Shadowfall g-1

by James Clemens

  “In a form, yes. It had not been so much destroyed as exhausted after the Sundering.”

  “Go on,” Tylar said. “Explain yourself.”

  “There is much I don’t know. A great war occurred among the gods. Someone forged Rivenscryr as a weapon. But it was too potent. Something went wrong. It shattered all, friend and foe alike. Even their world.”

  “The Sundering,” the handmaiden mumbled.

  “Yes, but Rivenscryr survived and was carried here with the gods as they fell to Myrillia. Echoes of themselves were cast high and low. The gods lost parts of themselves. All that was dark went down to the naether, while all that was light went up to the aether, forming the naethryn and aethryn.”

  “And what were we left with here in Myrillia?” Rogger asked.

  “Gods made flesh, as gray as any man.”

  “And the Godsword?” Kathryn asked.

  “Rivenscryr fell with the gods to Myrillia, but it was spent, empty, exhausted. Nothing more than a dire talisman of the war that ended all, destroyed all. It left no victors, only the defeated.”

  “But if it fell here,” Tylar asked, “how come no one’s ever seen it? What does it look like?”

  Gerrod stared into the hearth. “There is only one text that mentions its appearance. It was written by Pryde Manthion, the last of the ancient kings of Myrillia. The hide parchment is vaulted in the Bylantheum in the Ninth Land. It is written in the dead language of that country. Only a small handful of scholars can still read it. Titled Shadowfall, it recounts the coming of the gods to Myrillia. In the text, Pryde Manthion tells of a god who came to ground, bearing a great sword. ‘Of light and shadow,’ he describes it. ‘Borne by a figure of blood and bone.’ ”

  Gerrod grew silent.

  Kathryn had learned to read the subtleties of expression in a man of bronze. Gerrod’s head hung, his chin resting on his collarbone. One arm was half-raised toward the flames, not to warm them, but in a warding gesture. Gerrod was reluctant to speak.

  Kathryn stepped beside him. She kept her voice low, meant for his ears only. “Gerrod, if you know more, please speak it. A dark time is upon all of Myrillia. Now is not the time for more secrets.”

  His arm lowered, relenting. “Manthion tried to steal the sword at this weak moment, but his fingers passed clean through. When he described the blade as light and shadow, it was not poetic. That was all the blade appeared to be to his hand. But as his fingers brushed this strange blade, he heard the screaming of a shattered world. It unmanned him. He fled in terror.”

  “And you think this sword is Rivenscryr?” Tylar asked. “Why is this tale any more substantive than the other thousand legends about the Godsword?”

  Gerrod kept his face to the hearth. “Because in the ancient tongue of the Ninth Land, light and shadow are ryvan and screer.”

  “Rivenscryr,” Kathryn said.

  Gerrod nodded. “Pryde Manthion may be the only mortal man ever to truly see the sword. He named it, not the gods.”

  Silence spread throughout the room. Kathryn still sensed something that Gerrod was afraid to speak. But before she could press him, Tylar moved closer.

  “What became of the sword? Did this ancient tome say?”

  A slow shake of the head answered Tylar.

  “What else?” Kathryn asked, laying a hand on Gerrod’s shoulder. He shuddered under her touch. “You know something else.”

  “ Know is a strong word among scholars. It is fraught with hubris. The best to describe what I will say next is suspect.” Gerrod took another few breaths. “I fear to speak it aloud.”

  “Truth is often gray,” Tylar said softly. “But it’s still the truth.” He glanced at Kathryn. She understood this all too well.

  “Tell us what you suspect,” she said. “It will be up to us to act or not.”

  Gerrod turned to face the group. “Pryde Manthion saw a god with a sword, a blade he described as ryvan and screer, light and shadow. The gods took this name for their own, Rivenscryr. But what of the bearer of this sword, the one who came to Myrillia with it? Manthion described the figure as one of blood and bone.” He took another deep breath. “In ancient Manth, the words are krys and ymm.”

  Stunned silence met his words.

  “The first god seen by man,” Gerrod said. “If this god took Pryde Manthion’s name for the sword, did he take his own name, too? Krys and ymm.”

  “Chrism…” Tylar said, more a moan.

