This world—this horror—belonged to men like Sahand: brutal, cruel, heartless men who amassed power and doled out favor and punishment, who were loved and feared in equal measure; men who stole and murdered and raped their own followers and were thanked for the privilege. They were butchers, leading their followers to the slaughterhouse, laughing the whole way.
I won’t be part of it. I won’t let this continue.
She reached into her satchel—there, hard and heavy, its edges cold to the touch, was the iron box. The Seeking Dark of the Warlock King Spidrahk—another terrible weapon from another monster of history.
If there could not be justice, then there was vengeance. If there could not even be vengeance, then perhaps there could be punishment. Judgement.
They had all earned it, in the end—her people, their people, Sahand’s people. Nothing Myreon was about to do was unwarranted.
Myreon stood up, Spidrahk’s Coffer in her hand. She looked at it, wondering how best to break it open and whether she ought to do so standing back or holding it in her hand. She decided she did not care. Not anymore. If she died, she only hoped her death would mark the end of this atrocity.
“In the name of Polimeux II and all the Keepers before him, I claim thy power, Ancient Ones. May it work my will.” And, with that, Myreon disintegrated the box with a sharp pass of her other hand. It crumbled to dust easily, leaving only a single globule of shadow in her palm.
The shadow began to grow, flowing out of her hand and pooling on the ground like thick, viscous smoke. It surrounded her, swirling faster and faster until she could feel it driving the Lumen from the ley of the city and flooding it with the Ether. The day grew dark, the shadows lengthened. The sun was occluded by unnatural darkness.
Some looters in the street, dragging a sack of flour, stopped to stare at her. Myreon glared and felt a deep hatred well up—not from her, but from the swirling shadow around her feet. It shot out at them and ink-black tentacles seized them before she knew what was happening. Where the tendrils touched, the men’s skin grew gray and their hair sloughed off. Then their clothing and armor. Then their flesh.
In moments, nothing but bleached bones remained. And the Seeking Dark grew larger, feeding on its first victims’ fear and pain. It flowed from Myreon in all directions now, catching up anyone in its path and consuming them in the barest flicker of an eye. With every death, it grew, splitting off new branches of deadly Etheric energy.
It sought to flow through the broken windows of a house, but Myreon planted her staff and steeled her will. No, she thought, only the soldiers. Only the killers. Only the thieves and the rapists and the monsters.
But the Seeking Dark did not heed her. Instead, to her horror, it filled the house to the roof, black shadows spilling from the chimney. The screams from inside were brief, high-pitched.
There had been children in there.
Myreon screamed. “NO! NO! OBEY ME!”
But the swirling shadows merely grew larger, more powerful, swifter. Her screams fed them like a spring feeds a river. But Myreon kept screaming anyway, kept battering her will against the Seeking Dark, achieving nothing. She fell to her knees, her body quaking with horror.
And the city around her died.
Eddereon, Tyvian, Artus, and Voth fled along the rooftops whenever they could. The streets were too dangerous. Roving mobs of half-starved soldiers with maces and hatchets were hacking and bashing their way into locked homes to loot or kill or burn what they found there. It was all Tyvian could do to blot out the screams for mercy, the cries of pain. The ring was ablaze, hotter than the fires around them.
Eddereon and Voth felt it too. Like himself, Eddereon had his right hand clutched in a fist and pressed to his chest, his face pale. Voth, though, was not so numb to the ring’s compulsions. She groaned in anguish, her eyes rolling back in her head. “Damn you . . . damn you . . . make it . . . make it stop . . . gods, please . . . please . . .”
Tyvian wound up carrying her across his shoulders, focusing on the next leap across the next narrow alley, on placing foot after foot on the steeply angled roofs. The act of helping her allayed the ring’s rage somewhat, but not enough. The world had become a tunnel of horror.
“Where’s Michelle?” Artus was yelling. It occurred to Tyvian that he had been yelling this for some time, except he had been too distracted to hear him. Now Artus had him by the arm. “Where is she? I won’t leave without her!”
Beneath them, a man was being beaten with clubs as he used his body to shelter his wife. Tyvian had to clench his teeth against the incredible pain. “This . . . this is not the time . . .”
