Жаклин Кэри - Godslayer

When the Borderguard began to falter, Tanaros signaled to Hyrgolf.

His field marshal roared orders in the Fjel tongue, and his lieutenants and bannermen conveyed them. On the right flank, a banner rose and dipped in acknowledgment. Two squadrons of Nåltannen abandoned their careful discipline and plunged into the ranks of Haomane’s Allies, cutting a swath through the infantry to mount a rear attack on the combined forces of the Borderguard and the Rivenlost.

Tanaros saw Aracus Altorus turn to meet this new threat and signaled again. With a mighty roar, the Tungskulder forged forward, and Tanaros with them.

In this new surge of chaos, it was all hand-to-hand fighting. The battle lines had crumbled. The black sword sang as Tanaros cut his way through the Rivenlost vanguard. An Ellyl warrior was in his path, his shining armor smeared with mud and gore. Tanaros swung his blade, felt it bite deep, and continued without pausing, letting the black horse carry him past, deeper into the fray.

Pennants were all around him; not signal-banners, but the standards of the Rivenlost, carried high above the mayhem, still proud, still glittering. Tanaros ignored them, keeping his gaze fixed on one that lay beyond: no Ellyl badge, but a gilt sword on a field of sable, the arms of the ancient Kings of Altoria.

“Aracus!” he shouted. “Aracus!”

The pennant turned in his direction.

More Ellylon, seeking to assail him on either side. Tanaros slashed impatiently at the one on his right, took a sharp blow to the shoulder from the other, denting his spauldron; and then one of the Tungskulder was there, dragging the Ellyl from the saddle by sheer force. The Tungskulder grinned at his General, then grunted as the unhorsed Ellyl lunged upward, his blade piercing a gap in his armor.

No time for sorrow. Tanaros plunged onward; toward the Altorian banner, toward the dun-grey cloaks of the Borderguard of Curonan.

“Aracus Altorus!”

And he was there, waiting, his standard-bearer beside him. His Men had turned back the Nåltannen attack. It had been a costly diversion, but worthwhile. Tanaros reined his mount, saluting with his sword. “Aracus.”

“Kingslayer.” The word was filled with unutterable contempt. Behind the eyeslits of his helm, Aracus Altorus stared at him. The sword in his hand echoed the one on his standard; his ancestor’s sword. Once upon a time, Tanaros had known it well. The only difference was the lifeless Soumanië in its pommel. “You come at last.”

“As I promised, Son of Altorus,” Tanaros said softly.

Aracus nodded, taking a fresh grip on his sword-hilt. Beneath the contempt, he looked tired and resolute. It seemed like a very long time since they had first laid eyes on one another in the shattered nuptial ceremony in Lindanen Dale. “Shall we put an end to it?”

Tanaros inclined his head. “Nothing would please me more, Son of Altorus.”

There should have been more to say, but there wasn’t.

Settling their shields, they rode at one another.

They struck at the same instant, both catching the blows on their bucklers. Tanaros felt the impact jar his arm to the shoulder. He felt, too, Aracus’ buckler riven beneath the force of his blow, metal plate giving way, wood splitting. Tanaros laughed aloud as the would-be King of the West was forced to discard his useless shield.

“Shall it be now?” Tanaros asked, and without waiting for a reply, struck another blow.

Aracus Altorus parried with his ancestral sword, the sword Altorus Farseer had caused to be forged, the sword Roscus Altorus had borne before him long ago. A symbol, nothing more. It shattered in his grip, leaving him clutching the useless hilt with its curved tangs and dull Soumanië, a few jagged inches of steel protruding from it.

He lifted his bewildered gaze. He had believed, somehow, it would not happen.

Tanaros had thought to taunt him, this Man who sought to wed the Lady of the Ellylon, who sought to destroy Lord Satoris. He had thought to find satisfaction in this moment; and yet, having reached it, he found none. Aracus’ gaze reminded him too much of Roscus’ at the end; dimly surprised, uncomprehending.

He hadn’t found it in killing Roscus, either.

“I’m sorry,” he said, raising the black sword for the final blow. There was no choice here, only duty. “But you brought this upon yourself.”

At that moment, the Soumanië in the pommel of Aracus Altorus’ shattered sword blazed wildly into life.

Halfway up the Defile path, Ushahin felt it happen.

The world gave a sickening lurch and his mount staggered beneath him. An unaltered Soumanië, with the power to Shape matter, had passed to a new owner.Ushahin’s vision veered crazily, and he saw the Defile loom beneath him, pebbles skittering beneath his blood-bay stallion’s scrabbling hooves, bouncing down the crags toward the riverbed below.

He righted himself with an effort that made every ill-set bone in his body ache, twisting in the saddle to glance behind him.

It was bad.

The tide of battle was shifting, surging against them. The horns, the damned Ellylon horns, were raised in their clarion call, echoing and insistent. Everywhere, figures were reeling; the very earth was in motion, the plains lifting in a vast, slow surge, rippling like a wave.

Ushahin tasted bile.

“Oh, my Lord!” he whispered. “You should have let me kill her!”

It was not too late, not yet. Lashing the blood-bay stallion with his reins, Ushahin raced toward Darkhaven.

Tanaros’ final blow never landed.

For the space of a few heartbeats, they simply stared at one another, wide-eyed and astonished, the Soumanië blazing between them. Then Aracus Altorus whispered a word and the world erupted in rubescent light.

The earth surged and Tanaros found himself flung backward, losing ground, half-blinded and lurching in the saddle as his mount squealed in rage and fought to remain on its hooves. In some part of him, Tanaros understood what must have happened. Somehow, somewhere, the Sorceress Lilias had died; the Soumanië’s power was passing to its wielder: Aracus Altorus, who had been mentored by Malthus the Counselor, whose reserves of inner strength the Soumanië required had never been tapped.

In that instant, everything changed.

Haomane’s Allies knew it. The horns of the Rivenlost rang out joyously, maddeningly. New vigor, new hope infused them, gave them strength. They had a new ally. The very plains themselves rose up in rebellion against the Army of Darkhaven; churning, fissuring.

And in the center of the battlefield, Aracus Altorus sat astride his mount, untouchable, both hands clasped around the hilt of his shattered sword. He had removed his helm to afford a clearer field of vision, and in the wash of ruby light pouring from the Soumanië, his face was at once agonized and transcendent. Malthus had reached his side in a flurry of white robes, was lending him strength and counsel.

And Ingolin, Lord of the Rivenlost, was rallying his troops.

All the hatred Tanaros had been unable to summon on the verge of dealing Aracus his death blow returned tenfold. With no thought in his mind but finishing the job, he spurred his mount back toward Aracus.

It was to no avail. His Lordship’s brand afforded protection against the Soumanië itself, but the earth rose against him in waves, softened beneath him. At twenty paces away, his mount floundered, sunk to its hocks.

Malthus the Counselor gazed at him, grave and implacable.

Tanaros could draw no closer.

With a curse, he wrenched his mount’s head around; and cursed again to see what transpired on the battlefield. The surging earth favored Haomane’s Allies, bore them up. The infantry massed against his Nåltannen, whose numbers had been decimated by the charge Tanaros had ordered. Somewhere, Oronin’s Bow was singing; mired Gulnagel twisted futilely, raising their shields as the archers circled. Riding the crest of its waves, the Rivenlost fell upon the Tungskulder. Still floundering, Tanaros was forced to watch as the Host of the Ellylon rode down his beloved Fjel.