  Gerrod stared at Tylar. “To find Rivenscryr, you know where you must go next.”

  “If Chrism arrived with the Godsword, he may still possess it.. or know where to find it.”

  “But be warned,” Gerrod finished. “If Chrism arrived in Myrillia with the sword, could he also be the one who wielded it, who shattered their world?”

  Tylar shook his head. “The answers will be found only in Chrismferry.”

  Gerrod stepped from the fire. “Then I’ll help you get there. But first we need to draw off the wolves.”

  Tylar stood two steps below the landing that separated the masters’ subterranean realm from the upper Citadel. The others gathered below him, all wrapped in shadowcloaks and masklins. A wall of Shadowknights blocked their way.

  Kathryn faced them, flanked by the bullhounds and backed by Lorr.

  “Castellan Vail,” the knight in charge said, a bulky fellow with porcine eyes. “All faces must be bared. None may pass from upper to lower without inspection.”

  “Ser Balyn, we are not passing from upper to lower, but the reverse. Do you believe the godslayer has burrowed into the Masterlevels, through solid rock, and now rises to attack Tashijan?”

  The knight hesitated. “I have my orders.”

  “From Warden Fields… or the Fiery Cross?” Kathryn jabbed a finger at the badge pinned boldly on the knight’s chest.

  “They are one and the same.”

  “Not all follow the Cross. And those who have volunteered to protect me… against all… wish to stay anonymous. I have given my word, and I won’t let it be broken upon your stiffness.” Kathryn waved to Lorr. “I’m sure Warden Fields has informed you of Tracker Lorr’s assignation to me, by his own writ, a man loyal to the warden. If he vouches for my guardians, then that is as good as the warden’s, is it not?”

  Ser Balyn shifted his feet.

  Tylar grinned behind his masklin. Over his years with Kathryn, he had been the brunt of her clever tongue and sharp wit. It could tangle the best of men.

  Kathryn pried the chink in the other’s armor. “We will proceed, Ser Balyn. Feel free to inform Warden Fields. But we will pass unmolested.”

  She waved to Lorr. He whistled his hounds forward, wedging and forcing a phalanx through the wall of Shadowknights. The bullhounds snarled and dripped acid from their rippling lips.

  Knights fell back.

  Ser Balyn stood his ground.

  Kathryn met his gaze, unblinking. “Would you raise a sword against the castellan of Tashijan?”

  He finally stepped aside. “Warden Fields will know of this immediately.”

  Kathryn strode past him. “Do your duty,” she said with an icy coldness. “And I’ll do mine.”

  Tylar followed Kathryn’s lead. He and Krevan flanked the others, showing their knighted stripes above the masklin. The others kept their faces lowered from sight. They moved past the line of guards on the landing and continued up the stairs.

  Glancing back, Tylar saw Ser Balyn elbow aside another knight, off to send a fast dispatch up to the warden. Tylar turned forward and continued after the others. He glanced to a high window and caught a glitter of starshine. Dawn was not far off. Timing would be critical.

  Earlier, Master Gerrod had gone ahead of them, to dispatch two wyndravens, birds blessed in fire and air. The ravens would race with fire under their wings. No bird was faster, homing upon their targets with the speed of Grace. One had been addressed by Kathryn, the other by Tylar. They needed allies in the coming storm.

  Tylar increase
d his pace to join Lorr and Kathryn.

  “We should separate now. Ser Balyn will have the Warden’s Eyrie stirred up. They will be upon us like a flock of crows.”

  “And we dare wait no longer in the search for Perryl,” Kathryn agreed.

  Tylar reached out and took Lorr by the elbow. “Watch after her. Keep her from harm.”

  Lorr nodded. “She’ll be safe. Warden Fields would not dare lay a hand on her. Now, as for you…” The tracker chuckled roughly.

  Tylar knew a swift death awaited him if he was caught.

  “Keep your track light and your path unmarked,” Lorr warned, using an old wyldman adage.

  “I’ll do my best.”

  Argent ser Fields raced with a cadre of knights, his best and most loyal. In the lead ran Symon ser Jaklar, whom many called his Wolf. Argent kept a step behind him. They all fed shadows into their cloaks, quickening their pace, sweeping through the halls, down stairs.

