Shadowfall g-1

by James Clemens

  Rogger’s daggers rested in both palms.

  He threw one, then the other. The first struck Chrism in the throat. The other in his belly. Tylar grabbed another pair from his belt and whipped them, hitting upper arm and lower thigh.

  Vines followed, winding out to grab the embedded daggers, finding good purchase to further wrap up the naethryn. A thick trunk lashed around Chrism’s throat.

  A ripping howl escaped the creature’s maw.

  Chrism was lifted bodily from the floor, dragged up by the neck. Legs kicked, poisoned spurs sliced through the weeds under them.

  “Strike now!” a voice rang behind him. Fyla, the Mistress of Tangle Reef, had come, rising through another of the broken holes. “Strike with the Godsword!”

  Tylar ran at the writhing naethryn. He dragged Rivenscryr from its sheath and lifted it high, cradling its hilt in both fists.

  One strike. That would be all he had.

  Tylar tapped the last of the Grace in Kathryn’s cloak. With a will borne of blood and shadow, Tylar leaped at the naethryn. Chrism’s legs attempted to kick him away. Tylar twisted in midair. A spur caught him in the thigh, but it was too late.

  Tylar struck the monster and drove the blade clean through the monster’s chest, through the heart of the naethryn.

  Chrism racked, throwing Tylar back.

  He tumbled away, hitting the stone hard.

  A wail shattered through the room. Torches were blown out. Darkness fell. Tylar scrambled backward.

  But glow pods quickly rose from the many holes and cracks in the floor. It was one of those same pods that Tylar had spotted in the river’s current earlier.

  Light returned.

  Chrism still hung among the weeds, panting heavily, wrapped tight in vines. The beast no longer fought. The sword hilt rested square in the center of the chest.

  His fiery black eyes sought Tylar, then Fyla.

  “Meeryn’s lover,” Chrism spat, blood flowing from his lips.

  Fyla remained silent. She stood naked, resting atop one of her weed pads.

  Instead, Tylar, gaining his feet, spoke. His left thigh was on fire, but he ignored it. “It is not only man that will hold this line,” he said coldly and certainly. “We are not alone. Bring this war if you will, but it will not be only a War of Gods… but a War of Gods and Man.”

  Chrism writhed again, but the weeds dug deeper into his flesh. “You have not slain me. Rivenscryr cannot harm me.”

  “But it can rend your flesh,” Fyla said calmly. A tiny tendril of weed spiraled out, glowing with Grace. It reached across Chrism’s shoulder.

  Chrism’s eyes widened with fear.

  The fragile sprout touched the tip of the hilt.

  Fires blasted outward from the impaled sword. Flesh seared and blackened. Chrism arched backward, screaming flames. His body blazed among the weeds.

  Tylar watched as flesh turned to ash, falling fully away, revealing the full extent of the black naethryn. It was the form of a mighty wyrm, clawed and horned. It screamed one last time; then shape without substance dissolved, collapsing in on itself.

  With a mighty clap of thunder, it was gone.

  The sword tumbled from on high and clattered against the floor. It bounced and rattled, then settled to the stones.

  Tylar walked up to it. The blade was still present. It had not vanished. He stared from the intact sword, to Fyla, frowning.

  Her weedy pad carried her closer, dropping to the stone.

  “The naethryn spoke the truth,” she said.

  Tylar bent and retrieved the sword. He stared at the blade. “It did not kill him.”

  “No, but he has been banished back to the naether. Without his toehold in flesh here, he could not remain in our world. And with Chrism’s body destroyed, his naethryn will never find a host that will allow him to take such perfect form again. It is a blow that the Cabal will find hard to recover from.”

  Tylar stared at the flowing weed, wondering at her arrival. “How..?”

  “The raven you sent upon departing Tashijan reached me, calling me to Chrismferry. I was already nearby, hugging the coast of the First Land, hoping to be of use.”

  Tylar had forgotten the raven he had sent. Kathryn had sent hers to Yaellin, to alert him to meet them at the school. But his raven had been sent out to sea, to seek out Fyla.

  “I had wanted you to come here only to support my claims,” Tylar said. “To speak on my behalf when I met with Chrism.”

