There was a murmur; of eagerness, of anxiety.
“Be at ease.” He pointed at Vorax, who stood beside the flickering node. “There stands Lord Vorax of Staccia, who will open the entrance. At the other end awaits Ushahin Dreamspinner, who will open the egress. Between them, they will hold open the Way, until the last of us has passed. And I, Tanaros Caveros, the Commander General of Darkhaven, will guide you through it.”
They were afraid, these mighty warriors, the feared Fjel. It made him fond, and he smiled upon them. “Do not fear, my brothers. We are the Three, branded by Godslayer itself. We are the chosen of Lord Satoris. We will not fail you.”
It braced them like svartblod. Tanaros saw it, felt it in his veins. His spirits soared, running high. Within the scarred circle on his chest, his heart beat, strong and steady. This was what he had been born to do. Lord Satoris himself had said it, summoning him to the Chamber of the Font. There, amid the blue-white coruscation of the marrow-fire, Godslayer’s pulsing and the sweet reek of ichor, he had spoken words that filled his general’s heart to bursting with pride and nameless emotion.
I trust you, Tanaros Blacksword. You will not fail me.
“Brothers!” Tanaros ripped his sword from its sheath, holding it aloft. “Though Haomane First-Born cowers on Torath, for too long his tyranny has held sway over Urulat! In his pride and refusal to relent, he rouses his Children against us, he sends his Counselors to wage war, and looses his Prophecy on us like a hunting dog. Lord Satoris grows weary of being brought to bay like an animal, and I grow weary with him. Have the Fjel not been persecuted by his Wrath, threatened with extinction? I tell you, it need not be so. Our destiny lies within our grasp. Haomane’s Allies await us! Shall we make an end to it?”
They roared, then; roared acclaim and battle-readiness, and the sound within the cavern was deafening. Speros dropped the reins he held and clapped his hands over his ears in dismay while the restless horses tossed their heads. Tanaros smiled, letting the sound wash over him in waves, beating against his skin. It was good, this sound. It was a fitting sound to accompany the end of a world; or the beginning of one.
“So be it!” he cried when they had subsided. “By this sword, quenched in the blood of Lord Satoris himself, I do swear it. We will prevail in his name.” In a single motion, he sheathed the black sword. “The next blood it tastes will be that of Haomane’s Allies, or I am foresworn. We will assemble on the plains of Rukhar. Is all in readiness?”
Hyrgolf turned, repeating the question in the Fjel tongue. Here and there standards rose and dipped, their colors dim in the cavernous light as subcommanders in a sea of Fjel gave answer, yes and yes and yes. The ranks held, the companies were ready. Hyrgolf was smiling broadly as he turned back to his leader, his upper and lower eyetusks gleaming. “They’re ready, General,” he said in his deep rumble. “For our children and our children’s children, shall we make an end to this battle for once and for all?”
“Let’s.” Tanaros reached out, clasping his field marshal’s taloned hand, feeling the stone-roughened hide against his skin. “Let us do that, my brother.”
Clearing his throat beside the node-light, Vorax lifted the case that held the Helm of Shadows. “Blacksword,” he said softly, red light flickering on the gold inlay of his armor as he summoned Tanaros’ attention. “The night is waxing. Are you prepared to depart?”
It was harder than he had reckoned. “You’ll keep Darkhaven safe?”
“As immortal fiber can make it.” The Staccian smiled into his beard and opened the case, removing the Helm of Shadows. An agony of darkness pulsed between his hands. “Ride forth, cousin. The Dreamspinner is waiting on the other end. Go now, and Lord Satoris’ blessings upon you.”
So saying, Vorax placed the Helm upon his head and opened the Way. A wash of ruby brilliance filled the Chamber. Squinting against it, Tanaros groped for the reins of his mount, fumbled as Speros handed them to him with tardy alacrity. Swinging himself into the saddle, he set his face toward the open Way and took the first step.
The Army of Darkhaven was on the march.
TWENTY-ONE
Dani smiled at him in the twilight. “I”m glad you’re staying with us.”
Carfax poked at the fire without answering. A knot burst, releasing a crackle of sparks and the fragrance of pine. His muscles ached from the day’s hard labor. On the far side of the glade, a dark fissure yawned beneath an overhanging granite shelf, clear at last of the rockfall that had blocked it.
It was there, deep below the earth. A node of the Marasoumië. Alone among Haomane’s Allies, Malthus the Counselor knew the secrets of the Ways, and did not fear them.
And he had helped them uncover it.
Wind rustled in the tall pine-tops. Accompanied by the Ellyl, the archer Fianna walked the perimeter of the glade, Oronin’s Bow half-drawn. They had seen ravens from afar. At her back, the quiver that held her arrows gleamed with a faint, eldritch light, and one shaft shone a pale silver. It would flame white-gold if she withdrew it.
“Carfax?” Dani prompted him.
“Aye.” With an effort, he gathered his thoughts. “Aye, Dani. I’m here.”
It had been a near thing. Here, in this glade, their paths would diverge. Malthus the Counselor was leaving them for a time. Alone, he would travel the Ways of the Marasoumië to Beshtanag, where he would confront the Sorceress of the East. Malthus’ Company would continue without him, to be reunited in Jakar. Their task—Carfax knew it now—was to shepherd Dani the Bearer and the precious Water of Life to Darkhaven.
To extinguish the marrow-fire and free Godslayer.
There had been quarrels, of course. It had sat ill with the young Vedasian knight Hobard to play nursemaid to a Charred One while his kinsmen gained glory at Beshtanag. Malthus had pointed out the route to the northeast and invited him to depart. In the end, Hobard had elected to stay—but he had argued hard for disposing of Carfax.
The argument had taken hours to resolve.
Dani, soft-hearted Dani, had protested, backed by his uncle. Fat Thulu; not so fat, after their travels. Blaise Caveros stirred, narrowed his eyes, and said nothing. Peldras the Ellyl laced his elegant hands about his knees, thinking abstruse Ellylon thoughts. And Fianna … Fianna spoke in a faltering voice on mercy’s behalf, her words uncertain.
In the end, of course, it fell to Malthus.
The wizard had fixed him with that keen gaze that seemed to see right through him, eyes bright beneath his fierce brows. And Carfax, to his shame, had trembled. Once upon a time, he had been willing to die for Lord Satoris, filled with a Staccian warrior’s pride. No more. He was afraid.
“Yes,” Malthus had said with finality. “Let him stay.”
So it had been decided, and when it was done, Carfax wished they had killed him after all. It would, at least, be swift The itch in Blaise’s fingers as they strayed over his sword-hilt promised as much. It would put an end to his knowing. Malthus the Counselor traveled the Ways into a trap, that much he knew. Carfax thought upon it with guilt and grim satisfaction as he labored to shift rocks on the wizard’s behalf. Oh, Malthus might hope to defeat the Sorceress with her Soumanië—but it would take a mighty effort. When General Tanaros and the Army of Darkhaven fell upon Haomane’s Allies, the wizard would have naught left to give in their defense.
And yet … and yet.
The Company would struggle onward. How doomed were their efforts, if Darkhaven prevailed? It would become a game of cat and mouse, with Lord Satoris’ paw poised to strike. He would tell them, if he dared. He would spare them. Not all, no; not the surly Vedasian, nor Blaise Caveros—but the others, yes. Dani, at the least. Poor Dani, who was beginning to feel the weight of his burden, and the cost of protecting it. He belonged in the Unknown Desert, he and his uncle, at peace and unaware of the Shapers’ War being waged over Urulat.