Artus’s grip tightened. “Tell me, dammit! I need to know!”
Voth, delirious, was gnawing at her ring finger. “Somebody . . . somebody do something. Gods . . . oh merciful Hann . . .”
Tyvian adjusted his grip on Voth. “We have to get out of here, Artus—I can’t argue right now!”
Eddereon leapt into the alley below, sword drawn. The first attacker he split in half, his sword passing from the collarbone all the way to the hip. He left the blade in place and kicked the body into the others, blood fountaining in all directions. The woman screamed.
Artus kept his eyes locked on Tyvian. “Tell. Me.”
Eddereon killed the next man with his bare hands, locking his arms around his head and twisting until something snapped. The other two men struck him with their clubs, but the old mercenary did not falter. He caught one club by the business end, ripped it from the owner’s hands, and then broke it over the side of that man’s skull. The fourth one ran away.
Tyvian felt the briefest surge of relief as the woman was saved. “She’s in Sahand’s custody. There was nothing I could do.”
“Well, what’s the plan for getting her back?”
Eddereon was climbing back up to the rooftops. Tyvian pointed toward the city walls, only a block or two distant. “Step one: get the hell out of this city.”
“Well, that’s a start, at least.” Artus’s face was grim. He knelt to help Eddereon up.
Then the sky went dark. For a moment all of Ayventry went quiet as the grave. Tyvian turned to look out across the city. “What is happening?”
Above the rooftops on the other side of town, a swirling, amorphous darkness appeared—like a hand of infinite fingers, black and semi-substantial. It dove into the streets, quick as a gale. And then the screams could be heard.
The ring went icy cold and the pain stopped immediately. It was so abrupt that it made Tyvian gasp. He looked at Eddereon—his eyes were wide. He had felt it too.
Voth gasped for air. “What . . . what’s that?”
A torrent of pure darkness flooded the street below, sucking up anybody it found there. From their shrieks, Tyvian doubted whatever was happening to them was good. “Run! Run run run!”
Voth dropped off his shoulder and led the way, vaulting the next alley with acrobatic grace. They all followed. The darkness below began to fill the alleys, too—like a river of shadow, it swelled higher and higher. It would not be long before it was able to reach the roofs and then . . . then Tyvian greatly hoped they were somewhere else.
They sprinted for all they were worth, leaping alley after alley, clambering across rooftop after rooftop. Artus stumbled once, but Tyvian was there to scoop him up. A black tendril lashed out from the roiling dark below and caught the end of Tyvian’s scabbard—he didn’t even pause to see what happened to it. Or to wonder why, suddenly, he could feel the breeze on his back instead of the weight of his mail shirt. “Go! Go!”
The wall was a bit shorter than the spine of the roof of the closest house, but it was a longer jump. Voth hit it at a sprint and leapt clear across the gap, landing with a crash atop the battlements. Eddereon was next, smashing chest-first into the catwalk and barely scrambling up. Then Artus, who did much as Eddereon did but was helped up by both Voth and the old mercenary.
Tyvian jumped next. He felt the grave chill of something—somethin
g black and horrible—sliding across his ribs and legs, trying to pull him back. He lost momentum midleap—he wasn’t going to make it. He reached up for the wall . . .
Voth caught his hand. Tyvian slammed against the wall, nearly pulling Voth over, but then Artus was there and Eddereon and he was dragged up just as the shadow behind him claimed his boots.
Then it was over the wall. Luckily, some future looter had left a ladder right there for them to climb down. Then they didn’t stop running until they were atop a low hill almost a mile outside of Ayventry, with nothing around but untended farmland. They bent over their knees, panting. Voth threw up. Artus fell on his back, staring up at the sky.
It was daylight again.
Tyvian turned and looked back at the city. The shadow was gone, but so was any sign of life. The fires still burned, but the screams, the cries, the howls of rage had ceased. Even at this distance, it was clear what had happened—some gross act of sorcery had killed every person within the walls.
Eddereon sat down. “What in the name of all the gods was that?”
“I don’t think the gods had anything to do with it,” Tyvian said.
