Shadowfall g-1

by James Clemens

  He approached the door, Rivenscryr in hand.

  Thunder echoed.

  He waited for it to pass, then leaned an ear to the door. He heard nothing, except for a rumble of rushing water under his feet. The Tigre River flowed under this bottommost level. It must be flood high by now.

  Stepping back, he gripped the Godsword and reached to the latch with his other hand. He pulled the door open and flowed into the hall, touching the Grace in his cloak to hide his entry. He kept crouched and slid to the neighboring wall.

  Tigre Hall spread before him, half in ruins.

  He gaped at the destruction. The churn of water burbled louder, echoing up from ragged holes in the floor. It seemed the grand hall had not been spared when the flippercraft tore beneath the keep.

  But that was not all the damage.

  Torches lit the space sparingly, hanging from sconces, illuminating broken benches, tables, and splintered chairs. It looked as if some mad whirlwind had torn through the hall. The broken floor could not have done all this damage.

  Then Tylar smelled it.

  A residual odor of burned blood.

  Here was where Chrism must have gathered his guard and underfolk, where the humanity was burned from them by corrupted Grace. The destruction was the aftermath of that foul birthing.

  “Do not tarry at the door, Godslayer.”

  The soft voice came from the far side of the room, where tables and chairs still stood upright. A raised dais was lit by two torches atop poles. They blazed merrily, brighter than those along the walls. Their flickering flames shone upon a row of nine chairs atop the dais. Four smaller seats flanked each side of a taller chair. It had been carved from myrrwood, gone black by age.

  The throne of Chrism.

  It was empty.

  The figure rose from the steps of the dais. He had been righting an overturned pot that supported a dwarf sedge-wood tree. Its fronded crown shook slightly as the pot settled on the floor.

  Lord Chrism stood back, staring at it, fists on his hips. Then he reached forward and touched the spindly trunk. The small buds, buried amid the leaves, opened, peeling back opalescent petals.

  Satisfied, Chrism lifted his other arm and motioned Tylar to join him.

  “This way, Godslayer.”

  Chrism climbed the dais and dropped to his throne. He lounged comfortably and waited.

  Tylar waded out of shadows and edged warily across the room. He skirted the edges of a hole. The rush of water below sounded like a heavy wind.

  He glanced down.

  Deeper in the water, a slight glow shone. Perhaps a glowpike working against the stream. Then it vanished, swept away.

  Tylar cleared the ruined sections of the hall and continued forward. Behind the dais, another hole cracked the floor, spewing up a bit of spray that scintillated in the torchlight. It was too bright for such a dark moment.

  Chrism’s eyes fixed on the Godsword as Tylar stepped forward. Tylar read the desire behind his dispassionate features.

  The god waved to a chair by the sedge-wood tree.

  Tylar remained standing.

  Chrism sighed, a soft, pleasant sound. “I’ve called you down here to make you an offer, Tylar.”

  Tylar winced at the god’s familiarity.

  Chrism continued. “The Cabal could use someone of your… unique talents. It would be a shame to waste such an opportunity, but we will if we must. Join us freely, turn over the sword, and we’ll spare all your companions in the High Wing.”

  Tylar stared at the god before him. He was plainly handsome, unassuming in greens and browns. But Tylar remembered another Chrism. He again touched Mistress Naff’s memories, of Chrism attacking her, abusing her, destroying her with his corrupted seed. Tylar still felt the stubble of his cheek at his throat. He remembered the agony.

  There was no kindness or mercy to be had here.

  His fingers tightened.

  Chrism noted the strain of his muscles. “A shame.”

  “Who are you?” Tylar asked. He would know more. From the easy carriage of the god, there was a trap hidden here. He wanted time to discern it, to let it show itself, to let the god drop his guard. He needed every advantage.

  But mostly he wanted answers.

  “I am still Chrism,” the god answered. “Or rather as much of Chrism as once filled this skin. We are one and the same. Or rather one part of three. Except our aethryn selves have vanished to the aether. Unknowable, untouchable, uncaring of flesh and things beneath it.”

  “You’re a naethryn,” Tylar said, realizing the deeper truth behind the god’s words. Disgust filled his words. “You’re Chrism’s undergod.”

