Shadowfall

by James Clemens

  The beast turned its massive head toward her, tongue lolling. Standing full in the storm, he seemed oblivious to the wind and downpour. A pool of saliva had dripped between his paws. The matt of ivy at his feet had gone brown from the poisoned touch of his drool. Plainly the blood on the wind had the dog stirred mightily.

  The bullhound shook his mane as she reached him, dousing her with dirty rainwater. The stench of wet fur welled.

  Lorr came to her side and knelt down. His voice had grown gruffer, but somehow warmer, too. “I once knew a girl with your spirit.” He glanced to the others. His eyes seemed to fix on the woman Delia. “Back then I had been too cautious, taken half steps to stand up for her, to demand better for her. I knew better.” He shook his head. “I knew better.”

  Lorr stood back up and turned to his bullhound. He grabbed him by the nose, pushed his face down, and stared into his eyes. A single nip could take off the tracker’s arm. But the bullhound responded to the dominant manner and dropped to his forepaws, submitting.

  “Listen, you ol’ kank. You go find the mistress.” He leaned closer. Lorr’s eyes seemed to glow brighter. “Understand. Find Kathryn,” he said the name slowly. Lorr did not take his eyes from Barrin. “Child, climb on his back.”

  Dart faced the hill of hound and balked. Even Pupp shied around the great beast, hackles raised.

  “Hurry now,” the tracker urged. “Up on the bent knee, then over his withers. Before I change my mind.”

  Goosed by his threat, Dart mounted the dog. It was like climbing a sopping rug. A growl flowed as she hooked a leg and pulled herself over. The rumble was felt in her belly.

  “Quiet down, Barrin,” Lorr said firmly.

  The growl lowered below hearing level, but Dart still felt it in the pit of her stomach.

  “Grab his leather collar,” Lorr said. “And hold tight.”

  Dart obeyed, clenching her fingers.

  “All right, then.” Lorr backed, then dropped his arm. “Off with you! Find the mistress!”

  Muscles surged under Dart. The hound leaped fully to his feet and bounded off. She was thrown high, hanging by her hands. She landed hard between the hound’s shoulders.

  Barrin grunted and raced across the gardens.

  Shouts erupted behind her.

  Dart ignored them. She concentrated on her mount. Every one of her bones rattled, including her teeth, but the hound kept his gait even, allowing her at least to keep her seat. Dart pulled up enough to peer forward over the dog’s head. They raced through the gardens, splashing through shallow ponds, bounding over low shrubs. A hedgeline appeared, taller than she stood.

  She lowered herself and closed her eyes.

  She felt Barrin’s muscles harden under her. He sped faster. She waited for his leap or his plunge through the woody hedge. Which was worse?

  A surge of muscle and they were flying. She opened her eyes. Barrin sailed over the hedge and landed in a smooth curve on the far side, catching her up.

  “Good dog,” she said, bouncing only a little.

  She stared ahead. They were almost to the battle line. It had mired to large patches of fighting. Barrin sniffed at the bloodshed. He was a war hound. His head stared longingly toward the battle. He slowed.

  “Find . . . find Kathryn,” Dart reminded him, not knowing if he could hear her squeak.

  But his ears were sharp. He focused back on the castillion. He bounded through the edge of the battlefield. Bodies were sprawled everywhere. Barrin simply padded over them and away. He avoided the patches of fighting, but the screeches and shouts kept his ears pricked.

  “Kathryn,” Dart whispered. “Kathryn . . .” She was now repeating it over and over. Not so much to guide the dog, as to calm herself, to distract herself from the blood and torn bodies.

  At last they reached the castillion. Barrin flew up a set of stairs to a wide terrace. The dead found their way here, too. The tiles were black with blood. Too much for even the storm to wash away. Ahead, the windows had been smashed during the fighting.

  Barrin leaped through the widest.

  Dart ducked low to his back to avoid the jagged shards poking down from the top frame. Then they were through, racing down empty halls. Dart stayed low, fingers crimped tight to the hound’s collar. Only now did she spare a worry for Tylar and the others.

  Was she too late?

  Tylar stared at the black handprint resting between Mistress Naff’s breasts. He found himself unable to move, gripped by shock. What did it mean?

