“What does that mean?” Castellan Vail asked.
It was Gerrod who answered. “Another War of the Gods.”
Eylan turned to the armored master. “No, not another war… the same war. The old enmities still exist, shoved deep into the naether. But they will rise again to bring their ancient war to our soil.”
Tylar took a deep breath. “And it’s already begun.” He touched the black mark on his bare chest.
Dart feared his fingers would fall through that stirring void. Something drew to the surface as his fingers neared. But the man seemed ignorant of it. His fingers found only his own flesh. Dart glanced from Pupp, to the sword, to the stirring darkness centered on Tylar’s chest. They were all the same. Barely connected to this world.
Only she could see them.
Eylan’s words repeated in her head. She is the sheath. And you are the sword. A shiver passed through Dart, rising from places she didn’t know existed inside her.
“Why was all this not told to Ser Henri?” Castellan Vail asked.
“The god-mother forbade it. She saw strings of continuity and lines of force. ‘I am a spider,’ she told me, ‘in a web without end.’ Only certain strings could be enlightened. The rest needed to remain dark. Only the Wyr knew the truth. Because the god-bearer would come to us. And as Tashijan protected the sheath, I must protect the sword.”
“And all that about needing his seed?” Rogger asked. “That was all a ruse?”
Eylan arched a brow at the thief. “No. We will still have his seed. We of the Wyr have our own goals that are independent of great wars. In this one matter here, our thread and the gods’ thread cross.”
“In other words,” Rogger said, “why not take advantage of the situation?”
Eylan shrugged.
Rogger pursed his lips and tugged his beard. “I can respect that.”
Gerrod, though, was not finished with Eylan. “What else did Dart’s mother see in the future? What will happen in this war?”
Eylan shook her head, looking concerned for the first time. “According to the god-mother, too many lines intersected at this moment. ‘A dark tangle of webs, shrouded in mists.’ Details beyond the joining of the sword and sheath are unknown.”
“There’s no hint about what we must do?” Tylar asked. “With Rivenscryr? With ourselves?”
Eylan remained silent for a long breath. Her voice dropped from its stolid demeanor to softer, sadder tones. “The Wyr don’t believe in the preordained. Prophecy is a path walked by fools.”
“Yet here we all are,” Gerrod said. “The sword and the sheath.”
“Yes, but were the words of the god ordained or only supposed? She knew the Godsword still existed. She knew her child bore the blood to wield it. She knew the old enemies still lurked in the naether. Is it so much to suppose a return to war? Is such a thing prophecy?” Eylan’s eyes drifted to Dart. “The Wyr have their own idea why the child was sent into the settled lands.”
“And what idea is that?” Tylar asked.
Eylan kept her gaze fixed to Dart. “We think she was sent here to start the war, a flame set to a very long wick.”
Dart fell back from her words. But Yaellin still held her.
No… it couldn’t be true…
Tylar watched the poor girl sink into Yaellin’s shadows, saw the horror in her eyes. He understood what she must be feeling. He had only to glance to his own chest. Could it be true? Were they both just pawns in a greater war?
Gerrod covered his eyes. “For four thousand years, the two sides of the ancient war have been held in check. All that kept them apart was this vanished sword.” He waved to the empty ground between the pillars, to the ghost blade. “But if a way to forge the sword again was loosed, and both sides knew of its existence, then both could no longer stay idle.”
“Blood dripped into a skorpion’s nest,” Rogger said. “Stirring all into a frenzy.”
“All the dire happenings across Myrillia,” Tylar said. The rise of strange beasts, the spat of skirmishes along the hinterlands, the increases in dark rites, the disturbing behavior of some gods…
“Stirrings of the coming war,” Eylan said.
“And Meeryn’s death…”
Tylar remembered Darjon’s words as they fought aboard the flippercraft. The first to fall. But she will not be the last! At long last, the War of the Gods is upon us.
At last, Tylar began to fathom Meeryn’s death. The resurgence of old enmities. No one spoke as the rain continued to patter atop the bower’s roof. Streams of drizzle tinkled too brightly in the darkness. It seemed suddenly much colder.
