Grudgebearer (66 page)

Dienox's unnaturally blond hair (and wasn't it sad to see the war god pretending the loss of his flaming locks no longer bothered him?) flared out as he swung his new crystal battle-axe in angry arcs, hewing large chunks of marble from the pristine walls of the Above. “Where is he?” Dienox bellowed again. It was not the first time he'd done so, but Aldo still did not . . . or would not, answer.

Kilke eyed them both, trying with all his godly reason to peer through Aldo's unreadable countenance and discern the secrets hidden within. Before losing his center head, Kilke's power over secrets and shadow would have granted him an inkling of the truths Aldo concealed, but without it, the effort resulted in a palpable ache behind the dark god's eyes and a renewed itch on the stub of a neck between his two remaining heads.

“I need not tell you, Lord Dienox,” Aldo answered flatly, grasping the Book of All Knowledge tightly. It remained firmly shut, its bindings securely fastened.

“Been studying?” Kilke purred.
I bet it won't even open for him anymore.
“Trying to find him yourself?”

“The Harvester's whereabouts are necessarily concealed as a result,” Aldo said, clearing his throat, “of the rules of the game.”

Dienox hurled his axe into the domed ceiling, its sharp blade penetrating to the haft. A long crack opened and wended down the wall, cutting across where the war god's symbol was inscribed. His fist tightened around Aldo's slender throat. “If you do not tell me if Torgrimm lives or not, Aldo, so help me I will . . .”

“Unhand him,” rang the clear, pure voice of justice. Erupting from the wall, Shidarva appeared in symbolic form, a glowing balance with a shield on one side and a blade on the other. Light searing his eyes, Kilke was forced to look away, but when his eyesight returned, Shidarva, as a human woman in a blue dress, had Aldo safely ensconced at her side.

“Shidarva, Aldo, I'm sorry,” Dienox began. “But . . . but it seems to me that it must be against the rules to conceal oneself during the game after it has already begun! He just entered it! And we all saw what happened at Oot. Is he dead or not?”

“He should be here shortly,” Minapsis announced, storming into the room. Her silk garments were in disarray, her hair, usually immaculately arranged about her crown-like horns, was equally disheveled. “I assure you he's quite well. Vigorous in his health, I may add.”

Kilke liked the way his sister held back more than she knew, the way she hoarded knowledge, valued secrets. She had always impressed him, with the lone exception of her choice in husbands. He had urged her to marry Dienox or Xalistan. What they lacked in brains could certainly be compensated for in strength and power. Jun could have been used to build great weapons or inventions, but Torgrimm . . .

“I apologize for my delay,” Torgrimm called as he entered the room, Nomi on his arm.

“So you don't mind explaining?” Torgrimm said to Nomi.

“I'll peek in and show him the ropes,” Nomi said, vanishing in a swirl of flame.

The image bothered Kilke, but he could not immediately pinpoint what disturbed him. Torgrimm still chose to appear as a stern-faced Aern, and Nomi seemed the same as before. Had he dallied with the once-mortal goddess? Surely not. As Harvester, Torgrimm was certain to have a fondness for any mortal soul which had become divine. He had an unhealthy protectiveness of all souls, even the blackest and most cruel, but no, Kilke would surely have felt such a secret. It was subtle.

“So you won?” Dienox scratched his head. “But Oot . . .” Dienox reached for his axe, the chipped crystal returning to his hand as he unleashed a sigh of obvious disgust. He peered down at the fourteen statues there.

“Sometimes losing is winning,” Minapsis answered.

Torgrimm joined her and they kissed.

Awfully affectionate all of a sudden.

“It is indeed.” Sedvinia rose and curtsied, forcing Kilke to avert his eyes to avoid gagging at the nauseating politeness of it all. Skulking back to his corner, the god of secrets and shadow cupped his hands together, peering with his leftmost eye into the ball of darkness he'd created. Things went well in the world as far as he could see.

His warlord would soon imbibe the third and last type of blood for the ritual and be transformed, just as Kilke's severed head had promised. The winged boy, the crystal twist, Caius, progressed nicely, well on his way to being prepared for the next game. Rin'Saen Gorge would fall to the Zaur, as would Albren Pass. The sweltering lake of magma that would no doubt soon pool in the midst of The Parliament of Ages, though a defeat, would also provide the potential for a foothold in the forest. He was impressed by the warsuits and their stratagems, but . . .

