Shadowfall g-1

by James Clemens

  Dart heard the hard smile behind Mistress Naff’s next words. “The trap is set. There will be no escape. For any of them. It will end here.”

  Tylar climbed the stairs of the center tower. They approached the High Wing. He led the way with Kathryn at his side. Eylan followed with Gerrod and Rogger. Krevan and Corram guarded their rear.

  The only sound was the tread of their own steps. Even the cries of battle in the gardens had disappeared, swallowed by the heavy stone. All that interrupted their footsteps was the occasional hollow rumble of thunder.

  Where were the folk of the keep?

  Surely not all had been corrupted into beasts.

  Yet not a single person moved in the halls. The entire keep had become a crypt, haunted and empty. Torches hissed in sconces and braziers crackled. The castillion seemed to be holding its breath, waiting.

  The tension dragged their steps. Each crack of thunder stopped them until it echoed away. They had slowly traversed the lower halls from the southeast tower. In the lower holds, they discovered sections of the floor had fallen away, into the river below.

  “Our flippercraft must have ripped through some of the castillion’s old underpinnings as it crashed through here,” Rogger had said, peering down into the river. The waters below had churned and roiled with the storm.

  But such damage was slight compared to the true blow struck here.

  The corruption of a god, the heart of an entire realm.

  Tylar stared upward, toward the High Wing.

  They climbed another four flights, moving in silence. None dared speak. Tylar rounded the last bend in the stair. The main double doors to the High Wing were not only unguarded, they lay open.

  He stopped, suspicious.

  They waited, listening for any sign of an ambush.

  All that was heard was the rumble of thunder.

  Tylar met Kathryn’s eyes. He sheathed his ordinary blade and slid free Rivenscryr. The snick of metal sounded loud on the stair.

  He stepped around the bend, hugging the wall, his blade held ready.

  He moved up one step, then another.

  The rest followed.

  In this steady manner, they climbed to the top of the stairs. Tylar tried his best to scan the hall beyond the open doors. Like all the halls, the High Wing appeared deserted. Had Chrism fled?

  This worry drove Tylar over the threshold and into the great hall.

  Windows lined one side, doors the other. Halfway down the hallway, the central brazier still glowed in the dimness. The crack of a log in the great furnace startled Tylar. It sounded like the break of a bone. A sound he knew too well.

  He pushed farther into the hall.

  Nothing.

  He waved the others to check the closest rooms. All the doors were open, as if they had been left ajar in a mad rush to escape. Kathryn and Gerrod tried the first chamber. Eylan and Rogger the next. Tylar led Krevan and Corram to the third.

  Kathryn and Gerrod were already returning. “Empty,” whispered Kathryn, wearing a deep frown of worry.

  Rogger appeared at his door. He waved. “Come see this.”

  Tylar, Kathryn, and Gerrod followed the thief into the chamber. The air in the room smelled of burned rye and something sickly sweet, like honey gone bad.

  Eylan waited for them in the back bedchamber. A figure lay atop the bed, arms folded over the rise of an ample belly. He looked to be in gentle repose, eyes closed. His chest rose and fell evenly. A brazier smoldered in one corner, the source of the room’s reek.

  “Master Pliny, one of Chrism’s Hands,” Rogger introduced.

  “He won’t wake,” Eylan said.

  “Spellcast,” Gerrod said. “Thralled by black Grace.”

  A stern voice interrupted them. “Another lies in the same state in the next room,” Krevan said.

  They backed out to the main hall.

  “Apparently Chrism spared his Hands from the ilking,” Rogger said. “I guess he’s too lazy to train new ones. Good Hands are hard to find.”

  The other rooms were quickly checked. Two other Hands were discovered enthralled and slumbering.

  “Mistress Naff is still missing,” Gerrod said. He stared around at the others.

  All had heard Dart’s accounting of the ceremony in the myrrwood, the chosen few. The remainder of the castillion had not been spared. Chrism must have blood fed the keep staff and guards in secret, drafting all in some hidden manner. Perhaps in wine, perhaps in food. Afterward, they all went about their duties unaware that at a moment’s call all would be lost: their forms, their minds, their humanity.