  Chrism shrugged. “This cloth is as much mine to wear as the one before.”

  “How…?” Tylar asked. “What became of the other?”

  “Gone. Burned away by the sword you carry with you now.”

  “You killed a part of yourself?”

  “It was no matter. The Sundering shivered away all that was soft and merciful from me, left it in flesh here. The greater purpose was set aside, forgotten. But not in the naether! We still remembered. Those who served He Who Comes still survived. We banded together.”

  “The Cabal,” Tylar mumbled.

  A nod answered. “When the time was ripe, the Cabal stole the Godsword, whetted the blade, and buried it into the spot where Chrism bled and settled this land. He knew it, of course, felt its poison in his precious garden, and came to the pillars, to the sword. He was so easily trapped… again.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Chrism sat straighter. “That’s right. You never knew the truth.” Laughter flowed, darkly complexioned. “The story of Chrism’s settling of this First Land. His great sacrifice. It was not as your illustrious historicals describe. Do you wish to know how your lands truly started?”

  Tylar noted the furtive movements behind Chrism’s shoulders. I must keep the god distracted, focused on me.

  “What happened?” Tylar asked stiffly, but he shifted the Godsword to catch Chrism’s eye.

  Chrism settled back. “It was a dark time when the gods first came to this world. Atrocities were committed across Myrillia, by god and man alike. Chrism was no different. He raved. Did horrible things. He was eventually captured by your folk. Chained between the pillars here. His throat, wrists, and groin were sliced to the bone. They meant to kill the daemon who had slain a hundred children among their villages. But Chrism bled and bled. Undying, he fed the land. His Grace took root here, and his ravings died away. He pledged himself to the land and spent another hundred years chained to that pillar, in servitude, until finally being freed.”

  Tylar’s skin went cold at that thought. A century in chains.

  “Only after he was freed was his discovery shared among the other gods. Others settled to escape the ravings. But the first… Chrism’s settling was not done by choice or even despair, but by force. A savage and bloody beginning of Myrillia’s new age.”

  Tylar shook his head, refusing to believe.

  “And the Godsword,” Chrism continued. “Why do you think Chrism slew those children? He was trying to revive our sword. When we were whole, in our own kingdom, we forged it for He Who Comes. Some sense of this persisted in his ravings. He struggled to revive the sword. But once settled, such desire faded. He hid the sword, but others knew of it.”

  “Your Cabal.”

  Chrism nodded. “For millennia we sought some way to break from the naether and into this world. Rivenscryr was our only hope. And there were those among your people who used Dark Grace to thin our world from yours. We broke through in tiny seepages. Enough to set a foothold here. We lured others to us. We set them on a path to free Myrillia.”

  Tylar remembered the screams of freedom by Darjon. Such human Cabalists had been duped, believing they fought for some greater purpose, some illusory freedom that would benefit all of Myrillia, not realizing the Cabal’s darker purpose.

  Chrism leaned forward. “Who do yo
u think finally released Chrism from his chains after a hundred years? Who allowed Chrism to spread his peaceful message and start this age?”

  Curiosity burned in Tylar. Yet he had to maintain focus. Not let his eyes wander to the silent writhing that rose behind the throne. It had not been a glowpike in the waters under the keep. Tylar’s eyes narrowed.

  “It was the Cabal who freed Chrism from his chains. Those first to wear human skin. But not the last.”

  “If… if you freed Chrism from his chains then why murder him now?”

  “At that place in history, peace served the Cabal. Time was needed to study this land and the odd Graces born to us here. It took millennia to spread ourselves, to root ourselves, to corrupt those of weak mind. But four centuries ago, a new way to whet Rivenscryr was discovered.”

  “The godling boy.”

  Chrism smiled, a predatory gleam. “Much was wasted until we discovered how to use the boy’s gifts. It was difficult without possessing the sword at the time. The boy died too soon.

  He did not have our natural ability to heal from mortal wounds. Who would’ve known that? The offspring of gods was not immortal. So much was wasted. We won’t make that same mistake again.”

  Tylar pictured Dart. He couldn’t let this monster have her.