He looked down at himself for the first time. His mail was gone—rusted clean off his body. His sword, too. Where the thing had touched him was dead skin, peeling off. It was as though he had been burned, but with no pain. His hands began to shake. Scary stories of his mother’s, told to a boy disinclined to remain in his room after bedtime, came bubbling up from the depths of his memory. No, it can’t be.
Artus looked at Tyvian. “Do you think . . . do you think Michelle was there?”
“Sahand was going to move the two of you to Dellor immediately after capture,” Voth said, wiping her lips on her sleeve. “I’d bet anything she’s still alive.”
Artus gave Voth a cautious nod. “Thanks.”
“You think being held alive by Banric Sahand is an improvement over being dead?”
Artus flinched and looked back at the city.
Eddereon put a hand on Tyvian’s shoulder. “Are you hurt?”
Tyvian couldn’t stop staring at the devastation of Ayventry. Even though they had ceased, the death screams of the city still echoed in his ears. He felt ill. “The ring. The ring made this happen.”
“What?” Eddereon blinked at him.
Tyvian wiped his eyes—there were tears. “Gods know how many thousands of people just died—and gods know how many thousands more are about to die—because of this!” He held up his ring hand.
“You’re upset,” Eddereon said. “You aren’t thinking clearly.”
Tyvian pushed him. “No, I am! I very much am! What has brought us to this pass but my good bloody intentions! Huh? What made me become king? What made me fake my death, eh? The desire to fix the world—to make it a better place, to help my friends, to protect strangers. That’s what let Xahlven use me to cause the Saldorian Crash! That’s what got the whole world into this mess—my goddamned conscience!”
“Calm down,” Eddereon said.
“No! You said as much yourself, at Tor Erdun.” Tyvian pointed back to the smoking ruins of the once-beautiful city. “Is this better, Eddereon? Tell me truly, is the world better off for this having happened? Because if I’d left goddamned Myreon as a goddamned statue in goddamned Saldor, this city would still be alive!”
Eddereon opened his mouth to speak, but Tyvian cut him off. “Don’t say it. It’s all bullshit! The whole Krothing thing—every bit of it. I was right the entire time. The world is a terrible place and nobody’s good intentions are going to fix it. No one’s.”
“What about heroes?” Eddereon said, his voice soft.
Tyvian looked away. “No such animal.”
“This is all very fascinating,” Voth said. “But what happens now, my captors?”
Tyvian said nothing. He sank to the ground, head in his hands. What did it matter what they did now? Who cared?
Artus stood up. “We go north.”
Tyvian snorted. “Sure. Why not? Starving in the wilderness sounds lovely.”
Artus glared down at him. “If Sahand has Michelle, I’m going to get her. And you’re coming with me.”
“And if I don’t?”
Artus extended his hand. “That’s not how this works. C’mon—don’t make me drag you.”
“This will all end poorly, Artus,” Tyvian said, looking at his soot-stained hands. “You should know by now that there are no happy endings.”
Artus pulled Tyvian to his feet. “I think it’s like this: if you haven’t reached the happy ending, you’re not at the end yet. We need to keep going.”
Tyvian did his best not to scoff at the truism. Even after all this, the boy still had a lot to learn. Nevertheless, Tyvian found himself hoping that somehow Artus would never learn it.
Chapter 22
Beast at Bay
Dunnmayre was little more than an outpost—a clutch of rough-hewn log cabins behind a stockade fence, pressed up against the three-mile-wide expanse of the Great Whiteflood as though it were planning to board its own ferry. The lumber mill—the largest building by far—collected logs floated here from nearby lumber camps and cut them into planks and then shipped them on wagons along the rutted, muddy road north to Dellor-town and the Citadel. The sound of the saw chewing through wood and the smell of sawdust permeated the air. Hool drew herself deeper under her blankets, trying to ward off the smell. She badly wanted to sneeze.
If she did sneeze, however, she would also be forced to cry out in pain, and then their cover would be blown and she and Damon would probably die. Instead, she did her best to curl in a ball beneath the blanket, the crossbow bolts tearing at her insides, and tried very hard not to rock the little boat while Damon pulled it up on the riverbank.