  Tylar felt no real sympathy for those who went willingly to the torch, but so many others had had no choice. He stared up and down the hall. Even the Hands had become puppets.

  Everyone gathered again in the hall.

  There was only one room left to be searched.

  The golden doors to Chrism’s chambers stood closed, lit by the glow of the brazier before them.

  Tylar stepped forward, flanked by Krevan and Kathryn. He clutched the Godsword in hand, fingers squeezing the throbbing hilt. The blade seemed to eat the light coming off the brazier and shone brighter for it.

  He reached a hand toward the doors’ latch.

  Their surface was plated in gold. If locked, it would take time to chop their way inside. Perhaps the closed doors were a ruse. To distract them, while Chrism made his true escape.

  Tylar’s fingers touched the latch and the twin doors fell open on their own, swinging inside.

  A lone figure stood at the threshold.

  She was stunning, slim of waist, generous of curve and breast, auburn hair trailing in lazy curves over one shoulder and down to midback. She leaned slightly to one side, a palm resting on a hip, an inviting glint to her eyes.

  “The godslayer,” she whispered, her lips, rouged red and full, barely moving. “Welcome to the High Wing.”

  Tylar froze, transfixed-not so much by her beauty, but her nakedness. She stood unabashed, her nipples bared. Below her throat, no hair marred her smooth white skin.

  But it was not unmarked.

  Centered on her chest, a black handprint stood out starkly.

  A twin to his own.

  “They must be warned,” Delia insisted.

  “I can send a cadre of knights,” a cloaked figure said, “but that would strip our defenses. I was ordered to keep you all under guard.”

  Dart listened to the exchange from the shadow of the downed ship. She had related what she’d overheard in the High Wing, of a trap being set, but nothing was being done. Nothing but talking. Her fists balled up.

  She glanced back out into the rain.

  She spotted one hope to break this deadlock. She turned to Laurelle. “Can you distract those others?” She waved to Delia and the clutch of bantering knights.

  Laurelle stirred, her brows frowned. “Why? What are you going to do?”

  “I’m going to strike for the castillion.”

  Laurelle’s eyes widened. “Are you mad? What about what Ser Tylar said? To keep you and the sword apart?”

  “There are two daemons up there.” Dart remembered the kiss she had witnessed in the Eldergardens between Mistress Naff and Chrism. She remembered the smoky darkness that linked the pair’s lips. “The godslayer will need more than one strike. I’m the only one who can help him.”

  Laurelle wrung her hands, but she nodded, her eyes firming with the plan. “I’ll do my best here. But how are you going to get there?”

  She reached and hugged Laurelle tight. “Pupp is not the only dog here.” With those words, she set off into the rain.

  Laurelle waited a moment, then headed in the opposite direction.

  Dart rushed through the pelting rain. It stung now like bee stings, whipped by the winds. But she pushed on. She reached her only hope.

  “Tracker Lorr,” she said.

  The wyldman seemed unsurprised by her sudden appearance but confused for the reason behind it. “Child?”<
br />
  She spoke in a rush. “Can your hound carry me to the castillion? I heard before… when you came… that he could smell Castellan Vail.”

  “Aye, the big kank can, but that’s not a trip for a mite like you.”

  Dart grabbed the edge of his buckskin coat. “I must get there.”

  “Because of the trap?” Lorr asked. “Best leave that to your elders.”

  Dart sensed time passing too swiftly. She filled her voice with firm conviction. A wyld tracker’s senses were supposed to be acute enough to tell lie from truth. “All will be lost unless I can reach them in time. I know it. Now is not the moment for caution or half steps. I know it’s risky for me to go. But I’m the only one who can help. If we lose now, we lose everything.”

  He stared down at her, his eyes slightly aglow.

  Dart met his gaze. “I must go.”

  A commotion rose by the flippercraft. Laurelle was sobbing, panicked and throwing herself among the knights. They gathered about her, concerned.

  “Turning the other’s noses, I see,” Lorr asked.

  Dart nodded. “I can’t let them stop me. If you won’t help, I’ll do it myself.” She stalked toward the mountain of dog flesh.

  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 daem
on, 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.