  She nodded. “But I have ears in many places. I heard of the battle as I was already flowing up the Tigre River from the coast. I came to lend my strength to this war.”

  “And that you did.” Tylar held out Rivenscryr to Fyla, resting the blade across his palms. “This is the sword of the gods. You must take it.”

  She raised a palm. “That was the past. Like you said to Chrism, this is no longer a war of gods alone. Man has as much stake here in Myrillia as any of us. More so, in fact. Rivenscryr now belongs to the world of man. It is yours to bear.”

  “Why me?”

  Fyla moved closer. She leaned out from her pad. This was not her realm. Weed and water were her home. Only the river channel allowed her to delve so far into the First Land.

  She tenderly brushed Tylar’s lips, sighing between them, then pulled away. “Thank you. For Meeryn. For myself.”

  Her pad lifted her up and began to slide away.

  Tylar followed a step, lifting the blade. “Why me?”

  She met his gaze, eyes shining with Grace, and answered him. “Because you were chosen. Because there is no other.” Her eyes glowed with sadness and sympathy. “Because you must.”

  26

  DOORS

  Dart raced down the high wing hall. sunlight blazed with the dawn of a new day. It seemed a full year had passed since that awful, bloody day, but it had been only a full moonpass. Twenty-eight days. Dart reached Laurelle’s door and knocked briskly. There was no immediate answer, so she knocked harder.

  “Hold!” a shout answered her. “You’ll rattle the door right off its hinges!”

  “What is taking you so long?” Dart squirmed in her new leather boots.

  Pupp danced around her, matching her excitement.

  Dart smoothed the lay of her velvet brown pants and snowy silk blouse. But it was the cloak she was most proud of. It was as black as any Shadowcloak and hung perfectly to her ankles. It was pinned at her throat by a black diamond.

  Laurelle finally opened the door. Dart had to blink, taken aback. Laurelle was resplendent in a silver gown and a tiara of kryst jewels. Each jewel shone brilliantly against the ebony of her friend’s straight locks.

  “There’s plenty of time,” Laurelle said, but even her cheeks were flushed.

  “But you must be in your seat before the ceremony begins,” Dart said. “The other Hands have already left.”

  Dart led the way down the hall to the back stair. The girls hurried, but a firm voice struck out behind them.

  “Children! I’ll not have one of you tripping on a gown’s hem or a cloak’s edge. You’ll tumble all the way down to Tigre Hall.”

  Dart slowed her step. “Sorry, Matron Shashyl.” She turned and curtsied to the portly woman. Dart had to hide a smile.

  Thankfully Shashyl had been away from the keep when Chrism had ilked the guards and underfolk. She had been visiting her sick sister in Cobbleshores. She was spared, one of the few.

  Matron Shashyl stepped to the door to the private stair and held it open. “Grace is not only found in humours,” she said sagely, “but also in the bearing of a young woman.”

  “Yes, Matron,” Laurelle said with a perfectly serene face.

  But once the door closed behind them, Laurelle burst with laughter. They fled down the stairs, as if late for their morning meal. They wound around and around the narrow stairs. Pupp lit the way, racing ahead. They finally reached the bottom and burst into the antechamber.

  They almost collided with the bulk of Master Pliny. He
had been bent over, securing a bootlace. He straightened, his jowled face flushed. “There you are, Mistress Laurelle. I was to wait for you so we can enter, arm in arm.”

  “I’d be honored,” Laurelle said and leaned out an elbow. But she winked past his shoulder to Dart.

  Dart hid a giggle behind a fist. The Hands had no recollection of their enthrallment by Chrism. Once the monster had been vanquished, the blaze of fire had died in their eyes, and they had all collapsed. Each slept for a full day, then woke as if from a regular slumber.

  But they had all heard the tale afterward.

  Each still held a haunted look in the eye.

  Guards at the doors, new to their posts, opened the way. The muffled voices of the crowds filling the grand hall rose to a din. Laurelle and Master Pliny set off into the arched chamber.

  Dart watched from the doorway. Tigre Hall was in the midst of repair. Temporary planks covered the holes in the floor, but the rush of the river could still be heard below.