Hool heard the jingle of mail and the scent of honed steel a minute or two before Damon noticed the guard. “Hey!” The guard had a gravelly voice, used to yelling. Hool thought he also sounded sick. “State your business!”
“Good morrow, sir,” Damon said. Hool could imagine the goofy smile he was giving the man. “I am in need of assistance.”
The guard stomped over to the side of the boat and tapped it with the butt of a spear. “What’s in here? You can’t trade furs without paying the tax, you know. And if these is poached . . .”
Damon laughed. “They aren’t furs! That’s my dog.”
Hool felt her hackles rise at the notion, but kept the growl to herself. It was easy enough with the pain—any exertion would be enough to make her pass out, and she knew it. Besides, as much as she hated it, this was the best plan Damon and she could come up with.
The guard prodded Hool with the butt of the spear, making her whine. “Sweet merciful Hann, what a monster! He must be fifteen stone!”
“A bard needs a big dog if he’s to survive way up here.” Damon forced a chuckle, but he sounded nervous. “That brings me to my business—is there a veterinarian in town? See, some hunters mistook my dog here for a bear—understandable, really—but now he’s shot and I’m in desperate need—”
The guard grunted. “Gods and garters, man—say no more! There’s a man in town what can help you, I reckon. And he could do with a bard, too, more’s the fact. He runs the inn over yonder—the Dragon.”
“The one in the big tree?” Damon asked.
“The same. It’ll be a copper to leave your boat here and a copper to bring in your dog.”
Hool heard the jingle of a coin purse and Damon asking, “How much to rent a wheelbarrow?”
Once inside Dunnmayre’s stockade, the smell of sawdust grew even stronger. Hool, cramped and nearly fainting with pain and lost blood, couldn’t help but sneeze. The pain from the convulsion was such that she howled at nearly full volume and practically passed out.
Damon, red-faced and struggling to push the wheelbarrow, hissed through the blanket still covering Hool. “Will you please keep it down? Half the village just looked at us.”
Hool only growled. “Then st
op hitting all the bumps!”
Damon puffed as he piloted them around a corner. “The road is nothing but bumps.”
The Dragon was huge—Hool could see up into its boughs as they rolled beneath them. The tree had to be ancient—Hool had never seen a tree so large before—but from the smell it was strong as well as old, healthy with river water and clean winter air. The inn built into its boughs also seemed old, as the tree had grown up around its walls, knotted branches wrapping it up in a lover’s embrace. From the sound and smell of things, it was busy, too—full of men deep in their cups.
Damon stopped the wheelbarrow. “I’m going to have to leave you here.”
“No,” Hool snarled.
“Hool, there’s stairs. Lots of stairs.”
“This thing has wheels—roll me up the stairs!”
Damon blanched. “But . . . Hool . . .”
“Do it!”
Hool saw Damon look up what had to be a long, winding staircase. “Sweet merciful Hann, I’m about to do this, aren’t I?”
Hool felt faint. “Hurry up. Before I die.”
Damon dusted off his hands, took a deep breath, and began to pull her, step by step, up the winding stair that led to the Dragon’s front door. With every bump, Hool found herself yelping. This had two effects: first, the sound of her in pain drove Damon to make it up the stairs without faltering or slipping, though he was cursing in a very unknightly fashion by the top. The second effect was that, by the time they reached the front door, everyone in the place was silent and waiting to see what the hell was about to come in after making that kind of racket.
Hool put an eye to a hole in the blanket so she could see what transpired next.
The place was packed with men—all men—leaning over dented pewter tankards of watered-down beer along a horseshoe-shaped bar that covered one side of the circular room. On the other side was a big iron stove that was burning even though it wasn’t especially cold out. The tables on this side of the room were the kind with the benches attached to the tables themselves, and were also packed with the same kind of men—big, bearded, and smelling of sawdust and sweat and weak beer. Some of them were gambling, but most just stared at the door and muttered to one another. Hool felt it was too quiet in here for this many people. Her hackles rose and she hoped Damon knew how to use a sword as well as he claimed.
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