  It wouldn’t be long.

  The godslayer is here. He knew it in his bones. They would have to be swift and merciless.

  Earlier, he had heard word of Kathryn and Lorr. They had broken into the Grand Court. He had dispatched men to the amphitheater, but a search turned up no sign of them. Then again, there were a hundred doors that led out from the court. It was a clever way to lose any trackers upon their tail. In one door, out any of a hundred.

  But why was Lorr cooperating with Kathryn?

  And just a quarter bell ago, word again reached him in his Eyrie. Kathryn had bulled her way past the guards stationed between the subterranean Masterlevels and the upper Citadel. She had been in the lower levels, but how had she gotten there? He had left word with the guards to alert him if Kathryn should leave the Citadel for the Masterlevels. He had wanted her movements under constant scrutiny. But none could say how she suddenly appeared from below.

  And with a handful of cloaked knights, folks who refused to show their faces.

  Argent raced with his knights. He had faced monsters and hinter-kings. But no greater glory would come to him than to carry the head of the godslayer upon a pike. After this, all obstacles to his plans here at Tashijan would fall away. He would spread the Fiery Cross throughout Myrillia. A new age would dawn… and he would lead the way.

  He slid out his sword. Blessed in Dark Alchemies of loam and fire, just a poke of it would turn flesh to stone. Such a weapon was forbidden, of course, but such a transgression would be forgiven when he brought the godslayer to justice.

  Ahead, a knight enfolded from the darkness of another passage. He dropped to one knee.

  “She moves swiftly,” he reported. “Into the unoccupied areas of Tashijan.”

  “Are all still with her?” Argent commanded.

  “She and the tracker lead five knights, all cloaked.”

  “Show me,” Argent ordered.

  The knight rose and joined their party, sweeping ahead, drawing speed from the shadowed halls. All of Tashijan converged upon Kathryn. Her party was easy to follow, what with two bullhounds at their lead. Scouts were left behind, like this one, to lead Argent toward her and the godslayer.

  Under orders, she and the others were not to be touched.

  He would make the kill.

  All of Tashijan would witness it.

  Argent and his men stormed ahead. He felt the Black Grace coursing along the length of his sword. There was no greater swordsman in all of Myrillia. And not even a godslayer would survive the curse upon the blade.

  They sped ahead, collecting scouts along the way, growing in size like a raging flood of snowmelt.

  “She went through that way!”

  “She crossed down that stair!”

  “She circles back around this hall!”

  Argent could almost smell her. Once Tylar was slain, Kathryn would be his. She would have a choice between the gallows and his wedding bed. And if she still refused, the blood of her friends would seal the arrangement. To save them, she would have to take his ring.

  Another scout dropped to a knee ahead. “She’s stopped,” he said, voice trembling. “Trapped herself in a room without an exit. But something has excited her party.”

  Argent motioned Symon ser Jaklar to his side. They both pulled up their hoods and marched down a narrow passage. Other knights followed, two score, and more filled halls and passages around them. There would be no escape.

  Light appeared ahead. A flickering torch.

  Voices reached them. Argent recognized Lorr’s thick cadence.

  “The body were here,” he said heatedly. “A slain knight… a pit of bones. Now nothing. I can’t even scent the blood.”

  “The Fiery Cross must have known of your discovery,” a gruff voice said. “Cleaned the place with curse and acid.”

  “So where’s Perryl?” Lorr asked.

  Argent frowned at these strange words.

  With cursed blade in hand, he flowed into the room, drawing shadows to him, swelling with power. Ever his personal shadow, Symon swept to his side. More knights followed, billowing with darkness.

  Bullhounds met them, crouched down, growling.

  “Call off your dogs!” Argent bellowed, taking in the scene with a glance. They were in a domed chamber, crumbling seats circling the walls.

  On the room’s far side, Lorr perched at the edge of a pit, staring down. When he glanced up, he seemed unsurprised.

  Near him, a slimmer figure leaned over the same pit.

  The shadowcloak didn’t fully obscure the body of the woman beneath. It must be Kathryn.

  Between them stood a phalanx of Shadowknights, led by one man, looming and full of menace, fully masked.

  It had to be Tylar, come for his woman.