  Laurelle and Pliny slowly traversed the aisle between the curved benches that fronted the grand dais. The wood smiths had built most of the seating in only the past few days, working through all the bells.

  Laurelle finally reached the dais and climbed with Pliny. They each took their seats, filling their proper places as Hands of the realm. Dart glanced to the chair to the immediate right of the center myrrwood throne. It had been her place. Hand of Blood. But another sat there now.

  Delia.

  It was her right as Meeryn’s original Hand of Blood.

  But others were empty. Yet to be filled.

  The smile on her lips faded as she remembered Yaellin, fallen to save her. She would honor him as best she could. She reached and clutched the black diamond at her throat.

  “There you are,” a firm voice cracked behind her.

  Dart jumped and turned. She curtsied again. “Castellan Vail.”

  “A page does not curtsy,” Kathryn said sternly. “They bow, first the head, then at the waist.”

  Dart licked her lips. She was to leave in the next day or so for Tashijan, to train as a knight. She would serve as page to the castellan herself. The clothes she wore now were reflective of her station. It had taken a bit of convincing to fight for this opportunity.

  Tylar and the others had refused at first.

  But Dart had not backed down. Yaellin had been both knight and Hand. To honor his sacrifice, she would become the same.

  Surprisingly, Kathryn had come to her defense.

  “None know the girl there,” the castellan had said. “Only those loyal to us, like Krevan and Gerrod, know the secret of her godhood. Not even Argent is aware. What better place to keep her safe than at the heart of Tashijan, surrounded by knights? And perhaps it’s still best to keep you and Dart apart for now.”

  Tylar had finally relented, bowing to the wisdom of it.

  So Dart had been bled almost daily by Delia, the new Hand of Blood. Her humour was stored in secret, available for Tylar to ignite Rivenscryr whenever necessary. Dart was no longer needed here, not as Hand, nor as sheath.

  Dart attempted to bow now as the castellan directed.

  Kathryn watched. “Much better.” Then she leaned down and faced Dart. “Is this something you truly want? To come with me to Tashijan? You are safe here.”

  Dart met her gaze. Nowhere was truly safe. She had learned that too well. True security could be found only in one’s own heart. She would learn to defend herself, to find a place for herself.

  “I want to be a knight,” Dart said solemnly. “I will be a knight.”

  Kathryn stared at her and nodded. “Then come with me.” She crossed to the door. “Stay by my side.”

  Dart fell in step with Kathryn as she traversed the hall. Cloaked knights and tattooed masters filled all the benches to the right. It was as if all of Tashijan had come.

  Kathryn stepped to the very front bench. She sidled over and sat next to a tall man with a plate of bone over one eye.

  “Warden Fields,” Kathryn said icily.

  “Castellan Vail,” he answered with as much warmth. His one good eye settled to Dart. Pupp gave the man a wide berth.

  “My new page,” Kathryn said and patted the open seat next to her.

  The man nodded. His interest glazed over, and he turned away.

  Dart fell into her seat, sitting straight, clutching the front edge of the bench.

  She stared across to the other side of the hall. Nobles throughout the First Land and beyond had come to attend, as had Hands from realms throughout Myrillia. Each god had sent at least one Hand. Most gods from the First Land had sent all their handservants.

  As Dart gawked, she spotted a face staring back at her. Her brow crinkled with recognition. It was one of her fellow thirdfloorers from the Conclave. A dark boy. His bronzed face was easy to pick out among the older, paler Hands of his retinue. She had never learned his name. He had been chosen the same night as Dart and Laurelle, chosen by Jessup of Oldenbrook, a distinguished house of the First Land. But Dart also remembered how he had spoken up for her when the others had ridiculed her.

  His eyes met hers. He nodded.

  She was surprised to feel heat suffuse her face.

  A trumpet sounded, startling her back around.

  Drums beat at the rear of the room.

  Folk throughout the hall stood. Dart rose with the tide.

  Doors opened at the back, and a march of castillion guards entered Tigre Hall. Stepping in beat to the drums, they crossed down the center aisle, taking up stations to either side, forming an alley. Swords were raised, forming an archway.

