Godslayer (33 page)

What he saw made him shudder.

"Uncle." His nails bit into Thulu's arm. "Look."

Ravens; a flock of ravens. A long way off, a smudge of darkness against the bright sky, but coming fast. Dani remembered how a trio of ravens had found them in the marshy land on the outskirts of Vedasia, circling high above them. How Malthus' voice had risen like thunder, giving warning.
The eyes of the Sunderer are upon us
! How Fianna had leapt from the saddle; the Archer of Arduan, the longbow singing in her hands. One, two, three, and her arrows had streaked skyward, striking down the Sunderer's spying eyes.

Not here.

"Run," said Thulu, and they ran without thought, sprinting over the plains, the long grass lashing their legs. There was no cover, not so much as a shrub. Nowhere to hide. Once the ravens spotted them, there would be Fjeltroll; hundreds of them. Thousands. And the Slayer, the man on the black horse, who had drawn his black blade to kill Malthus in the Marasoumië. Dani's heart pounded in his chest. In the forests of Pelmar, he had watched mice scurry beneath the shadow of a hunting owl's wings. Perhaps it was a swifter death than being swallowed by a snake, but the terror was worse.

If there was any chance he survived this ordeal, he decided, he would never hunt hopping-mice again.

The thought made him careless; his foot struck something hard and stony, hidden by the thick grass, and he fell headlong. Both hands rose instinctively to protect the clay vial as he struck the ground hard, the impact jarring the breath from him. He fumbled at the vial. It was unbroken, but the cork stopper had been knocked partially loose, and moisture gleamed on its exposed surface. With frantic fingers, Dani shoved it back in place. Only then did the constriction in his chest ease, and his breath returned in a sobbing gasp.

He could smell the Water of Life in the air, its clean, mineral essence rising like a beacon.

"Are you all right?" Uncle Thulu's voice was taut.

"Aye." Dani glanced down at the object that had tripped him. It was the lip of a ventilation shaft. He felt for the grass rope he had woven coiled in his pack. "Uncle. Surely we must have cleared the blockage."

Their eyes met, a spark of hope leaping between them; then Thulu shook his head. "Without the rockpile beneath us, the rope's too short," he said wearily. "The fall from the shaft would kill us. Even if it wasn't"—he gestured around—"there's naught to anchor the rope, lad."

Dani bowed his head, stroking the rope's plaited length. A trace of moisture glistened on his fingertips. His pulse quickened, and he began to chant the Song of Being under his breath.

"Lad," Thulu began, then fell silent as the rope began to grow beneath Dani's fingertips, stalks seeding and sprouting, stretching and growing in ever-lengthening plaits, young and strong and green. One end sprouted roots, pale tendrils questing in the open air.

Still chanting, Dani risked a glance toward the east. The ravens were coming; no longer a smudge, but a wedge-shaped cloud, soaring and wheeling, mighty enough to cast a shadow on the plains. It rode before them on the grass, darkness moving over the waves, veering in their direction. Something had caught their attention; perhaps movement, perhaps the scent of the Water of Life itself, faint and rising.

His voice faltered, then continued. There was no other avenue of escape. In one swift gesture, he stabbed the rope's end into the cold soil, feeling the tendrils take root, sending their shoots into the dark earth. The plaited stalks continued to lengthen and twine, whispering like a snake's coils between his palms. He tugged once, experimentally. The rope was firmly rooted.

"It will never hold us," Uncle Thulu said flatly.

"It will," Dani said. "It has to."

He did not offer this time, but simply went, clearing away the overgrown grass and clambering into the shaft. The rope felt sturdy in his hands, though he could hear the hoarse, dry rustle of its growth echoing in the shaft.

Hand over hand, Dani lowered himself into darkness.

It was a narrower shaft than the other. His elbows scraped the sides, and he prayed Uncle Thulu would fit. It was a relief when he cleared the shaft, dangling in the empty darkness. Ignoring his aching shoulder for the hundredth time, he went as quickly as he dared, fearful despite his assurance that the rope would end before his feet touched the floor of the tunnel.

It didn't.

"Uncle!" he called. "Hurry!"

What faint light the shaft admitted was blocked by Thulu's body. Muffled sounds of scraping and banging ensued, accompanied by a muttered stream of Yarru invective. Dani clutched the rope to hold it steady, his heart in his throat until he saw daylight once more and, at the apex of the tunnel, his uncle's battered figure clinging to the rope, lowering himself at a dangerous pace.

