Godslayer (49 page)

"All we
need
to do—" Ushahin began.

"They're
coming
, Dreamspinner!" Tanaros took a deep breath. "We have to seal the Defile. Rally the Tordenstem, get them to those ricks Speros built. They won't think to do it on their own, they'll need orders. My lads' lives depend on it, those that are left."

"Tanaros." Ushahin said, shifting the case in his arms. "With the Soumanië, Aracus Altorus can—"

"
Time
," Tanaros said abruptly. "Aracus is a mortal Man, he can only do so much. It will purchase time, Ushahin! And lives, too; my
lads'
lives. I beg you, don't let all their sacrifices be in vain." A muscle in his jaw twitched. "And I pray you, do not make me do more than beg."

The Defile Gate stood open. They stared at one another.

"All right, cousin," Ushahin said gently. "You know well that I lack the strength to oppose you. For the moment, I will do your bidding. And afterward, in this
time
we have earned, you will heed my words."

"My thanks, Dreamspinner." Tanaros extended his free hand.

Ushahin clasped it with his right hand, his strong, healed hand. "Go, then, and protect the marrow-fire! I will see your Fjel home safely, all those who remain."

Together, they passed through the Defile Gate.

Ushahin watched Tanaros lash his mount, sprinting for the fortress. He shook his head as he turned the blood-bay stallion's course toward the high path along the Defile, thinking of the Grey Dam Sorash, who had raised him as her own, who had given her life to this venture.

It was folly, all folly. Yet he knew well, too well, the cost Tanaros bore this day.

Forgive me, Mother
, he thought.

The Tordenstem were glad to see him; pathetic, bounding like dogs, squat, boulder-shaped dogs. Everything had gone wrong, confusing them. Ushahin sighed, riding to the verge of the crags where the easternmost rick was stationed and peering over the edge.

Tanaros' Fjel were coming, a straggling line of them. It shocked him to see how few they were, how slowly they moved. At the Defiles Maw, a scant dozen had made a stand, barring the path to Haomane's Allies, there where it was narrow enough to be defended. They were wielding maces and axes to deadly effect, roaring in defiance.

"Tan-a-ros! Tan-a-ros!"

It wouldn't last. A spark was moving on the plains; a red spark, a Soumanië, twinned with a diamond-brightness. Aracus Altorus was coming, and Malthus the Counselor with him. They were all coming, all of Haomane's Allies.

Ushahin sighed again. "How did it come to this?"

Levers in hands, the Tordenstem exchanged confused glances. "Boss?"

"Pay me no heed." Ushahin shook his head, impatient. "On my word, make ready to loose the first rockslide."

"Aye, boss!" They positioned their levers.

Ushahin watched, raising one hand. The Fjel were hurrying, hurrying as best they could. Aracus Altorus had arrived at the base of the Defile. He forged a swath through Haomane's Allies, his Soumanië flashing. Malthus the Counselor was at his side. The path began to crumble beneath the Tungskulder defenders' feet.

"Tell the others to hurry," Ushahin murmured to the Tordenstem.

One filled his lungs, his torso swelling. "
Snab
!" he howled. "
Snab
!"

The Fjel column hurried, even as the defenders began to fall and die, and Haomane's Allies to push past them. Not daring to wait. Ushahin let his hand drop. "Now!" he cried.

The Tordenstem heaved on their levers. Rocks tumbled, boulders fell, all in a great rumbling rush, bouncing down the crags, blocking the Defile.

For a time.

Below, the red spark of the Soumanië gleamed, and pebbles began to shift, slow and inexorable.

For a third time, Ushahin sighed. "Let us go to the next station. Perhaps this time we can manage to crush a few of Haomane's Allies."

There was scant consolation in the thought, but at least it would take him a step closer to Darkhaven. Glancing uneasily toward the fortress, Ushahin prayed that it would not be too late, that it was not already too late. He remembered the Delta and the words of Calanthrag the Eldest.

Yet may it come later than sssooner for ssuch as I and you…

In his heart, he feared it had not.

Tanaros strode through Darkhaven like a black wind.

The shock of his arrival rippled through the fortress with a palpable effect. The Havenguard hurried from far-flung quarters of Darkhaven to meet him, falling over one another in their haste. His abrupt, awful news shocked them into momentary silence, and he had to shout at them twice before they were able to tell him what had transpired in his absence.

Two Men. Charred Talk, madlings caught one…

He wasted precious minutes hurrying into the dungeon, clattering down the slippery stair, hoping against hope to see the Man the madlings had caught. It gave him an unpleasant echo of the memory of Speros, hanging in chains, grinning crookedly with his split lips. Not Speros, no; not the Bearer, either. It was the other Yarru, his protector. Manacled to the wall, scratched and beaten and bloodied, he hung limp, lacking the strength to even stir. The Fjel had not been gentle. Only the slight rise and fall of his scarred torso suggested he lived.

"Where's the boy?" Tanaros asked, prodding him. "
Where's the boy.'"

Unable to lift his head, the prisoner made a choked sound. "Slayer," he said in a slow, thick voice. "Where do you think?"