  That momentary pause proved his undoing.

  From the dark print, a jet of oily darkness poured forth, too fast for the eye to follow. It struck him square in the chest. But there was no impact. The darkness shot through him—no, into him, through his own mark.

  He felt the swell behind his rib cage. Bones snapped outward. Flesh tore. And as before, once one bone broke, the rest followed. Agony flamed through him. He knew it would end. The shadowbeast would rise and he would cripple again. But at least the pain would go away.

  Until then, agony trapped his breath.

  Cries rose around him, but they sounded far away now, muffled by an unknown depth of water. He felt himself sinking deeper.

  The pain did not end. What was broken, stayed broken. There was no healing.

  Through unblinking eyes, he watched smoky black tentacles sprout from the jet of darkness. They shot and coiled in all directions, flailing out. Some struck him, but to no effect. The darkness draped around them, tangling. He and Naff became caged at the heart of a weaving tangle of smoky tendrils.

  Tylar knew what trapped him.

  Gloom, a tangle of naether.

  But as his own daemon’s smoky form caused him no harm, neither could this darkness. Still, he was caught, a fly in a web, a broken fly, unable to move.

  Darkness continued to snake into him.

  He swelled, filled from the inside.

  Too much . . .

  Finally, something woke in Tylar, lashing out. He felt his body wrenched deep inside. His daemon rose to fight the trespasser. He felt the clash, beyond blood and bone. They writhed and tore. Tylar could not breathe. If the fighting continued much longer, he’d be unmoored. Nothing would be left of him.

  Perhaps sensing this, the naethryn inside him pushed outward, dragging the other daemon with it. Smoke billowed thicker between Naff and Tylar. Darkness boiled as daemon fought daemon. Vague shapes took form.

  An edge of wing, a glimpse of muzzle, smoky claws.

  All belonging to his own daemon.

  But that was not all. Other apparitions stirred and roiled in the smoky storm: a lash of snaking tail, a tongue of forked flame, a maw of black teeth. Though caught in glimpses, Tylar recognized the shapes.

  From Punt.

  Here, fighting his own daemon, was the beast who had murdered Meeryn. It lived inside Mistress Naff.

  Mirth seemed to rise like steam.

  “I was rewarded after I slew Meeryn,” Mistress Naff said. “Given this skin to wear and walk this world. Now it’s your time to follow.”

  Darkness closed around Tylar. The hall dissolved away—but not sight. An inner eye opened. He watched, experienced, lived as someone else. He found himself struggling against someone.

  The attacker was impossibly strong.

  A tangle of brown hair, stubbled chin, hungry green eyes . . . Chrism.

  No, she mouthed. Why . . . ?

  It was Mistress Naff.

  She was struck in the mouth, but Tylar tasted the blood. Chrism thrust into her, rough, tearing. Tylar was unprepared. The pain tore his belly, his legs, his groin. She screamed. He screamed.

  It stretched endlessly, then the burn of seed spilled into her. He felt it like a wash of fire. It seared through her, through him. They were one. Memories locked.

  Raped . . . by Chrism.

  His corrupted seed ate her from the inside. Hollowed her out. All that was once a woman was eaten away. Nothing was left. He felt himself going, too, following.


  . . . NO . . .

  A ring of command shot through him.

  . . . THAT IS NOT YOUR PATH . . .

  The words came from outside, from inside.

  . . . IT IS ECHOES . . . NOT TO BE FOLLOWED . . . HERE IS YOUR BODY . . .

  Agony flared anew . . . a more familiar agony. He knew the break of bones . . . his bones. He took the pain and claimed it for his own.

  . . . DO NOT LOSE YOUR PATH . . .

  Tylar recognized now the voice of his naethryn daemon.

  Vision returned, tunneled and distant.

  Corram lunged with a sword, attempting to cut him free. But the naether could not be harmed by mere steel. A lash of Gloom snapped forth, striking Corram in the face. He stumbled back, dropping his sword. He reached for his face. But it was too late. It was already gone.

  Corram fell backward, blood pouring from the hollow that was once chin, lips, and nose. He struck the floor, dead.

