Better I should die, Carfax thought, than see this through.
Only I am afraid to die.
And so, alone, he tended the fire and dwelled with his tongue-locked thoughts, while their stores were shared out and everyone ate. And then, in the small hours, Peldras the Ellyl stayed awake with him, with his drawn sword over his knees, watching the moon’s course. They had become comrades in these small hours. Even the wizard snored. And as before, it was the Ellyl who spoke first, turning his luminous gaze on the Staccian. “You have given thought to Arahila’s mercy, have you not?”
“Mayhap.” Carfax kept his gaze fixed on the embers. “Does it matter?”
“It does.”
“Why?”
There was a long silence.
“Where to begin?” Peldras sighed, a sound like the wind through pine needles. “I am Rivenlost, Carfax of Staccia. I am one of Haomane’s Children; Haomane First-Born, who alone knew the will of Uru-Alat. The world as He Shaped it was a bright and shining thing. I am Ellyl, and I remember. I grieve for what was Sundered from me.”
Carfax lifted his head. “Lord Satoris did not—”
“Satoris Banewreaker would cover the world in darkness!” The Ellyl cut him off, his tone grim. “A tide is rising, Staccian. In Darkhaven, it rises. The Fjeltroll are seen in numbers, and the Helm of Shadows has been worn once more. What passes in Beshtanag is merely an opening gambit. Look, there.” He pointed to the red star, riding high above the horizon. “There is Dergail’s Soumanië, that the Sunderer wrested from him. It is a sign, a challenge. And it is one the Six Shapers cannot answer, for they are trapped beyond the shores of the Sundered World, islanded in their might. It falls to us, Son of Man. We are the last, best hope; each one of us. Do you matter?” He softened his voice. “Yes, Staccian. You matter. You are the twig that may turn a flood. If you choose a path of redemption, who is to say how many will follow?”
“No.” Carfax stared aghast at the Ellyl, shaking his head in denial. “No! You don’t understand! Lord Satoris didn’t raise the red star; it was a warning sent by Arahila herself that Haomane First-Born—” Over the Ellyl’s shoulder, he glimpsed movement, half-seen shadows moving in the forest’s verges, and fear strangled his unspoken words.
Reading his expression, Peldras went motionless. “What is it?”
“There,” he whispered, pointing. “Oh, Peldras!”
“The Were are upon us!”
The Ellyl’s shout rang clarion in the glade. Already he was on his feet, a naked blade in his hand, his bright gaze piercing the shadows. Already Malthus’ Company sprang awake, leaping to the defense. Already it was too late.
From everywhere and nowhere came the attack, for Oronin’s Hunters had encircled the glade. Seven hunters for the seven Allies, coming low and fast as they surged from the surrounding darkness. Firecast shadows rippled along their pelts. Oronin Last-Born had Shaped them, and Death rode in his train. Grey and dire, they closed in for the kill with lean ferocity, snarling a song of blood-thirst. Seven throats they sought, and the eighth they ignored, leaving him a helpless witness.
“No,” Carfax said dumbly. “Oh, no.”
There was Malthus the Counselor in his tattered scholar’s robes, the Soumanië blazing in his hand. It lit the glade in a piercing wash of scarlet light; to no avail, for the eyes of the Were were bound with grey cloth. Oronin’s Children hunted blind. Their muzzles were raised, nostrils twitching, following scent as keen as sight.
There were the tethered horses, screaming in awful terror. There were the fighters; Peldras, Blaise, Hobard. Back to back to back they fought, forced into a tight knot. They fought better together than Carfax would have guessed, fending off four circling Were. Even the Vedasian proved himself worthy, wielding his father’s sword with a ferocity and skill beyond his years.
Still, they were not enough to resist the Were.
Fianna knelt in an archer’s stance at the Counselor’s feet, drawing the Arrow of Fire with trembling fingers, sighting on shadows as it illuminated her vulnerable face. The black horn of Oronin’s Bow seemed to buck in her hands, reluctant to strike against its Shaper’s children.
And Dani; oh, Dani!
His eyes were wide, reflecting firelight, his slender fingers closed around the clay flask at his throat. Dani, who had offered him water when he was thirsty. Before him stood Thulu of the Yarru-yami, a bulky figure wielding his digging-stick with grim determination. Already, he was panting and weary, his skin glistening with sweat and the darker sheen of blood where teeth had scored him.
Two of the Were hunters circled him with cunning, twitching nostrils guiding them. One feinted; the other launched past him, a deadly missile, jaws parting to seek Dani’s throat.
“No!”
Carfax was not conscious of moving, not conscious of grasping the butt-end of a sturdy branch from the fire. Sparks arced through the air as he swung it, interposing himself between the Were and its quarry. There was a thud, the impact jarring his shoulders; a keen whine and the smell of scorched wolf-pelt.
Oh, Brethren, forgive me!
“Dani!” Malthus’ voice, strident and urgent. “The cavern! Now! Now!”
And the earth … surged.
Carfax, choking, was flung to the ground. There, scant feet away, was Dani, his face filled with fear and dawning knowledge. Outside the circle of churning earth, the blind hunters gathered to regroup, muzzles raised to quest the air.
“Go,” Carfax whispered. “Go!”
He hauled himself to one knee, dimly aware of Thulu grabbing Dani by the collar and racing toward the cavern of the Marasoumië, their retreat warded by Malthus, who caused the very earth to ripple in surging waves, throwing back the attack of the Were.
The Yarru vanished into the cavern.
“Malthus!” Blaise shouted.
At the cavern’s mouth, the wizard turned to face the pursuing Were and planted his staff with a sound like thunder. His lips were moving, his ancient face illuminated by the Soumanië that blazed crimson at his breast. Earth roiled, stones cracking like bones. Oronin’s Hunters were tossed like jackstraws, howling in anger. Amid the chaos, Malthus shaped words lost in the avalanche of noise, his urgent gaze striving to communicate. “ … protect … Bearer! Beshtanag … Jakar …”
“What?” Blaise cried. “What?”
Taking a step backward, Malthus the Counselor raised his hand. On his breast, the Soumanië surged with brilliance and deep in the cavern, the node-light of the Marasoumië blazed in answer, washing the glade in crimson light and momentarily blinding the onlookers.
When it faded, they were gone.
Unguarded, unprotected, Carfax stood with a smoldering branch in his hand and fought back an awful laugh as he watched his dumbstruck companions stare at the cavern’s empty mouth.
Again, yet again, the Were regrouped. One rose onto his rear legs, clawed hands snatching away his blindfold to reveal amber eyes glowing with all the rage of a thwarted hunt. “You rest,” the Were leader growled, “die.”
A bow spoke in answer; not Oronin’s, but an Arduan longbow made of ashwood and sinew, its string singing as shafts buzzed like hornets in the air. Three of the Were fell, silent and stricken, before their Brethren raced for the shadows, howling in wounded anger. “Not yet,” Fianna vowed, tears staining her cheeks. “Not yet!”