Жаклин Кэри - Godslayer

Blaise drew in a sharp breath to reply, wrenching unthinking at the reins. His mount arched its neck and sidled crabwise.

But before he could get the words out, the fabric of the world ripped.

A hot wind blew across the coastal road, setting the dust to swirling. Haomane’s Allies halted, their mounts freezing beneath them, prick-eared. Borderguardsmen shielded their eyes with their hands; Ellylon squinted. At the head of the column, Aracus Altorus lifted his chin.

A clap of lightning blinded the midday sun.

Out of the brightness, a figure emerged; the Galäinridder, the Bright Rider, astride a horse that shone like seafoam in starlight. The horse’s broad chest emerged like the crest of a wave, churning onto the world’s shoals. The Rider’s robes were white and his white beard flowed onto his chest. Nestled amid it was a gem as clear as water, as bright as a diamond, so bright it hurt to behold it.

“Borderguard!” Aracus’ voice rang as his sword cleared its sheath. “Surround him!”

They moved swiftly to obey, dun cloaks fluttering in the breeze as they encircled the shining Rider, who calmly drew rein and waited. Blaise nodded at Fianna as he moved to join them, entrusting Lilias to her care. At a gesture from Lorenlasse, the Rivenlost archers strung their bows, moving to reinforce the Borderguard.

“How is this, Aracus?” The Rider smiled into his beard. “Am I so changed that you do not know me?”

“I pray that I do.” Aracus nudged his mount’s flanks, bringing him within striking range. His voice was steady, the point of his blade leveled at the Rider. “And I fear that I do not. Are you Malthus, or some trick of the Sunderer?”

The Rider opened his arms. “I am as you see me.”

Sunlight dazzled on the clear gem. Lilias flinched. On her right, Fianna unslung Oronin’s Bow and nocked an arrow, pointing it at Lilias’ heart.

No one else moved.

Aracus Altorus broke into an unexpected grin. “That’s a wizard’s answer if ever I’ve heard one.” He sheathed his sword, leaning forward to extend his hand. “Welcome back, my lord Counselor! We feared you dead.”

“Ah, land.” Malthus’ eyes crinkled as he clasped Aracus’ hand. “I’m harder to kill than that.”

The Borderguard gave a cheer, unbidden. There was no cheering among the Rivenlost, but they lowered their bows, returning arrows to their quivers. Turning her head, Lilias saw that Fianna kept an arrow loosely nocked, aimed in her direction. There was lingering distrust in her gaze.

“How?” Aracus asked simply.

“It took many long days,” Malthus said, “for I spent my strength in maintaining the spell of concealment that hides the Bearer from the Sunderer’s eyes. What strength remained to me, I lost in my battle with his Kingslayer. When the Sunderer destroyed the Marasoumië, I was trapped within it, scarce knowing who I was, let alone where. And yet, in the end, I won free.” He touched the white gem on his breast, his face somber. “I fear the cost was high, my friends. As I am changed, so is the Soumanië. It is a bright light in a dark place, one that may illuminate Men’s souls, but no longer does it possess the power to Shape.”

A murmur of concern ran through the ranks of Haomane’s Allies.

“Is that all?” Aracus Altorus laughed, and removed the gold fillet from his head. A gladness was in his manner for the first time since Cerelinde had been taken from him. “Here,” he said, offering it. “The spoils of Beshtanag. It’s useless to me. I’d thought to ask you teach me how to wield it, but it’s better off in your hands, Malthus. I’m a warrior, not a wizard.”

Toward the rear of the company, Lilias made a choked sound.

“Ah, lad.” Malthus gazed at the fillet in Aracus’ palm, the gold bright in the sunlight, the Soumanië dull and lifeless. “Truly,” he murmured, “you have the heart of a king. Would that the gem could be given as easily. No.” He shook his head. “It is not truly yours to give, Aracus. The Soumanid must be inherited from the dead or surrendered freely by a living owner. Until that happens, I can wield it no more than you.”

Aracus frowned. “Then—”

“No one can wield it.” Malthus lifted his head, and his gaze was filled with a terrible pity. With one gnarled forefinger, he pointed at Lilias, who sat motionless, conscious of the Archer’s arrow pointed at her heart. “Not so long as the Sorceress of Beshtanag lives.”

Dani opened his eyes to see a dark blot swimming in a pool of light hovering above him. His head ached and the bright, blurred light made him feel nauseated. He blinked and squinted until his vision began to clear, and the dark blot resolved itself into the worried face of his uncle, silhouetted against the blue Staccian sky.

“Dani!” Thulu’s face creased into a grin. “Are you alive, lad?”

There seemed to be a stone upon his chest. He tried an experimental cough. It hurt in a number of places. “I don’t know,” he whispered. “Are you?”

“Barely.” Thulu sat back, nodding at him. “You can let go of it now, lad. It’s safe enough.”

“What?” He realized his right hand was clutching the flask containing the Water of Life so hard it ached, pressing it hard against his flesh. His fingers had cramped frozen, and it took an effort to open them. The pressure on his chest eased when he released the flask. He tried to sit and floundered, finding his left arm bound and useless.

“Careful.” Uncle Thulu moved to assist him. “There you go.”

“What’s that for?” Sitting upright, Dani looked at his left arm in bewilderment. It was secured in a damp makeshift sling torn from one of their cloaks, knotted around his neck. He tried moving it. A jolt of pain shot through his shoulder. “Ow!”

“Careful,” Thulu repeated. “What do you remember, lad?”

“The river.” He could hear it roaring nearby. The sound of it cleared some of the mist from his thoughts. “The Fjeltroll. We were attacked.” He blinked at his uncle, remembering red blood swirling in the river foam. “You were wounded.”

“Aye.” Uncle Thulu showed him the gashes, three lines gouged across his chest. He had packed them with clay from the riverbank to stop the bleeding. It had worked, but his skin had a greyish cast. “I had a time getting you out of the river.”

“We hit a rock.” Dani felt at his head, finding a painful lump. It throbbed beneath his fingertips. He winced.

“You hit a rock,” his uncle corrected him. “ I fished you out.” He padded out of sight and returned to hand Dani a much-battered bowl. “Here. Drink.”

Dani sipped broth, made from strips of dried hare boiled in river water, and felt a measure of warmth in his belly, a measure of strength return to his limbs. He glanced around the makeshift campsite. It was sparse, little more than a sheltered fire and a few garments drying on the rocks. Their pine-branch float was nowhere in sight. He shifted his shoulders and felt the pain lance through him. It was bad, but bearable. “How badly am I hurt?”

“I don’t know.” Thulu’s gaze was unflinching. “I think you broke a bone, here.” One calloused finger brushed Dani’s collarbone on the left side. “I bound it as best I could. How’s your head?”

“It hurts.” Dani squinted. “We’re not safe here, are we?”

“No.” A deep compassion was in his uncle’s gaze, as deep as the Well of the World. “They’re after us, lad. They’ll follow the river. It won’t be long. If you mean to continue, we’ll have to flee.” He opened his empty hands. “Across dry land, those places the Fjel do not believe sustain life.”

“You lost your digging-stick!” Dani remembered seeing it, the length of peeled baari-wood jutting from the rib cage of a Fjel corpse. It had saved his life. “Can you still find water’s path beneath the earth?”