Жаклин Кэри - Godslayer

Her words seemed to hearten them. It should have gladdened her, for it meant that there was hope, that not all who dwelled within the Sunderer’s shadow were beyond redemption. And yet it did not.

What will you do?

What do you think? I will die, Cerelinde .

A great victory would be won here today. She would take no joy in it.

Havenguard were awaiting when Tanaros emerged from the passageway, crowding Darkhaven’s entry. The inner doors were shuddering, battered by a mighty ram. The enemy was past the Gate, had entered the courtyard. They were mounting an offense, coming to rescue the Lady of the Ellylon, coming to fulfill Haomane’s Prophecy.

They would succeed.

And they would fail.

Tanaros grinned at his Fjel, watching them respond to it like a deep draft of svartblod, relishing their answering grins, broad and leathery, showing their eyetusks.

“Well, lads?” he asked them. “Shall we give our visitors the welcome they deserve? I’ll give the greeting myself!”

They roared in acclaim.

“Be certain of it, lads, for it means your deaths!” He touched his branded chest, clad only in his padded undertunic. His armor was lost, vanished in the darkness of the crumbling passageways where the chasm gaped. “In his Lordship’s name, I go forth to claim mine. I ask no one to accompany me who does not seek the same!”

The Havenguard Fjel laughed. One of them shouldered past the others, hoisting a battle-axe in one hand and a shield in the other. “I stand at your Side, General,” he rumbled. “I keep my shield high.”

“And I!”

“And I!”

“So be it.” The words brought to mind an echo of Cerelinde’s farewell. Standing before the great doors, Tanaros paused. He felt keenly the lack of his armor. He wondered about Cerelinde, bound for Vorax’s chambers, and how she would live with her deeds afterward. He wondered about the Bearer, if he lived or died. He wondered about the Bearer’s comrade, who hung in chains in Darkhaven’s dungeons, unable to lift his head. Somewhere, Ushahin was making his way through the hidden passages, Godslayer in his possession.

An Age had ended; a new Age had begun. The Shapers’ War would continue.

The thought made Tanaros smile.

In the end, it didn’t matter.

Haomane’s Allies would Shape this tale as they saw fit. What mattered, what mattered the most, was that the tale did not end here.

“Open the doors,” Tanaros ordered.

The Fjel obeyed, as they had always obeyed, as they had obeyed since his Lordship had fled to take shelter among them, sharing with them his vision of how one day, Men and Ellylon alike would envy their gifts, fulfilling the promise of Neheris-of-the-Leaping-Waters, who had Shaped them.

Tanaros strode through the open doors, flanked by a stream of Fjel. The Men wielding the battering-ram dropped back, gaping at his sudden appearance, at the doors behind his back, unbarred and thrown wide open.

Brightness in the air made him squint. The sun, the symbol of Haomane’s Wrath, had pierced the veil of clouds that hung over the Vale of Gorgantum. It was low and sinking in the west, but it had prevailed.

Tanaros opened his arms.

They were there; they were all there amid the ragged, dying remnants of his Fjel. All his enemies, gathered. Aracus Altorus, grey-faced and exhausted, barely able to hold his shattered hilt aloft, his Soumanië flickering and dim. Malthus the Counselor astride his pale mount, his white robes swirling. The Rivenlost, at once bereft and defiant. The Archer of Arduan, a bow wrought of black horn in her hands.

Behind them, a legion of Haomane’s Allies.

They were silent, watching him.

Gazing at them, Tanaros smiled.

When the last of his strength failed, when arrows pierced his breast, when their sheer numbers bore down his sword-arm and the black sword fell at last from his nerveless fingers, one of them would kill him. It didn’t matter which one. All that mattered, here at the end, was that he would die with his Lordship’s name on his lips, his honor intact in his heart. He would fulfill his duty.

“I am Darkhaven,” he said. “Come and take me.”

Ushahin’S madlings clung to him.

They surrounded him in a ragged tumult, weeping and apologizing for their failure to find the Lady of the Ellylon, begging him not to leave them. Some of them crawled, gasping at the sight of Godslayer; others sought to touch the case that held the severed Helm of Shadows, keening at Lord Satoris’ death.

“Hush,” Ushahin said, gentling them as he went. “Hush.”

They wept all the harder, grasping his hands and kissing them, the healed and the broken alike.

“All things must be as they must,” he said to them. “And I must leave you. Do not fear. Haomane’s Allies will treat you gently.”

He hoped it was true. They had not bothered to do so when they were ordinary people living ordinary lives. But perhaps the burden of right they had taken so violently on themselves would impel them to kindness.

It crossed his thoughts to send them to Vorax’s quarters. There was time, yet, for the Ellyl bitch to pay for her sins. It would be a fitting ending for her. But the memory of the shadowed pain haunting Tanaros’ eyes forestalled him.

Was it strength or weakness that stayed my hand?

Ushahin did not know. The question begged an answer, and he had an immortality in which to find it … if he lived through the next hour. If he did not, nothing would matter. And vengeance was unimportant in comparison with fulfilling his Lordship’s will and taking his place in the pattern that bound him.

“Do you know which mount is mine?” he asked instead. “Bring it round to the postern gate near the kitchens.”

The silent madling boy, the one who loved horses, pelted away at a dead run. Ushahin let the others escort him. His people, his wailing, keening throng. It would hurt to leave them. They passed through the kitchens, the fires burned down to unbanked embers, untended for the first time in memory, crowding through the door after him, surrounding him at the postern gate.

There was the stablehand, holding the bridle of his blood-bay stallion.

It was time.

Ushahin lashed the Helm’s case to his saddle. He touched Godslayer’s hilt, making certain it was secure in his belt. He mounted his horse.

“Remember,” he said to them. “Remember Satoris, Third-Born among Shapers. Remember he was kind to you when the world was not.”

The wailing throng swirled and parted, then Meara was there, clutching his stirrup, her tearstained face lifted upward.

“Forgive me,” she gasped. “Oh please, oh please, my Lord, forgive me!”

He gazed down at her, thinking what a piece of irony it was that his Lordship’s downfall should have hinged in part on such a small matter. It was true, Ushahin had failed his madlings. He alone had understood their longings, their vulnerability. He had let himself grow overly concerned with great dangers, forgetful of the small ones. Did he not owe Meara compassion? It was a fit counterpoint to the act of vengeance he had forgone.

An act of honor; a small kindness. Things his enemies would never acknowledge.

Leaning down in the saddle, Ushahin laid his misshapen left hand upon her head. “Meara of Darkhaven. In Satoris’ name, I do forgive you.”

Her eyes grew wide. Ushahin smiled his crooked smile.

“Farewell,” he said to them. “When you remember his Lordship, think of me.”

Straightening, he invoked the dark magic taught to him long ago by the Grey Dam of the Were, letting his waking awareness drift. The world shifted in his vision, leached of color. The madlings’ voices faded, and Meara’s last of all.