“And Chrism?” Gerrod asked. “It was he who brought the sword to Myrillia. Now it’s planted here. Why? What role is he playing?”
Tylar shook his head. “Only one person can answer that.” He stared in the direction of the dark castillion, lost behind the branches of the corrupted myrrwood. “We’ll have to ask him.”
“And how do you propose doing that?” Rogger asked. “Knock on the front door and ask him to tea?”
Tylar turned to Dart. He hated to ask this of her, but he had no choice. None of them did. They had a role to play. Sword and sheath. And even if they were both pawns in some greater game, it didn’t mean they could not make their own choices.
“Dart,” he began, “I’m sorry. I must-”
“I know,” she said with surprising firmness. She stepped out of Yaellin’s shadows and peeled back the bandage that bound her clawed shoulder. Wincing, she tugged the dried cloth, tearing away scabbing and causing blood to flow fresh. She dabbed her fingertips in it. “I don’t know how much blood…”
“Touch and see,” Tylar said. “That’s all I ask.”
She nodded and moved forward. Tylar accompanied her, keeping to her shoulder. It was much to require of one so young. Then again, he had seen her eyes up in the rookery. She was a child no longer.
After a final glance up to him, she reached out to the empty air. Her fingers quested-then something ignited her fingertips, glowing so brightly that the bones of her hand could be discerned through her flesh.
She yanked her arm, tripping back into him.
He caught her and hugged her to his waist, but his eyes were on the ground ahead of them.
Gasps rose around them.
A handspan above the leaf-strewn loam floated the golden hilt of a sword. But there was no blade. Tylar bent down. The hilt simply hovered in the air. It seemed made more of sunlight than metal. Tylar waved his hand under the hilt. “Nothing,” he said.
“It’s still there,” Dart said. “The blade.”
“It must take more blood,” Gerrod said. “The hilt and blade must be two pieces of a whole. I suspect the entire blade’s length must be smeared in blood.”
Tylar reached for the hilt. “I’ll pull it free.”
“Wait!” Gerrod urged. “It was planted here for a reason, at the site where Chrism poured his own blood and settled this realm. So intimately connected to this plot of land, he may know if anyone removes the sword.”
“Then so be it,” Tylar said. “Let him fear for once.” He reached again for the blade.
“Wait!” This time, the command came from Dart.
“What is it?”
“Master Gerrod says all the blade needs blood.” Dart wet both palms with the blood dripping from her left shoulder. She then sprawled atop the leafy loam and positioned a palm on either side of the hilt.
“You tell me when,” he said.
Dart nodded and settled her hands. She took a rattling, deep breath. “Grab the hilt.”
Tylar obeyed, though he heard the terror in her voice. He gripped the hilt. It felt warm to the touch, almost as if he could sink his fingers into its surface. But it wasn’t a pleasant warmth, more like sticking your hands in a raw belly wound. There was a sickly fleshy feel to the grip, as if the hilt were trying to hold him. “I… I’ve got it.”
“Pull!” Dart said, bringing her palms together. Again a
brightness erupted, limning all in silver, shoving the myrrwood shadows far away. He drew the blade up between her palms.
She cried out but held her place, hands pressed.
Tylar watched the blade unsheathe between her palms, ablaze with the same silver light. It blinded the eye. He drew it to its full length from her hands. It stretched the length of his arm, solid moonlight, in contrast with the hilt’s sunlight.
Tylar gaped at the sword. He suddenly recognized what he held. He had seen the weapon before. On the streets of Punt. Wielded by the black naether beast, the assassin of Meeryn. The same blade had plunged through Meeryn’s breast and heart.
“It killed her,” he gasped. He felt the certainty stir deep inside him, smoky and black. Meeryn’s naethryn knew the weapon. Tylar faced the others. “Here is the blade that slew Meeryn.”
At his feet, Dart again cried out. She rolled away. Her hands smoked as if seared… but her flesh appeared untouched.
