “I . . . I think that will be enough.”

  Gratefully, he slipped into a cloak, covering his half-naked form before turning back to her.

  Delia set up for the next harvest, laying out a silver lancet and twisting up a cord of silk.

  Tylar cleared his throat, needing to break the silence. “Delia,” he began, his voice coming out strained. “You’ve done much to get me here, given up much, risked more. But now that I’ve reached the First Land—”

  Without looking up, she cut him off. “I’m not leaving your side. Meeryn is inside you. She is still my duty.”

  “What’s inside me is not Meeryn,” he pressed. “She died.”

  “No.” Delia continued her preparation.

  Tylar took a deep breath, glanced to the door, then back to Delia. He lowered his voice. “What is inside me is not spellcast daemon but one of the naethryn.”

  Delia glanced up again, eyes narrowed.

  Tylar moved closer. “One of the undergods.”

  “How do you know this?”

  He balked at telling her about his dream. “I just know.”

  Delia motioned for him to kneel before her. He did. Their knees now touched. She sat silent for a long breath, her brow crinkled. “I should have considered that possibility,” she finally mumbled.

  Tylar frowned. “What do you mean?”

  She took his arm and rested his hand in her lap, palm up, then tied the silk at his elbow. “When the gods were sundered, they were split into three parts: the gods of flesh here, and their counterparts up in the aether and down in the naether. Meeryn had spoken of how she could sense her other parts, lost to her, but still there, tied ethereally and eternally.”

  “Until now.”

  Delia nodded. “Somehow Meeryn, as she died, must have used this tie to draw a part of herself into you. Her naethryn self.”

  Tylar glanced down to the black palm print.

  Delia ran her fingers over his forearm.

  He shivered again. And it wasn’t from Delia’s touch this time. He considered what lay inside him . . . not just any naethryn, but Meeryn’s undergod. What did it all mean?

  Delia concentrated on her work, a lock of hair hanging over one eye.

  Tylar reached up and brushed the stray bit of hair back in place. It was a reflexive gesture, from another time, another man . . . another woman. He quickly dropped his hand.

  “This vessel will do,” she said, and gripped his wrist, pressing deeply as before, numbing his hand. She slid the lancet into his arm, then caught the flow into another repostilary.

  Tylar looked away.

  “If Meeryn’s naethryn is inside you,” Delia continued, “then I cannot leave your side.”

  “Why? You swore no oath to her undergod.”

  “I did not serve Meeryn upon oath alone. I loved her . . . as did all her Hands. She died to bring you this gift.” A tremble entered Delia’s voice. “I will serve its bearer like I served her.”

  “I asked no oath of you.”

  A touch of firebalm flared from his wrist, marking the end of the bloodletting. Delia’s next words were so soft Tylar barely heard them. “As with Meeryn, it’s no oath that binds me . . .”

  He stared into her eyes. They glistened more brightly in the torchlight.

  “Oy there!” a voice shouted from the door. It was the crook-backed alchemist. “Enough jabbering. Be quick about your harvest. I’m late for my dinner.”

  Delia placed aside the blood-filled jar and called back to the Wyr-man, “All we have left are tears.” She set about preparing for the next harvest, picking up a glass straw to wick his tears, then pinched a bit of salted powder to sting the eyes.

  All we have left are tears.

  Tylar considered their future, all their futures. He suspected no truer words had ever been spoken.

  Tylar stumbled along with the others. They had been blindfolded for over two bells, guided like sheep through the warren of tunnels beneath the Kistlery Downs. He had at first balked at being put at such a disadvantage, but Krevan had voiced his unconcern. “The Wyr will not break an oath once sworn.”

  Tylar had honored his side of the bargain, giving up his humours. Even now he shied his thoughts from what ill-use they would serve for the alchemists of the Wyr.

  Tylar felt a freshening breeze on his cheek, coming from ahead. The end of the tunnels. He found his steps hurrying. The Wyr-man who gripped his elbow and guided his steps forced Tylar to slow. He heard the creak of some ancient wooden gear and the twang of strained ropes. Another trap was being undone. This last must guard the easternmost entrance to the Lair.

  Tylar was anxious to be free of the blindfold and free of the tunnels. As they had traversed the Lair, he had heard strange cries, howls, and low mewlings echoing up from the deeper levels of the Lair. During such moments, he was glad for the blindfold. His guide moved him forward again—into the face of the fresh breeze.

  In four steps, he sensed the world open around him. The press of stone lifted, filled by the noises of meadow and forest: the twitter of swifts, the cronk of a frog, the slight rustle of water over stone. Somewhere far ahead, a dog barked, echoing up from below.

  He was led another hundred steps, moving up and down, stumbling in his haste.

  Finally, he was pulled to a stop. The hand on his elbow vanished. He stood for a moment, unsure where to move.

  Delia’s voice called out. “Tylar . . . Rogger . . .”

  Tylar reached toward her voice, bumped into someone, grabbed hold.

  “Watch what you’re a-grabbing there,” Rogger’s voice erupted.

  Tylar let go and ripped away his blindfold. He blinked back the dazzle. The others were doing the same. Krevan already stood a few steps away with Corram, at the edge of a steep incline. Their weapons were piled at their feet.

  Tylar glanced around the sparsely wooded glen. All the Wyr were gone . . . except for Eylan. She stood a few steps back, stoic,
staring in the same direction as Krevan and Corram. The others must have retreated to the Lair’s hidden entrance, keeping its location unknown.

  Tylar crossed to Krevan, along with Rogger and Delia.

  The knight pointed an arm.

  Ahead stretched an open plain, broken into green pasture-lands and patches of crops. A small township lay not far away, by a small freshwater lake. Muddlethwait. It was where they were to rendezvous with any of the surviving knights.

  But that was not where Krevan pointed.

  The sun, high overhead, shone clear to the distant Strait of Parting. Near the horizon, a steeple seemed to float above the thin layer of sea mist and cloud. Tylar would recognize that sight anywhere. It had called him home many a day.

  Stormwatch.

  The highest tower of Tashijan.

  “How long to reach there?” Delia asked.

  “We should have horses in Muddlethwait awaiting us,” Krevan answered. “If we ride hard, we’ll reach Tashijan in the dead of night. A good time to seek entry.”

  “Good or not,” Rogger said, “it’s the dead part that worries me.”

  Tylar stared across the plains. Now in sight of the tower, the enormity of their task threatened to overwhelm him.

  Rogger touched his shoulder. “Are you ready for this?”

  He had no choice. Both his past and future lay ahead of him.

  “Let’s go.”

  16

  CHARNEL PIT

  “I BELIEVE I’VE DISCOVERED WHO CALLED UPON CASTELLAN Mirra,” Gerrod Rothkild said. “The one who brought her that swatch of linen in the middle of the night, soaked in blood.”

  Kathryn stood out on her hermitage’s balcony, leaning on the balustrade. The day had proven to be warm, the first kiss of true spring. The rains of the past quarter moon steamed from the damp grounds of the courtyard, trapped between the four stone walls of Tashijan. The air was redolent with flowering buds from the giant wyrmwood tree blooming just these last few days, opening honeyed petals of snow-white. The branches of the wyrmwood dappled the balcony with their shadows, while across the courtyard, Stormwatch Tower climbed endlessly upward, basking in the sun like a sword raised on high.