Жаклин Кэри - Godslayer

There was no one. It shouldn’t have mattered; Darkhaven was a fortress, built to be defended. Time should be their ally, and a day ago, it might have been so. But now the army of Darkhaven was in tatters, the Helm of Shadows was broken, Haomane’s Prophecy loomed over the Vale of Gorgantum, and Ushahin’s very skin crawled with the urgent need to be elsewhere .

In the Weavers’ Gulch, the little grey spiders scuttled across the vast loom of their webs, repairing the damage the Fjel had done in passing, restoring the pattern. Always, no matter how many times it was shredded, they restored the pattern.

Watching the little weavers, Ushahin came to a decision.

“You.” He beckoned to one of the Tordenstem. “How are you called?”

The Fjel saluted him. “Boreg, sir!”

“Boreg.” Ushahin pointed into the Defile. “You see Haomane’s Allies, there. Watch them. At some point, they will begin to advance. When half their numbers have reached this bend in the path, I want you and your lads to trigger the rockslide”

“Aye, sir.” The Tordenstem looked ill at ease with the command. “Will you not stay?”

“I cannot.” Ushahin laid a hand on the Fjel’s shoulder, feeling the rock-solid warmth of it. “General Tanaros trusts you, Boreg. Do your best.”

“Aye, boss!”

Ushahin spared one last glance at Haomane’s Allies. They were watching; a figure in the distant vanguard raised one hand, and the Soumanië flashed like a red star in the gloomy depths. Ushahin smiled contemptuously, certain that Aracus Altorus dared not waste a precious ounce of strength on assailing him, not with another rockslide and the Defile Gate awaiting. He did not know by what magic the power of the Souma was invoked, but he knew it took a considerable toll.

His Lordship was proof of that, and he was a Shaper.

“Enjoy this taste of victory, Son of Altorus,” he murmured. “I go now to do what should have been done long ago.”

Ushahin turned his mount’s head toward Darkhaven. The blood-bay stallion caught his mood, its hooves pounding an urgent cadence as they made for the fortress. The case containing the sundered Helm jounced, lashed haphazardly to the saddle behind him. His right hand, healed and hale, itched for the hilt of his sword. He remembered how it had felt to move between life and death on the battlefield, to sever the threads that had bound the ageless Ellylon to their immortal souls.

He wondered how it would feel to cleave the life from the Lady Cerelinde’s flesh.

The inner courtyard was jammed with milling Fjel, wounded and dazed, bereft of orders. Ushahin dismounted and pushed his way through the throng of Fjel, carrying the Helm’s case, ignoring their pleas for guidance. There was nothing he could do for them. He was no military strategist.

Inside Darkhaven proper, it was quieter. The Havenguard, oddly subdued, had restored some semblance of order. None of his madlings were about, which gave him a moment’s pause. He thought briefly of summoning them, then shook his head. There was no time.

It had to be done. It should have been done long ago.

There was madness in it; oh, yes. His right arm ached with the memory of his Lordship’s wrath, the merciful cruelty that had Shaped it anew, pulverizing fragments of bone, tearing sinews asunder, a scant inch at a time. Ushahin had no illusions about the cost he would bear for this action.

And he had no doubt about its necessity.

He strode the halls, reaching the door to the Lady of the Ellylon’s quarters. A pair of Havenguard sought to turn him away. With the case containing the broken Helm under his arm, he quelled them with a single, furious glance.

Chastened, they unbarred the door.

Ushahin stepped inside, smiling his bitter, crooked smile. “Lady,” he began, and then halted.

Over a hidden passageway, a tapestry hung askew.

The chamber was empty.

“Expecting me?” Cerelinde whispered the words. “How so, my Lord? For I did not expect to find myself here.”

Some yards beyond the base of the stair, Satoris Banewreaker gazed upward at her with terrifying gentleness. “Will you seek after my knowledge now, little Ellyl? I fear it is too late.” He beckoned. “Come.”

She had never thought to get this far. As she’d paced restless in her chamber, the certainty that she must try had grown upon her. The weight of the burden Haomane’s Allies had placed upon the Bearer, the burden she had laid on Meara’s shoulders, were too great. It was unfair to ask what one was unwilling to give.

Meara might fail her.

The young Bearer’s task might consume him.

And it had come to her that perhaps, after all, it was Haomane’s plan that had placed her here, where she alone among his Allies held the key to fulfilling his Prophecy. Cerelinde knew the way to the threefold door.

She had not expected it to open to her touch. Surely, it must be a trap.

“Come.” The Sunderer gestured at Godslayer. “Is this not what you seek?”

From her vantage point atop the stair, Cerelinde glanced at the dagger, pulsing in the Font. “You mock me, my Lord,” she said quietly. “Though my life is forfeit for this error, do not ask me to walk willingly onto the point of your blade.”

“There is no mockery.” The Shaper smiled with sorrow, the red glow in his eyes burning low. “Can you not feel it, daughter of Erilonde? Even now, the Bearer is beneath us. Even now, he dares to risk all. Do you dare to risk less?”

“I am afraid,” Cerelinde whispered.

“Indeed. Yet I have given my word that I will not harm you.” The Shaper laughed softly, and there was no madness in it. “You mistrust my word, Lady of the Ellylon; yet if I am true to it, will you dare to become the thing you despise? Will you take that burden on yourself for the sake of your foolish, unswerving obedience to my Elder Brother’s will?”

She shuddered. “I know not what you mean, my Lord Satoris.”

“Come, then, and learn it.” Once more, he beckoned to her, and an edge of malice crept into his tone. “Or will you flee and leave the Bearer to fail?”

“No.” Cerelinde thought of the unknown Charred lad and all he had risked, all he must have endured. Gathering every measure of courage she possessed, she pushed her fear aside and gazed at the Shaper with clear eyes. In the coruscating light of the Font, he stood without moving, awaiting her. “No, Lord Satoris,” she said. “I will not.”

And though her legs trembled, she forced herself to move, step by step, descending the stair into the Chamber of the Font and the Sunderer’s presence.

Ushahin gathered his madlings.

They came, straggling, in answer to his summons; his thoughts, cast like a net over Darkhaven, gathering all of those who were his . They crowded, as many as could fit, into the Lady’s chambers, others spilling into the hallways.

“What has happened here?” he asked.

They explained in a mixture of glee and terror; the hunt, the Charred Man, the Lord General’s furious arrival, and how they had scattered before it.

“And the Lady?” he asked them. “How is it that she knew to flee?”

They exchanged glances, fell to their knees, and cried out to him, professing denial; all save one, who remained standing. And Ushahin’s gaze fell upon her, and he knew what it was that she had done.

“Meara,” he said gently. “How is it that I failed you?”

She shook her head, tears spilling down her cheeks. “Not you,” she whispered. “Never you, my lord.”

The others wailed.

Ushahin raised one hand. “No. I have failed you, all of you. I have been remiss in accepting my burden. But with your aid, it will end here.”

The wailing continued; growing louder, interspersed with cries of fear and deeper, guttural shouts, the sound of pounding feet and jangling armor. Even as Ushahin opened his mouth to call for silence, one of the Havenguard burst into the room, forging a path through the kneeling madlings like a ship plowing through shallow waves. He was panting, the breath rasping harshly in the thick column of his throat. “Lord Dreamspinner!” He saluted. “Haomane’s Allies approach the Defile Gate!”