  Chrism continued. “But the Cabal did preserve enough of the boy’s blood, saved in crystal. We bided our time. We chose where best to strike first. Two centuries ago, the castillion here was infiltrated, the sword stolen and whetted and planted as a trap in the Eldergarden. The god came, sensing the poisoned touch of the sword in his midst. He found the sword, yanked it free. The fool.”

  “The sword had pierced into the naether,” Tylar said.

  “And I was there, waiting. When he pulled the blade, I swept forth and into Chrism. Bathed in Gloom, he had no defenses. I burned the quick from his flesh, hollowing him out. Then I slipped into him like one slips into a well-worn boot.”

  Tylar touched his chest, forgetting himself.

  Chrism noted his movement. “Not like you, Godslayer. Or even like the creature you slew in the High Wing, wearing Mistress Naff’s skin. That underling, of low mind and station, served us, carried the whetted sword and slew Meeryn. It was unfortunate Meeryn had learned of the Cabal’s infiltration of Chrismferry; even she did not know how high it had spread. But such knowledge could not be allowed to survive.”

  “So you had Meeryn killed,” Tylar said.

  “The Cabal will have this world. We will possess it like I do this skin. We will pave the way once again for He Who Comes. Nothing will stop us this time. We acted too hastily in the past, in our own kingdom. We did not understand fully what I had forged.” Chrism stared at the sword again, eyes shining. “But now we do. As before, we will bring a new age to Myrillia. But not one of peace for the crawling vermin of these lands. Such a time has ended. You shall become our chattel and clay. Your blood and flesh will open the way for His coming.”

  “Who-?”

  Chrism sneered. “Even his name you are not worthy to hear.”

  Chrism finally stood. A black mist steamed from his skin. Tylar had seen such a sheen in gods when they were worked up, like when Meeryn had fled her assassin. But while Meeryn’s glow was sunlight and petals, the pall rising from Chrism ate the light and stirred with the winds of the naether. It made his form shimmer, as across baked sands.

  “I am not like you or the creature you slew,” he repeated. “You are possessed by smoke and shadow. But as I forged Rivenscryr, it forged me. You are possession. I am fruition, culmination, perfection.”

  He lifted his arms. His true form pierced out of his flesh.

  “See the face of the Cabal!”

  Locked in dark thoughts, Dart stood by the windows of the High Wing. She kept one hand on the dagger at her belt. Tylar had been gone so long. What was happening? She could see the others reflected in the windows. They all seemed lost to their private dungeons. Kathryn had finally risen from the floor, her eyes haunted and empty. Krevan and Eylan, warriors both, seemed boneless now, sunken in. Gerrod had gone very still, becoming a bronze statue, unmoving.

  And among them stood the Hands, eyes blazing, watching them all. Two of the Hands stood, sentinels of flesh and Dark Grace. But the other two wandered the hall, keeping a blazing eye on all.

  Dart watched for them, keeping away in a slow dance. She didn’t want herself being grabbed and pinned before she could wield the dagger and end her life. Her blood would never be Chrism’s. Pupp kept to her side. He was clearly disturbed by the Hands, too.

  So she kept a watch on the room’s reflection while staring out at the storm. The windows of the High Wing faced across all of Chrismferry. The Tigre River snaked outward from the castillion, splitting the city in half.

  True night neared, though it was hard to discern through the dark clouds. Lights dotted the city below.

  How many went about their ordinary day, oblivious of the terror and bloodshed being waged at the city’s heart? Dart wished for such oblivion, to live a simple life. But wishes would not help her now.

  Lightning flashed in a forking display across the skies. For a moment, night became day again. The city appeared in stark, silvery relief. The river below ignited, reflecting the brilliance.

  Thunder followed as darkness swept back over Chrismferry. Dart blinked away the flash of the lightning, dazzled. But the brightness would not go away. The river below continued to shine in patches as if the waters had trapped some of the brilliance and refused to let it go.

  She leaned closer, her forehead on the cold glass. Her brow wrinkled.

  The tiny glows in the water moved as she watched, streaming toward the castillion, against the current. These were no reflections.

  “Lights…” Dart mumbled.