  Another trumpet blasted-and he appeared, stepping into the hall.

  Kathryn stiffened at Dart’s side. Tylar strode down the tunnel of swords. His black hair had been oiled straight back. His face had been shaved to polished smoothness. As he marched, his gray eyes shone with the storm inside him. This was not a role he cared to play. He wore a solid outfit of black: boots, pants, shirt, and cloak. The only color was the silver scabbard worn at the waist.

  It bore the Godsword.

  Rivenscryr.

  He marched down the long aisle toward the chair that awaited him. Since that bloody day, ravens had been flying throughout Myrillia. The skies were thick with their wings. Gods were consulted across the Nine Lands. It was decided that Chrismferry could not be left fallow after the slaying of Chrism. It was the city around which all of Myrillia turned.

  A regent was needed.

  Someone with Grace to share, to keep commerce flowing.

  Still bearing Meeryn’s blessings, Tylar had been chosen.

  He strode up to the tall myrrwood seat, faced the crowd, and pulled forth Rivenscryr.

  He had no choice.

  At the end, the godslayer had become a god.

  Tylar stood by the central brazier in the High Wing.

  “It’s about time you returned these,” Rogger said and strapped on his belt of daggers. “I expect I’ll be needing them.”

  “Are you leaving already?” Tylar asked. “The sun’s almost setting.”

  He snugged the belt. “That’s the beginning of a new day for a thief.”

  Tylar clapped him on the shoulder. “Watch yourself. Where will you head first?”

  Rogger touched the side of his nose. “Perhaps I’d best leave my path unknown for now.”

  Tylar nodded. He clasped Rogger in a firm embrace. The thief was heading off to investigate how far the Cabal’s corruption had spread in other god’s households. He would be traveling under the guise of his interrupted pilgrimage. In fact, he wore a fresh brand, Chrism’s sigil, on his backside. “Seemed the best place,” Rogger had commented.

  “When will I hear from you?” Tylar asked now as they both separated.

  “When you least expect it,” Rogger said with a wink. “I’ll send word through Krevan and the Black Flaggers.”

  With a final few words of parting, the two separated. Rogger headed away. Tylar turned
to face his next obstacle.

  The doors to Chrism’s rooms.

  As regent, they were now his rooms. But he was not sure he was ready to step through those doors. He glanced over his shoulder. Beyond the windows, the sun descended into the flow of the Tigre River, painting the skies in rosy hues and violet splashes.

  A brilliant sunset.

  But Tylar knew most of the beauty came from the pall of smoke that continued to steam from the smoldering myrrwood forest. The fires had yet to die away fully. Deep embers still glowed, buried among the piles of ashes. A forest that lived for four thousand years did not expire easily.

  A door closed to the left, drawing his attention.

  Kathryn stepped through it. Both of them froze, caught by surprise.

  “Kathryn…” he finally choked out.

  For the past many days, they had been missing each other, each busy with a thousand details and questions, drawn in opposite directions. He fell more and more into his duties here. Her attentions were drawn to Tashijan.

  Or was it simply that they were each avoiding the other, unsure what to do? How to face a past… and a future?

  “I… I was just picking up something Dart left in Laurelle’s room.” Kathryn nodded to the room she just left. “We head out for Tashijan in the morning.”

  “So soon?” It was like everyone was fleeing from his side.

  “There is much to settle at Tashijan,” Kathryn said. “Argent has already headed back. He hurries to firm those still loyal to him. After he passed the soothmancer’s test, clearing his name of any of the bloodiness that occurred at the Citadel, he seeks to reestablish his position.”

  “Argent still refuses to step down? Even after he admits to employing a cursed sword?”

  Kathryn shook her head. “There is still enough support for him both among the Fiery Cross members and the Council to keep his seat.”

  “And what of the Fiery Cross?” Tylar asked. He drew her closer to the golden doors, away from direct sight.

  Kathryn frowned. “I don’t know how Argent passed his soothing, but I know what I saw. Perhaps he knows nothing about the dead knight and the bloody sacrifice, but someone in the Fiery Cross does. There is foulness afoot, and I will root it out.”