Then something ranker welled through the air, coming up from below. It reeked of black bile and the rot of poisoned flesh.
Kathryn grabbed Tylar’s shoulder. “Get back.”
Tylar stumbled away with her. The others retreated in all directions.
Up from the wound in the soil, where the blade had been planted, a black snake of smoky darkness coiled upward.
“Gloom,” Tylar said, recognizing the steaming stack.
The naether bled into this world, substanceless but deadly. The stench worsened. Distantly, heard in the bones rather than the ear, a sound issued forth, not of this world. It keened with a piercing cry that threatened to shatter teeth.
Ears were covered. Feet fled.
But the font of darkness slowly dissipated. The land closed over the rent. The wound, free of the sword, healed.
Still no one spoke.
Tylar held the Godsword, feeling its oily embrace of his palm and fingers. He wanted to toss the sword and run… and keep running. Instead, he squeezed his fingers tighter. He was the sword.
“What was that?” Rogger finally asked, the first to find his tongue.
“The naether,” Gerrod mumbled. “The sword pierced clean through from our world to the other.”
Tylar pictured the blade doing the same to Meeryn. Had she been pierced, not just through the heart, but all the way down to the naether? If so, perhaps it was a stream of Gloom, rather than the sword, that burned away her heart.
Reaching up, Tylar placed a hand to his own chest. Had Meeryn used the last of her dying Grace to reach into that same naether and drag forth her naethryn undergod and bind it to Tylar? Was it all she could do? Some way to continue her own battle in this war? Had she marked Tylar as her avatar and set him loose with a piece of herself?
He gripped the sword. If so… so be it. He had seen what killed Meeryn. And at the point of an ordinary sword, he had witnessed the corruption that turned ordinary men and women into ilk-beasts, the humanity burned from them. He lifted the blade. He knew which side of the war he wished to lend his sword, this sword… and himself.
The Gloom faded away, swallowed by the greater shadows of the myrrwood. The pillars stood as before, only their encrusted brown vines had turned to ash, the yellow lichen blackened. A stench still clung to the glade.
The woods seemed somehow darker. A grumbling, felt in the soles of the feet, threatened, and the bower overhead shivered. More rain drizzled through the disturbed canopy.
“The myrrwood felt the passage of the Gloom,” Gerrod said. “Certainly Chrism will have, too. It is no longer safe here. He will know about the sword.”
Tylar nodded in the direction of the castillion. “Then let us return what is his.”
“How do you propose to get to him?” Kathryn asked.
“The subterranean route,” Yaellin said. “The entrance is over here.”
They all followed the knight out the dark glade and through a short section of forest. A stone door appeared in the side of a small hummock. Its surface bore an etching of tangled wyldroses. Littick symbols glowed through the thorns and petals.
“ ‘Blood and bone,’ ” Gerrod read. “ Krys and ymm.”
“Warded with Chrism’s own name,” Kathryn said.
“And blood,” Yaellin said. He reached into a pocket of his cloak and removed a small crystal repostilary. “But the god’s own black bile will nullify the blessing.”
The knight removed the stopper. It had a small glass wand attached to its underside, like a woman’s sweetwater bottle, used to dab scent to throat and wrist. Only this was not so pleasant. Tylar whiffed the stench of black bile. It seemed even a god’s shite did not smell like roses.
Yaellin painted the bile along the lines of Littick lettering. The glow died under each stroke, smearing away the warding. Once done, a crack of stone sounded. Yaellin reached to draw the door open.
It slammed wide on its own.
A black snarl of roots burst forth, like the tentacles of a miiodon-and just as deadly. Yaellin was snatched and torn from his place, dragged into the tunnel’s entrance. Roots choked and tore. Blood spurted. His form disappeared without a sound. Even his scream was strangled away.
Other roots grabbed and tangled into the gathered party.
Dart fell to her backside, her ankle wrapped in vine. Tylar lunged at her, but she grabbed her dagger from its sheath and stabbed it into the root. The squirming vine blackened, cracking with flame. She tumbled away as the root fell to ash, releasing her.