Then he was down, a broad grin visible on his dark face. "Think I left half my skin on that damned rock, lad!"

"Did they see us?" Dani asked anxiously.

Thulu shook his head. "I don't think so. Uru-Alat, boy! You were as quick as a rabbit. I followed as best I could." He touched Dani's shoulder. "Well done. Bearer."

"I'm glad you're safe." He hugged Uncle Thulu, wrapping both arms around his solid warmth, feeling his embrace returned. For a moment, the world was a familiar place, safe and loving.

"So am I, Dani." Thulu's breath stirred his hair. "So am I." Squeezing Dani's arms, he released him. "You know it only gets harder, don't you?" His expression had turned somber. "We left the torches in the other tunnel. In a dozen paces, we'll be traveling blind into
Darkhaven. And I do not know the way, or what branchings lie along it."

"I know. And I am afraid. But you are my guide, and I trust you to guide me." Dani laughed softly, stroking the grass-plaited rope that hung beside him. "I have been traveling blind from the beginning, Uncle. It is only now I begin to see, at least a little bit."

The plaited rope shivered beneath his touch, ft was dwindling, the sere grass stalks crackling as they returned to their natural length. There had not been enough of the Water of Life to sustain its impossible growth, not with winter's breath at their necks. Dani released it, and the Yarru watched in silence as it shrank, the loose end retreating into the dimly lit shaft high above their heads.

There it hung, brittle and useless. There would be no pursuit from that quarter—and no escape.

Thulu shuddered. "I told you it wouldn't hold us!"

"Aye." Dani grasped the flask at his throat, feeling at the cork to ensure it was firmly in place. "But it did." He squared his shoulders beneath the burden of the Bearer's responsibility and set his face toward the unknown. "Let's go."

Together, they set out into the impenetrable dark.

They were coming.

In the swirling, gleaming darkness that encircled the Tower of Ravens, it was all the Ravensmirror showed.

It was nothing they had not seen before, in bits and pieces. And yet here it was in its entirety. The promise of the red star had come to fruition. Upon the outskirts of Curonan, Haomane's Allies had converged into an army the likes of which had not been seen since the Fourth Age of the Sundered World.

And perhaps not even then, Tanaros thought, watching the images emerge.
Dwarfs
. Yrinna's Children, who had maintained her Peace since before the world was Sundered. They had turned their back on Lord Satoris' Gift, refusing to increase their numbers, refusing to take part in the Shapers' War, tending instead to the earth's fecundity, to the bounty that Yrinna's Gift brought forth.

No more.

He gazed at them in the Ravensmirror; small figures, but doughty, gnarled and weathered as ancient roots, trudging through the tall grass alongside the gleaming knights of Vedasia. Their strong hands clutched axes and scythes; good for cutting stock, good for shearing flesh. What had inspired them to war?

"
Malthus
," Lord Satoris whispered, his fists clenching. "What have you done?"

Malthus the Wise Counselor was there, the clear gem ablaze on his breast, the Spear of Light upright in his hand; he was there, they all were. Aracus Altorus, riding beneath the ancient insignia of his House; Blaise Caveros beside him, steady and loyal. There was the
Borderguard of Curonan, with their dun-grey cloaks. There were all the others; Pelmarans in forest-green. Duke Bornin of Seahold in blue and silver, a motley assortment of others. Midlanders. Free Fishers. Arduan Archers. Ah, so many! Ingolin the Wise, and his Rivenlost Host, shining in stern challenge. There was no attempt to hide. Not now, no longer. Even the archers paid the circling ravens no heed: conserving their arrows, concealing nothing.

They were coming, parting the tall grass as they rode.

"Come." Lord Satoris crooned. "
Come
."

The Ravensmirror turned and turned, and there was a reflection of ravens in it: a twice-mirrored image of dark wings rising in a beating cloud, carried on a glossy current of dark wings. Tanaros frowned and blinked, then understood. They had been feasting on the pile of Staccian dead he had left on the plains for Haomane's Allies to find. There were the headless bodies, heaped and abandoned. There were Haomane's Allies, reading the message he had scratched onto the marker stone. A ripple ran through their ranks. There was Malthus, bowing his head in sorrow, grasping his gem and murmuring a prayer, white light blazing red between his fingers. There was Aracus Altorus, turning to face them, drawing his sword and speaking fierce words: an oath of vengeance, perhaps.