  Triumphant, Argent raced forward, sword raised. One of the bullhounds lunged at him. But with reflexes borne of shadow, he sidestepped its teeth as Symon drove the beast away. A bloody howl of pain erupted as Symon stabbed the dog.

  “Don’t!” Lorr cried out.

  The scream from the hound suddenly cut off. Argent allowed himself a grimace of satisfaction. Symon was second only to Argent in skill with a blade.

  The leader of the knights glowered at him. Did Tylar recognize the man who had sent him into slavery? Argent pulled more speed, wicking it to his sword arm. Blade became a blur, impossible to parry.

  He lunged.

  All it will take is a nick.

  Then the man shifted, not so much movement as the flicker of a shadow. A blade appeared, flashing silver. It met Argent’s blade with a resounding clang.

  Though surprised, Argent slipped the point of his blade along the other’s sword and thrust for the man’s forearm.

  Just a mere cut…

  But his point found only shadow.

  The godslayer swirled away. A spark of silver glinted at the corner of Argent’s eye. He ducked and rolled from the sudden dagger thrust. The blade held in Tylar’s other hand.

  Argent gained his feet, noting the fierce melee erupting around the room. Shadowknight fought Shadowknight. The second bullhound blocked the narrow entrance, snarling and snapping. It guarded over the remains of its companion. Blood pooled on the floor, making footing treacherous.

  Argent continued his dance with his opponent. Parrying, lunging, sweeping. He had a dagger in his own hand now. None had ever withstood him so fiercely.

  “Who are you?” Argent asked as their swords momentarily locked. Tylar could never fight this well.

  The figure turned his blade ever so slightly, straining both men’s muscles. A glitter of lamplight lit the length of the sword. A golden wyrm bloomed on the blade, unnoticed until now.

  Argent gasped. “Serpentfang…”

  Shock dropped his guard. The other took the advantage and turned Argent’s blade. The Raven Knight kicked out at Argent’s knee, knocking him off his footing. Argent fell forward, his sword thrusting straight ahead. The blade passed under his combatant’s armpit and continued its plunge-into Symon ser Jaklar’s chest as the Wolf tried t
o sneak up on the other’s back.

  The Raven Knight twirled away.

  Symon stared at the blade in his chest, then up at Argent. A cry rose to his lips, but never came, his face twisted in agony, going gray, then black. Knight became statue, rooted to the stone floor.

  Argent stumbled back, trying to free his blade, but the stone held it fast. He suddenly felt pressure against the hollow of his throat. He stared down the length of Serpentfang. The point bit into his neck.

  “Call down your knights, Warden.” The command was spoken calmly but resounded across the chamber.

  Attention drew to them. The ringing of steel went silent. The two forces retreated to either side, the wounded and dead between them. The Raven Knight continued to hold the sword to Argent’s throat.

  “Have them stand down,” the Raven Knight commanded. “The godslayer is not with us.”

  Argent lowered his fingers from the hilt of the cursed blade. He saw the truth as the knights at the man’s side dropped their masklins and threw back their hoods. Tylar was not among them.

  Argent closed his eyes. He had been tricked. Kathryn had purposefully lured him away.

  Knowing there was no gain, he faced his knights. “Stand down,” he said. He noted the many eyes on the stone figure of Symon ser Jaklar. His own blade impaled through it. Cursed. His guilt plain by sword and witness.

  Movement drew his eye. Lorr led Kathryn before him. Or at least the woman he’d assumed was Kathryn.

  The figure tossed back her hood. Argent stared in disbelief.

  “Hello, Father,” Delia said.

  Tylar watched Stormwatch Tower fall away beneath him. The large, potbellied flippercraft had lifted smoothly from its cradle, its aeroskimmers glowing with Grace as it rose into the dark skies. Off to the east, the barest glimmer promised dawn, but sunrise was still a full two bells away. If all went well, by the time the sun showed its full face, they would be landing in Chrismferry.

  Rogger sat in the seat across from him, staring out his own window. “Storm clouds are coming from the south.”

  Tylar twisted and spotted a few spats of lightning flickering.

  Rogger leaned back. “Will I ever be dry?”

  Kathryn and Gerrod shared their small compartment, one of ten private passenger cabins. Their two heads were bent in whispers.