Others fared worse. Dart’s friend Laurelle had been in Yaellin’s shadow. With the knight ripped from her side, she was seized at waist and leg.
Tylar twisted at the hip and swung his sword in a broad stroke. The shining blade cleaved through a mass of roots near the entrance. It passed as if through air. The severed roots writhed, spewing black blood. Laurelle fell free, as did Eylan, who had lunged to the girl’s aid and become entangled herself.
At the tunnel entrance, the stumped ends of the root, sliced by Rivenscryr, burst into flame, as if the blood inside were oil and the sword a tinder match. Coiling roots exploded from the inside, casting forth gouts of fiery debris. The flames raced deeper down the tunnel. More blasts echoed.
The party tumbled away.
“Yaellin…” Dart moaned.
He was gone.
Smoke and flames billowed out. The ground shook as the fires spread down the subterranean tunnel. A few roots writhed and twisted, but these also blew apart as the blood inside them torched.
“Away!” Tylar called with a pained expression.
He led them off through the myrrwood. He knew no path, but simply fled in the direction of the castillion.
A brilliant explosion lit the night behind them. Tylar turned in time to see one of the massive trunks of the myrrwood burst into flame, becoming a giant torch. Another, deeper in the forest, shattered with flames.
“The myrrwood is all one tree,” Gerrod said. “You’ve set its roots on fire. And it continues to spread, flaming through the channels of blood. From one tree to another.”
Tylar gaped.
“You lit the wick,” Rogger said. “Now all we can do is run!”
More trees exploded into living torches, all around them, behind and in front. The ground shook underfoot.
They fled as the forest continued its immolation. Trunks shattered, debris rained down. Smoke rolled and choked.
They had no choice but to keep fleeing-toward the castillion.
But they had no delusions for what awaited them.
“If Chrism didn’t know you were coming,” Rogger coughed out, “he does now. All of Chrismferry will be looking this way.”
Laurelle spoke, her face smeared with soot, tear tracks traced through the ash. “You… your sword.” She pointed.
Tylar raised the weapon, still gripping the warm hilt. Only that was all he held. In the mad flight, he hadn’t noticed.
The sword’s blade had vanished.
“One stroke,” Gerrod said as they paused
in their flight, cowering in a dark section of forest momentarily free of flames. “That must be all the sword can bear before needing to be replenished.”
Kathryn watched Dart again lay her bloody hands upon the sword and draw them along its length. Smoke rose from between her pressed palms, and from that blood and smoke, the silver sword appeared once again, whetted by the girl’s Grace.
Tylar stepped back.
“You two are indeed sword and sheath,” Rogger mumbled. “Both of you had better keep close.”
More blasts echoed from the deeper forest behind them. Ahead lay patches of fire. The heat grew worse with each breath. They dared not tarry in the fiery woods any longer.
“Let’s go,” Tylar said.
Dart glanced back. Kathryn followed. She caught the haunted look in the young girl’s eyes. She had seen too much death for one day.
Kathryn recognized the sorrow. She placed a hand on the girl’s shoulder. “He did his duty,” she said softly. “There will be time to mourn Yaellin later.”
Dart nodded and turned, but her eyes shone brighter with tears.
It was easy to say… harder to do.
Kathryn also glanced back. First the father and now the son. She prayed Ser Henri and Yaellin’s sacrifices had not been in vain. With the last strength of her arms, she would make it so.
The woods finally grew thinner around them. The eternal night of the heavy bower lightened to gray skies and stiff winds. Rain broke the canopy. After the heat and stifle of the deeper wood, its coolness was a relief.
Distantly, thunder rumbled.
They paused to rest one last time.
Ahead the towers of the castillion peeked between the weave of branches. It was afire with torches. At windows, along battlements. The castillion awaited them.
Kathryn sought any other path. She faced the fiery woods behind them. Despite the downpour, the woods glowed and flamed, steamed and smoked. There was no escape that way. There was not enough water across all of Myrillia to douse that fire. To Kathryn, it seemed all the elements had gathered for this coming night: loam, air, fire, and water.
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