Vorax licked dry lips and glanced sidelong at Tanaros. "How long?"

"A day's ride." Tanaros said. "At their pace, perhaps two." He watched fixedly, trying to decide which of them he despised the most. Aracus Altorus, with his arrogant stare and Calista's faithless blood running in his veins? Malthus the Counselor. Haomane's Weapon, the architect of this war? Or perhaps Ingolin the Wise, Lord of the Rivenlost. What an honor it was he had deigned to lead his people into battle, how conscious he was of it!

And then there was Blaise of the Borderguard; his own kinsman, many generations removed. How proud he was to be at the right hand of the Scion of House Altorus! How determined he was to make amends for his ancestor's treachery! Tanaros narrowed his eyes, studying the Borderguardsman's seat, the way his hand hovered near his hilt, gauging his skills.

"You're better than he is, aren't you?" Tanaros murmured. "I was always better than Roscus, too. But we must keep the positions to which we were born, mustn't we?" Hatred coiled like a serpent in his entrails. "All things in their place," he said bitterly. "Order must be preserved as the Lord-of-Thought decrees."

"
Haomane
." The Shaper's low voice made the stones vibrate. In the center of the Tower, he gave a mirthless laugh. "Enough! I have seen enough."

The Ravensmirror dispersed.

"You know your jobs." Lord Satoris turned away. "Prepare."

A weight settled on Tanaros' shoulder; he startled, seeing Fetch's eye so near his own, black and beady. There had been none of the disconcerting echo of doubled vision he had experienced before. "Fetch!" he said, his heart gladdening unexpectedly. "I did not know you were here."

The raven wiped its beak on his doublet. Its thoughts
nudged
at his own. Grass, an ocean of grass, the swift, tilting journey across the plains of Curonan to report… and, what? A stirring, a tendril of scent wafting on the high drafts. Water, all the fresh water the raven had ever seen; the sluggish Gorgantus, the leaping flume of the White, the broad, shining path of the Aven. A hidden Staccian lake, a blue eye reflecting sky: a water-hole in the Unknown Desert. Rain, falling in grey veils.

Water, mineral-rich, smelling of life.

Green things growing.

Tanaros swallowed. "What do you seek to tell me?"

The raven's thoughts flickered and the plains rushed up toward him, stalks of rustling grass growing huge. Rustling. Something was sliding through the grass; a viper, sliding over the edge of a stone lip. No. A length of braided rope, vanishing.

Then it was gone and there was only the wind and the plains, and then that too was gone, and there was only Fetch, his claws pricking Tanaros' shoulder. His Lordship had gone, and Vorax, too. Ushahin alone remained in the Tower of Ravens with them, his new sword awkward at his side, a glitter of fear in his mismatched eyes.

"You saw?" Tanaros asked hoarsely.

"Yes."

Tanaros pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes. "Do we tell his Lordship?"

"It is for you to decide, cousin." Ushahin's voice was quiet. "You know well the course I would advocate."

"
No
." Tanaros lowered his hands. On his shoulder. Fetch chuckled uneasily deep in his throat. "She has nothing to do with this,
Dreamspinner."

Ushahin shrugged and said nothing.

"All right." Tanaros took a deep breath. "I will tell him."

He made his way through the fortress, following his Lordship's path. To his surprise, Fetch remained with him, riding his shoulder with familiar comfort. Where the Shaper had passed, his presence hung in the air, the copper-sweet tang of his blood mixed with the lowering sense of thunder. Approaching the threefold doors to the Chamber of the Font, Tanaros felt as though he were swimming in it, and his branded heart ached with love and sorrow. Through the door, he heard his Lordship's summons.

"Come, Blacksword."

The Font's brilliance hurt his eyes. Facing away from it and squinting, he told Lord Satoris what he had sensed in Fetch's thoughts. In the Tower, it had seemed a fearful concern with which to burden his Lordship, but as he spoke the words, they began to sound foolish.

"A scent," the Shaper said thoughtfully. "A rope."

"My Lord, I believe it was the odor of the Water of Life." Tanaros said, remembering the Well of the World. "And the rope… the rope was of Yarru making. I have seen its like before." Fie was grateful for the slight weight of the raven on his shoulder, steadying him. "My Lord, I fear the Bearer is making his way toward Darkhaven."