  A dagger flew with deadly accuracy at Mistress Naff’s throat. Thrown by Rogger. But a flow of Gloom turned it to slag in midair. It splattered to the floor. Harmless.

  No weapon could pierce the naether tangle.

  Save one.

  Tylar could not see the Godsword in his hand. But he felt it. The hilt clung to his broken hand, refusing to let go. Tylar willed his body to move, to strike out at the daemon wearing Mistress Naff’s skin, the one who slew Meeryn and won this body. Tylar knew the real woman was long gone. All that was left were shadows and light, meant to trick him, to lure him astray like a will-o’-the-wisp in a dark wood.

  Echoes, as his naethryn had claimed.

  He struggled to raise the weapon, but he found no strength in his broken limbs. All he had was will. And that wasn’t enough.

  Laughter met his struggle.

  “We will have the sword . . . and you,” the daemon promised. A slim arm rose and reached for Rivenscryr. “With it, we will tear open this world, like this shell I wear now, and claim it for our own! We will be free!”

  Tylar struggled, broken and hopeless.

  There was no escape.

  Fingers closed on the Godsword’s hilt.

  Dart heard Mistress Naff’s voice from a landing away.

  We will have the sword!

  Dart hopped from the hound’s back, almost breaking her leg on the stairs. The sudden loss of his rider stopped the bullhound. Dart did not want to be dragged unwilling into the same trap as the others.

  She left the hound below. She hoped her command to stay was obeyed.

  Reaching the open doors, she crouched and studied the hall.

  We will be free!

  Dart ignored Mistress Naff. She spotted one knight down on the floor, blood pooling around his head. The others seemed at a loss on how to penetrate a tangled web that locked Tylar and Mistress Naff together. From her hiding place, Dart searched for Lord Chrism, but he was nowhere to be seen.

  She returned her study to Tylar . . . and his sword.

  He had to be broken free.

  But how?

  Kathryn despaired as she watched the daemon woman’s fingers close upon the hilt of the Godsword. She had heard the woman’s mad claim.

  But how could they stop her?

  Rogger circled the pair, seeking any means to penetrate the snarl of Gloom. He had tried striking from behind, but still the Gloom had thwarted him, burning his dagger to molten steel that dripped and steamed to the stones.

  Krevan hovered by his fallen friend. His face was a mask of fury, but there was no outlet for his anger. Eylan and Gerrod stood to the side. Eylan pointed to a torch on the wall, then to the rug at her feet. Plainly she was thinking to set it on fire.

  Gerrod wisely shook his head. Even if they could light the rug, it was doubtful flames would fare any better than steel.

  Krevan stirred from his vigil and pointed his sword back to the door.

  Kathryn turned, dropping lower, wary.

  A small figure ran toward them.

  It was the child. Dart. What was she doing here?

  Kathryn closed upon her, intending to keep her back. The godling must not fall into Chrism’s hands. Especially if the monster recovered the sword. Kathryn’s fingers tightened on her own hilt. She could not let the child be taken alive.

  Still, Kathryn stared down at the girl’s small flushed face as she joined her. Do I have the strength to slay this girl if I must?

  “Castellan Vail,” Dart gasped. “You must throw your dagger!”

  She grabbed the girl’s arm as she tried to move closer. “We already tried. No blade can reach her.”

  Dart fought her grip. “Not her.” She freed her arm and jabbed it forward. “Him!”

  “Tylar?”

  Dart bent and touched Kathryn’s calf. “Strike him here. She may not expect that.”

  “But—?”

  “Do it!” The small voice chimed with a mix of command and desperation.

  Kathryn twisted around, trusting the girl for now. She slipped a dagger free. “Rogger!” she called out. “Strike from behind again! All of you! On my command! Attack together!”

  Kathryn pushed Dart behind her. She hoped the additional distraction might allow a blade to slip by the smoky defenses and strike Tylar’s calf.

  “Now!”

  Blades fell from all sides, aimed for the woman.

  Kathryn swiped her dagger low, swinging from the hip. She put all the force of muscle and shadow into her throw.

  The blade flew from her fingertips, sent with a prayer.

  Elsewhere, steel exploded into fiery, molten splashes.

  All done to protect Naff.