  Lights under the water.

  Fingers closed on her shoulder. She jumped, fearing it was one of the Hands.

  “Hush,” Rogger said, a faint whisper at her ear. “Back away.”

  Dart, though confused, obeyed. She stared questioningly at Rogger. The thief simply shook his head.

  “Help me,” he said as he drew her to the opposite side of the hall, away from the bank of windows. “We need to keep the Hands’ attention away.”

  Though she did not fully understand, Dart nodded. She had asked similar of Laurelle earlier. To draw the eyes from what must not be seen.

  Dart pulled her dagger. “Struggle with me,” she whispered. “If there is one person here who Chrism is most concerned about, it’s me. He will not wish me to come to harm.”

  Rogger seemed to understand her intent and reached for her hand.

  “But be careful of the blade,” Dart added.

  “Naturally,” Rogger said, taking hold of her hand. “Shall we dance?”

  Dart nodded, raised her voice for all to hear, and feigned a struggle. “I… I can’t stand it anymore! I will take my own life!”

  “No, you mustn’t!” Rogger answered.

  She and Rogger began their dance, drawing all eyes away from the windows, away from the glow moving against the current.

  “See the true face of the Cabal!”

  Tylar gaped as Chrism stepped down from the dais. His flesh was pierced by hard black spines. His eyes went black, but still glowed with some inner fire.

  “I am no smoky phantom,” he said. His voice quaked at the edges with the keening wail of the naether. “I am naethryn given flesh and form in this world.”

  He stepped lower, arms outstretching, spines shattering out his fingertips into great claws. His knees broke as he stepped to the stone floor, bending backward inhumanly. Shining black spurs sprouted from the backs of his legs. They dripped with oil that ate through the stone.

  Tylar fell backward, knowing now why Chrism had been so relaxed. He was no daemon, but something greater and deadlier.

  Chrism stalked toward him. From either side of his head, behind his ears, a pair of horns spiraled out, winding back in a fierce sweep. He o
pened his mouth and black fangs uprooted teeth. His tongue burned away to flame.

  “Do you think to stand against us, little man?” A laugh as harsh as braided steel burst forth. “Not even your sword can slay me. Why do you think it was left in the gardens, untended, unguarded? Rivenscryr forged me. It cannot unmake me.”

  Tylar balked. Was it true?

  “WHO ARE YOU TO FACE ME?” Chrism boomed, his words racking through the wail. “YOU ARE NO GODSLAYER!”

  Tylar stood before the onslaught. “You know I’m not,” he answered quietly. “Because you took everything from me. My honor, my body, even my humanity.”

  “THEN WHAT IS LEFT? WHAT ARE YOU TO DEFY ME?”

  Tylar sheathed Rivenscryr and pulled forth Krevan’s sword. “I am a knight.”

  He lunged toward the beast, firing all the Grace in his cloak, igniting shadow to speed and strength. He fed it into his one arm, sweeping at the naether monster.

  “Now!” he shouted.

  By then, the writhing wall of tangleweed had climbed the wall behind the throne, reaching to the ceiling. It had risen silently, growing thicker, bending leaf and vine to sluice the river water. Not even a drip spattered to alert Chrism.

  This was no growth of loam, but of water.

  Chrism was blind to it.

  Upon Tylar’s shout, the wall of tangleweed burst out and crashed over the daemon, ripe with Fyla’s Grace.

  Tangleweed wrapped and bound, coiled and snarled.

  The poisonous touch of the naethryn burned vine and leaf, but more weed surged to take its place. And there was still flesh that moored the naethryn, Chrism’s old shell. Tendril and stalk rooted deep for purchase.

  Still, Chrism bucked and tore. Neither god nor weed could get the upper hand.

  Tylar tipped the balance, striking with his borrowed sword. He cleaved into the beast’s shoulder. Steel clanged, like striking rock. The sword was knocked from his grip. But Chrism’s attention was diverted long enough for a ropy vine to snare his claw on one side.

  Tylar dove away as the other claw swiped at his belly, ready to rip him in half. But the years in the slave pits had taught him how to roll and dodge. He landed on his shoulder and flipped back to his feet.