Жаклин Кэри - Godslayer

“I am the Bearer,” he said simply. “It is mine to do.”

Meara nodded. She did not understand, not really; and yet, she did. Madlings heard things. The Charred lad was a piece of a puzzle, a terrible puzzle that should never be assembled. For the second time in her life, she wished the tide of madness would arise, the black pit would open.

Again, it did not happen. The Lady’s kiss burned on her brow, a silvery mark, keeping the tide at bay. She had branded Meara as surely as his Lordship had branded his Three, but there was no gift in it. There was only this moment, this crux, and Meara balanced upon it as if on the edge of a blade. The splitting pain in her head intensified, until it felt as though it would cleave her very skull in twain. She wished it would.

The others were drawing nearer. Shuddering, Meara spoke.

“You are going to have to choose.” The words came quickly, spilling from her lips. It was the only way to make the pain stop. “I cannot do this, not all of it. Please, the Lady said. And I owe her, I owe her, but I owe his Lordship, too. His Lordship and Lord Ushahin, who has always understood what we are.” They did not understand, but it didn’t matter. Like her, they understood enough. Meara pointed toward the far end of the chamber. “What you seek lies beyond. And in a moment, I am going to scream and betray you. One of you.” She felt her face twist into a smile. “One may flee. One must stay. Do you understand?”

The Charred Folk exchanged a glance, silent

Meara’s voice rose. “Do you understand? Now, now, or I betray you both! You will die, the Lady will die, all of you, all of Haomane’s Allies, dead, you should be dead.” She swiped angrily at her weeping eyes. “Do you understand? I am breaking, broken, I cannot do this!”

The older one laid his hands upon the shoulders of the younger, speaking urgently in their tongue. His face was somber, filled with pride. So much love there! It twisted in Meara’s guts like a serpent. She hated them both; hated them, hated Tanaros, hated the Lady, hated the very world that had brought her to such an impasse. Ah, what-might-have-been! She might have been elsewhere, might have been a pretty woman in an apron, kneading dough, while a handsome man embraced her, laughing. It would have been a good life, her life, but it was not to be. It never had.

“Go,” she said, grinding out the word. “Go!”

The Charred lad sent her a single glance, and fled.

Meara drew in her breath, filling her lungs. The other, the older Charred One, stood braced with his legs astraddle, waiting for what would come. There was a calm acceptance in his dark eyes.

Loosing her breath, Meara screamed.

Blinded by tears, Dani ran.

It felt like leaving a piece of himself behind. It was leaving a part of himself behind. He felt the rocks of the passage tear at his skin, scraping away patches. It seemed only fair, having left the better part of himself to the madlings’ mercy. He heard Meara’s scream arise, awful and piercing, filled with all the pain of her divided soul. He heard the shrieks descend, the sound of shouting and struggling.

Uncle Thulu !

A thousand memories crowded his thoughts; Uncle Thulu, guiding and protecting him; Uncle Thulu, teaching him to hunt; Uncle Thulu, still fat, laughing as he tried to mount a horse for the first time, floundering so badly even Malthus laughed, too; Uncle Thulu, fighting Fjeltroll by the river; Uncle Thulu, carrying him on his back in the dry reaches.

What would the madlings do to him?

Better not to know, better not to think. The path sloped sharply downward. Dani navigated it blindly, feeling the way with both hands. It was hot, so hot. He dragged his forearm across his brow, clearing his vision.

There was a fissure in the earth.

It was impossibly, unfathomably deep. It had broadened and grown despite efforts to seal it. The remnants of charred beams and broken slabs of rock clung to its sides. Blue-white light blazed upward, casting stark shadows on the ceiling. Dani fell to his hands and knees, crawling forward to peer over the edge.

The marrow-fire roared. He had found the Source.

He felt faint and rolled onto his back, clutching the clay vial. His lips moved as he murmured the Song of Being.

There was no turning back. There had never been a way back, only forward. The drop was jagged and raw, but it would afford hand- and footholds, provided the heat did not kill him. It shouldn’t. He was the Bearer, desert-born, Dani of the Yarru, whose people had endured Haomane’s Wrath and learned the secrets of Uru-Alat.

Uncle Thulu had sacrificed himself for this.

Still praying, eyes clenched tight, Dani began to descend.

The battle was joined once more.

For all his fury, Tanaros kept his wits about him. The Helm of Shadows was broken. His army was one of the last things standing between Haomane’s Allies and fulfillment of the Prophecy, and he would take no careless risks. With deliberate forbearance, he let the Fjel charge precede him and sow chaos in the ranks of Haomane’s Allies. The Tungskulder waded among them, roaring, laying about with axe and mace.

Men and Ellylon alike fell beneath their onslaught; unhorsed, wounded, trampled. Tanaros smiled grimly. On the left flank, his Gulnagel essayed sorties against the Vedasian knights, striking and wheeling as he had taught them. On the right flank, the Nåltannen were wreaking havoc amid the motley infantry.

But Aracus Altorus was no fool. Wheeling his mount, he shouted orders. His troops rallied, changing tactics. On the front line, fleet riders of the Rivenlost and the Borderguard dodged and swerved, striking at the slow Tungskulder with quick, slashing blows until Hyrgolf was forced to order his Fjel to regroup in a tighter defensive formation. The Dwarfs had retired from the field, but a handful of archers remained in the fray, and these Aracus moved to his right, slightly behind the front lines, setting them to picking off stray Gulnagel. Malthus the Counselor was everywhere, his white Soumanië a beacon of hope.

Still, Tanaros thought, the edge was his.

Darkhaven’s army was too strong, too well trained. The Borderguard and the Host of the Rivenlost might stand against them, but the others—the Seaholders, the Midlanders, the Free Fishermen—were slowly being slaughtered. Even the Pelmarans, flush from victory in Beshtanag, and the Vedasian knights in their heavy armor, had not reckoned with the awesome might of the Fjel.

They fought so beautifully! The sight of them filled Tanaros with fierce pride. They kept their shields high, they held their formations, pressing forward, slow and inexorable. What a thing it would be, what a glorious thing, if Haomane’s Prophecy were yet to be averted—by this, by strength of arms, by dint of long training. Lord Satoris had not sought this war. Haomane’s Allies had pressed it upon him the moment Cerelinde agreed to wed Aracus Altorus. But he had prepared for it for many long years.

As had Tanaros. And though there was little room in his heart for hope, he meant to try nonetheless. He owed Lord Satoris no less.

If Aracus Altorus died, there could be no victory for Haomane’s Allies. Not now, nor ever. There would be no Son of Altorus left living to wed a Daughter of Elterrion. No more royal Altorian bloodline tainted with the betrayal of Tanaros Caveros’ faithless wife.

The sun was high overhead, moving toward the west. How long had the battle lasted? Hours, already. And yet, Tanaros felt no weariness. His mind was clear and keen, as though all his anger, all his grief, had been distilled into a single point of brightness. All he needed was an opening, a single opening.

Tanaros watched his enemies tire as the euphoria of their brief victory faded. The Rivenlost showed no sign of slowing, but the battle was taking its toll on the Men. Their faces were white with exhaustion, their horses lathered. The battlefield stank of blood and ordure.