Tanaros cursed and ran from the dungeon, taking the stairs two at a time.

He made his way behind the walls, through the winding passages, through the rising heat, to the chasm. To the place he had known he must go. The madlings had scattered, abandoning the places behind the walls, hiding from his fury, from the terrible news. There was only the heat, the light-shot darkness, and the chasm like a gaping wound.

There, he gazed over the edge.

Far below, a small, dark figure was descending laboriously.

Straightening. Tanaros shed his gauntlets. With deft fingers, he unbuckled the remainder of his armor, removing it piece by piece. When he had stripped to his undertunic, he replaced his swordbelt, then lowered himself into the chasm and began to climb.

It was hot. It was scorchingly, horribly hot. The air seared his lungs, the blue-white glare blinding him. Narrowing his eyes to slits, Tanaros willed himself to ignore the heat. It could be done. He had done it in the Unknown Desert. He was one of the Three, and it could be done.

Fear lent his limbs speed. Hands and feet moved swift and sure, finding holds. He took risks, careless risks, tearing and bruising his flesh. The worst thing would be to fail for being too
slow
, to be halfway down and find the marrow-fire suddenly extinguished.

It did not happen.

Reaching the bottom, Tanaros saw why.

The Source, the
true
Source, lay some paces beyond the chasm itself. It was not so large, no larger than the circumference of the Well of the World. Indeed, it was similar in shape and size: a rounded hole in the foundation of the earth itself.

But from it, the marrow-fire roared upward in a solid blue-white column. High above, at its core, a spit of flame vanished through an egress in the ceiling. The Font, Tanaros thought, realizing he was beneath his Lordship's very chambers. Elsewhere, the marrow-fire fanned outward in a blue-white inferno, flames illuminating the chasm, licking the walls, sinking into them and vanishing in a tracery of glowing veins.

And at the edge of the Source stood the Bearer.

It was the boy, the Charred lad he had seen in the Marasoumië. He had one hand on the clay vial strung about his throat and a look of sheer terror on his face. Even as Tanaros approached, he flung out his other hand.

"Stay back!" he warned.

"Dani," Tanaros said softly. He remembered; he had always been good with names, and Malthus the Counselor had spoken the boy's. So had Ngurra, whom he had slain. "What is it you think to do here, lad?"

Despite the heat, the boy was shivering. His eyes were enormous in his worn face. "Haomane's will."

"Why?" Tanaros took a step closer. The heat of the column was like a forge-blast against his skin. "Because Malthus bid you to do so?"

"In the beginning." The boy's voice trembled, barely audible above the roaring of the marrow-fire. "But its not that simple, is it?"

"No." Something in the lad's words made Tanaros' heart ache, longing for what-might-have-been. In a strange way, it was comforting to hear them spoken by an enemy. It was true, after all was said and done, they were not so different. "No, lad, it's not." He drew a deep breath, taking another step. "Dani,
listen
. You need not do this. What has Haomane done that the Yarru should love him for it and do his bidding?"

The boy edged closer to the Source. "What has Satoris the Sunderer done that I should heed his will instead?"

"He left you in peace!" Tanaros said sharply. "Was it not enough? Until—" His voice trailed off as he watched the boy's expression change, terror ebbing to be replaced by profound sorrow. Somehow, the boy knew. The knowledge lay there between them. In the roaring marrow-fire, it seemed Tanaros heard anew the pleas and cries of the dying Yarru, the sound of Fjel maces crunching. And he knew, then, that whatever conversation he might have hoped to hold with the lad, it was too late.

"Did you kill them yourself?" Dani asked quietly.

"Yes," Tanaros said. "I did."

The dark eyes watched him. "Why? Because Satoris bid you to do so?"

"
No
." Gritting his teeth, Tanaros drew his sword and drew within reach of the boy. "I begged him. Old Ngurra, the old man.
Give me a reason
! Do you understand, lad? A reason to spare his life, his people; a reason, any reason! Do you know what he said?"

Dani smiled through the tears that spilled from his eyes, glittering on his brown skin. "Aye," he whispered. "Choose."

"Even so." Tanaros nodded. "And I am sorry for it, as I am sorry for this, but his Lordship did not ask for this battle and I have a duty to do. Now remove the flask, and lay it gently upon the stone, Dani.
Gently
."

The boy watched the rising arc of the black sword and his dark eyes were like the eyes of Ngurra, filled with knowledge and regret. "I will ask you what you asked my grandfather," he said. "Give me a reason."

"Damn you. I don't
want
to do this!" Tanaros shouted at him. "Is your
life
not reason enough? Relinquish the flask!"

"No," Dani said simply.

With a bitter curse, Tanaros struck at him. The black blade cut a swathe of darkness through the blinding light. Loosing his grip on the flask, Dani flung himself backward, teetering on the very edge of the Source, almost out of reach. The tip of Tanaros' sword shattered the clay vessel tied around the lad's throat, scoring the flesh beneath it.

Fragments of pit-fired clay flew asunder.

Water, clear and heavy, spilled from the shattered flask; spilled, glistening, in a miniature torrent, only to be caught in the Bearer's cupped palms.