James Clemens - Shadowfall

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 opened 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.

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.”