  Not Tylar.

  Kathryn’s blade slipped through a break in the tangle. The dagger struck Tylar’s calf, spearing completely through it.

  Kathryn straightened. Nothing happened. The stalemate continued. Tylar did not even seem to notice the blow, too racked in pain already.

  She stared down at the girl.

  If Tylar lost this battle . . .

  Kathryn lifted her sword. The girl did not even notice. She continued her focus on the two in the smoky tangle.

  Dart’s lips moved, a whisper. “Go, Pupp . . .”

  Frowning, Kathryn turned back to Tylar.

  At his knee, something formed. A misshapen, molten chunk of bronze. It moved, defining itself into some four-legged creature of sharp points and razored edges. Its nose was pressed to Tylar’s calf, to the dagger.

  To his blood!

  “Tylar’s Grace!” Gerrod gasped, stepping to them, laying a hand on Dart’s shoulder. “It ignites her creature!”

  “Pupp,” Dart corrected.

  The bronze creature stalked around Tylar’s leg. Unseen and without substance before, it must have slipped in and waited for a source of Grace.

  It found it in Tylar’s blood.

  The daemoness finally noted the monster in her midst and jerked back. But it was too late.

  Pupp leaped, flying high, all four claws extended. He latched onto Nass’s belly, flaring brighter. She screamed.

  Flames shot out her back as Pupp buried his fiery muzzle into her flesh. She fell backward, tumbling out of her protective tangle and into Chrism’s rooms.

  As she fell, the web shattered, releasing Tylar. He toppled back, sprawling without strength.

  From both their chests, the dark streams receded, sucked back into the void from which they came. Tylar sat up, shaking away the residual shock. He tested his limbs, as if making sure they were still his.

  He stood up, but almost fell as he put weight on his impaled leg. He glanced to the dagger, then back up again. He hobbled to Naff.

  “That’s enough, Pupp,” Tylar said.

  He motioned with his sword. It shone brightly.

  Pupp backed away.

  The ruin that was Mistress Naff steamed and bled. The reek of charred flesh wafted heavily. But she was still alive. Eyes moved, tracking Tylar. Feeble tendrils of Gloom wormed from her chest print.


  Words bubbled with blood. “What you carry is no blessing. It’ll eat you, too. From the inside!”

  Ignoring the threat, Tylar lifted his sword and held it high in both arms. “This is for Meeryn . . . and Mistress Naff.”

  The creature at his feet struggled, but its spine had been shattered.

  Tylar drove the blade down, through the center of the black mark. It slid to the hilt, despite the stone under the body. Tylar yanked it back. Flames followed the sword up, but the blade was gone.

  A wail tore through the hall, issuing from the black well.

  Kathryn dropped her sword and clamped her ears. She and the others fell to their knees. The keening ripped at the edges of her mind—then it was gone.

  On the floor, Mistress Naff’s body burned away quickly, flaming to ash.

  “Only a shell,” Tylar mumbled. He touched his own mark. Kathryn read the fear in his eyes. Was he anything more himself?

  She gained her feet and hurried to him. He began to slump, wasted and worn. She caught him, pulled him to her.

  Off to the side, Pupp faded again, the blood and Grace burned away.

  Rogger clapped Dart on the shoulder. “Clever girl. You’d make a good thief someday. With the proper training, of course.”

  Krevan joined them. “And where is Chrism?”

  From up and down the hall, laughter echoed forth, tinkling in a handful of voices. Kathryn turned. From doors along the hall, figures stepped forth, moving woodenly, eyes blazing brighter than stars.

  Chrism’s Hands.

  Laughter flowed from their throats. But it was plainly not their own. Enthralled, the Hands had become Chrism’s eyes and tongue, too.

  Their words echoed up and down the hall.

  “I will face the godslayer alone . . . or all of Chrismferry will perish!”

  25

  CABAL

  “YOU CAN’T GO ALONE,”KATHRYN PRESSED.

  “You heard Chrism,” Tylar said and waved at the Hands. Their eyes blazed. The creatures watched their every move. Tylar wondered how much humanity was left in them. “I have to go alone or he’ll tear down the entire castillion and dump it in the river. And all of Chrismferry will follow.”