Godslayer (23 page)

"Not much more than a pup," Thorun observed.

"No." Skragdal said. "Bold, though."

By the time the smallfolk reached the burial mound, they were wavering on their feet. The bigger one tried to shield the smaller. Aside from belt knives and a tattered sling at the little one's waist, they weren't even armed. They did not belong in the place. And yet, there was the flask, as Lord Vorax had said it would be. The smell of water, of
old
water, was stronger. If everything else was true, it was more dangerous than a sword: than a thousand swords. Skragdal shook his head, frowning down at them.

"Do you know where you are?" he asked in the common tongue. They gaped at him in astonishment. "This place." He indicated the field. "Do you know it?"

"You
talk
!" the smaller one said in wonderment.

One of the Nåltannen made a jest in his own tongue; the others laughed. "Enough." Skragdal raised his hand. "We do not make jests in this place. Smallfolk, this is Neherinach, where Haomane's Allies killed many thousand Fjel. We carried no arms. We sought only to protect Satoris. Third-Born among Shapers, who took shelter among us. Do you understand? You will die here to avenge those deaths."

The bigger one rested his hands on the shoulders of the smaller, whispering to him. The smaller shook him off. "Why?" he asked simply.

Anger stirred in Skragdal's belly, and his voice rose to a roar as he answered. "You would cany the Water of Life into Darkhaven and you ask
why
?"

The small one flinched, clutching his flask, but his gaze remained steady on Skragdal's face. "Why did you protect Satoris?"

Skragdal gave a harsh laugh, a sound like boulders rolling down a mountainside. "Does it matter to you, Arahila's Child? Ah, no." He shook his head. "Haomane gave
you
the Gift of thought, not us. You have come too far to ask that question. Better you should have asked it before you began. Perhaps you would not be dying here today. Perhaps your people would not have been slain for your actions."

"
What?"
Blood drained from the small one's face, turning his skin the color of cold ashes. He stared at Skragdal with stricken eyes. The bigger one made a choked sound and dropped to his knees. "Uru-Alat, no!
No
!"

"Aye, lad. Did you not expect his Lordship to strike against his enemies?" It was hard not to pity the boy; no more than a pup, truly. How could he have understood the choices he'd made? Skragdal signaled to the others. The Kaldjager moved in close behind the smallfolk. Thorun and the nearest Nåltannen slipped axes from their belts, nodding readiness. "It will be swift. I promise you." Skragdal held out his hand for the flask. Lord Vorax had told him to spill it on barren ground. "Give me the Water, and we'll be done with it."

The boy closed his eyes, whispering feverishly under his breath. It was no language Skragdal knew; not the common tongue, but something else, filled with rolling sounds. He was clutching the flask so hard that the lines on his knuckles whitened. Skragdal sighed, beckoning with his talons.

"Now, lad," he said.

With trembling hands, the boy removed the cord from about his neck. His eyes, when he opened them, glistened with tears. They were as dark and deep as Skragdal thought the Well of the World must be. The boy cupped the flask in both hands, then held it out, his skinny arm shaking. It was a simple object to have caused so much trouble; dun-colored clay, smoky from its firing. A cork carved from soft desert wood made a crude stopper, and the braided vine lashed around its neck looked worn and mended. It couldn't possibly hold much water; no more than a Fjel mouthful.

"Here," the boy whispered, letting go.

Skragdal closed his hand on the clay vial.

It was heavy; impossibly heavy. Skragdal grunted. A bone in his wrist broke with an audible snap as the weight bore him to the ground. The back of his hand hit the earth of Neherinach with shuddering force.

There, the flask held him pinned.

It was absurd, more than absurd. He was Skragdal, of the Tungskulder Fjel. He got his feet under him, crouching, digging his talons into the soil. Bracing his injured wrist with his other hand, he set his shoulders to the task, heaving at the same time he thrust hard with his powerful haunches, roaring.

He could not budge his hand. There was nothing, only a pain in his wrist and a deeper ache in the center of his palm. And water, the smell of water.
Old
water, dense and mineral rich, the essence of water. It rose like smoke from a dragon's nostrils, uncoiling in the bright air and filling him with alarm. All around, he could hear his lads milling and uncertain, unsure how to proceed without orders. And beneath it, another sound. It was the boy, chanting the same words. His voice, ragged and grief-stricken, gained a desperate strength as it rose.

With an effort, Skragdal pried his fingers open.

The flask, lying on his palm, had fallen on its side. Worse, the cork had come loose. Water, silver-bright and redolent, spilled over the rough hide of his palm, trickling between his fingers, heavy as molten iron, but cool. It sank into the rich, dark soil of Neherinach and vanished.

The vines on the burial mound began to stir.

"Thorun!" Skragdal scrabbled at the flask with his free hand, tugging and grunting. This was not a thing that could be happening. His talons broke and bled as he wedged them beneath the flask's smooth surface. "Blagen, lads…
help me
!"

They came, all of them; obedient to his order, crowding round, struggling to shift the flask from his palm, struggling to lift him. Fjel faces, familiar and worried. And around them the vines crawled like a nest of green serpents. Tendrils grew at an impossible rate; entwining an ankle here, snaring a wrist there. Fjel drew their axes, cursing and slashing. Skragdal, forced to crouch, felt vines encircle his broad torso and begin to squeeze, until the air was tight in his lungs. Snaking lines of green threatened to obscure his vision. No matter how swiftly his comrades hacked, the vines were faster.

He turned his head with difficulty. There was the smallfolk boy, the stricken look in his eyes giving way to fierce determination. His lips continued to move, shaping words, and he held both hands before him, cupped and open. Odd lines in his palms met to form a radiant star where they met.

It seemed the Bearer was not so harmless as he looked after all.

"Forget me." Unable to catch his voice, Skragdal hissed the words through his constricted throat. "
Kill the boy
!"

They tried.

They were Fjel; they obeyed his orders. But there were the vines.

The entire burial mound seethed with them, creeping and entangling. And there was the older of the smallfolk, finding his courage. He had caught up a cudgel one of the Nåltannen had dropped, and he laid about him, shouting. If not for the vines. Skragdal's lads would have dropped him where he stood: but there were the vines, surging all about them in green waves.

It wasn't right, not right at all. This place marked the Fjel dead. It was a terrible and sacred place. But the Water of Life was older than the Battle of Neherinach. Thai which was drawn from the Well of the World held no loyalties.

Skragdal, pinned and entwined, watched it happen.

There was Thorun, who had never forgiven himself his error on the plains of Curonan where he had slain his companion Bogvar. Green vines stopped his mouth, engulfing him, until he was gone. No more guilt for him. There were the Nåltannen, casting aside their axes to slash with steel talons, filled with the fury of instinctive terror, the rising reek of their fear warring with the Water's scent. But for every sewered vine that dropped, two more took its place, bearing the Nåltannen down, taking them into the earth and stilling their struggles. The largest burial mound on the field of Neherinach grew larger, and its vines feel upon the dead.

There were the Kaldjager, disbelieving. Nothing could stand against the Cold Hunters. Yellow-eyed and disdainful, they glanced sidelong at the creeping tide of vines and shook their hands and kicked their feet, contemptuous of the green shackles, certain they would wrest themselves free.

They were wrong.

It claimed them, as it had claimed the others.

Skragdal wished the vines had taken him first. It should have been so. Instead, they left him for the end. Neherinach grew quiet. He was crouching, enshrouded; a statue in green, one hand pinned to the earth. It ached under the terrible weight. He panted for air, his breath whistled in his constricted lungs. A wreath of vine encircled his head. The loose end of it continued to grow, wavering sinuously before his eyes. Pale tendrils deepened to green, putting out leaves. Flowers blossomed, delicate and blue. It would kill him soon.

A hand penetrated the foliage, thin and dark. Skragdal, rolling his eyes beneath the heavy ridge of his brow, met the smallfolk's gaze. He wished, now, he had answered the boy's question.

"I'm sorry," the boy whispered. "You shouldn't have killed my people."

His hand, quick and darting, seized the flask, plucking it from Skragdal's palm. He lifted it effortlessly and shook it. A little Water was left, very little. He found the cork and stoppered it.

Then he was gone and there was only the vine.

It struck hard and fast, penetrating Skragdal's panting jaws. He gnashed and spat at the foliage, clawing at it with his freed hand, but vines wound around his arm, rendering it immobile as the rest of his limbs, in his mouth, vine proliferated, still growing, clogging his jaws. A tendril snaked down his throat, then another. There was no more air to breathe, not even to choke. Everything was green, and the green was fading to blackness. The entangling vines drew him down toward the burial mound.

In his last moments. Skragdal thought about Lord Satoris, who had given the Fjel the gift of pride.
Did Neheris-of-the-Leaping-Waters not Shape her Children well? This I tell you, for I know: One day Men will covet your gifts
.

He wondered if the boy would have understood.

Dying, Skragdal lived in the moment of his death and wondered what the day would be like when Men came to covet the gifts of the Fjel. He wondered if there would be Fjel left in the world to see it.

With his dying pulse thudding in his ears, he hoped his Lordship would know how deeply it grieved Skragdal to fail him. He wondered what he had done wrong, where he had gone astray. He smelled the reek of fear seeping from his vine-cocooned hide and thought of the words of a Fjel prayer, counting them like coins in his mind. Words, precious and valued.

Mother of us all, wash away my fear.

Dying, he wondered if it was true that Neheris-of-the-Leaping-Waters would forgive the Fjel for taking Lord Satoris' part in the Shapers' War, if she would understand that Satoris alone upon the face of Urulat had loved her Children, whom she had Shaped with such care, tuning them to this place where she was born; to stone and river and tree, the fierce, combative joy of the hunt. The clean slash of talons, the quick kill and hot blood spilling. The warm comfort of a well-worn den with a tender, cunning mate and sprawling pups upon the floor, playing at caning
rhios
. All those things that he had been Shaped to be, all those things that were no longer his to know.

As the slow throb of his strong heart ceased, he hoped so.

Skragdal of the Tungskulder Fjel was no more.