Warsuits!

“Where did they go?” Kilke demanded as he spun back to face the room. “Torgrimm and my sister! Where?”

“To bed one another,” Dienox sulked. “Repeatedly, I have no doubt. They act like rutting newlyweds.”

“Of course, they do,” Kilke answered.
And I think I might know why.
“What have you been doing, Harvester? Or are you the Harvester at all anymore?” he whispered into his cupped hands. “It is a secret,” he told the borrowed shadow within. “His location. Find him for me. If Torgrimm lives and Kholster's statue stands at Oot next to it, find me Kholster.”

CHAPTER 64

SOUGHT

A patch of sentient shadow the size of a small mouse slid liquidly across the Eldren Plains. It left the White Road near Porthost and streaked north across
Jun'ghri'kul
, “the Broken Table.” Pockmarked and dotted with buttes and mesas, the landscape still bore the marks of geomantic assault against the Aern. Large expanses of ground had been melted into glass, and, in places, shards of the cracked glass jutted up like massive daggers.

Fort Sunder stood at the rough center of
Jun'ghri'kul
, equidistant between Porthost and Stone Watch, a dark and imposing wedge that almost looked as if a tremendous block of onyx had fallen from the stars impacting the middle of the slowly eroding caprock of the mesa upon which it stood.

A small village huddled along the base of the mesa itself, but the living shadow ignored it, slipping past the settlement without slowing, darting amongst the Eldrennai of Bark's Bend as they went about their day. It did slow momentarily when it reached the bridge which served as the main crossing over the cool, deep waters of the Shard River. An Eldrennai male threw a bolt of light into the shadows beneath the bridge then gestured for his son to do the same. Once it was certain that the two were simply practicing, not seeking it, the shadow crossed the white, seamless bridge unnoticed.

It was not long before the shadow found itself in the yawning shade cast by Fort Sunder, sliding beneath its massive triangular gate and moving across the refurbished fortress. Bone-steel had been used to enforce the walls and replace most of the old iron work, rendering it a castle of Aernese bones. Newly woven banners announcing the power and presence of the mighty Aern army hung in reforged banner stands. To the shadow, the once-­abandoned fortress appeared ready for war.

Kilke's shadow emissary slithered through the seam between two bone-steel doors and down a long, brightly lit hallway where light glowed regularly from sconces, once magic, now replaced within Dwarven lanterns. It sought the armor of Torgrimm and sensed the artifact's presence deep within Fort Sunder. Passing an inactive Port Gate, the shadow skittered to a halt. The shadow was not alone.

Where the Life Forge once stood, the bone-steel statue of an Aern clad in the very armor the shadow had been sent to find stood at a new bone-steel forge. Tentative, the shadow crept closer. The figure was an Aernese male, worked in metal, clad in Torgrimm's warsuit, its arms resting in front of its body, gripping a bone warpick so that the haft of the weapon lay flush against the statue's thighs, perpendicular to its spine.

Where the light caught the eyes of the statue, it was reflected and amplified by the strange black crystal, shot through with shades of green and amber, which formed them.

“Do you think I do not see you?” the statue asked. As they moved, the lips of the statue became flesh and the crystal eyes softened, the scleras flowing black, the amber pupils tinged with jade. Statue no longer, the Aern turned, the air about him crackling with power and distorting the edges of his form. “Do you think I do not know who seeks me?”

Sharply tipped gauntlets seized the shadow between thumb and forefinger, lifting it up to eye level. “You move between the realms of the gods and mortals, because Kilke gave you life and sent you to seek me. There is an old Aernese rhyme that he would do well to remember:

The Harvester knows when he is sought
The Harvester knows when life is bought.
He feels the call of every soul
Whether aged man or morning foal

The Harvester knows when warriors clash
The Harvester knows when weapons slash.
When battles fought are lost or won
When heroes die with quests undone

He comes for them with tender care
As farmer to field in harvest fair
In bliss, in terror, or forlorn
Like sheep of wool, their souls are shorn

The Harvester feels when it is time
The Harvester reads the final rhyme
He knows the text of every soul
Each love, each loss, each labored goal

He takes them to their final rest
As once he placed them in the nest
At birth, he doth deliver, then
At death, he takes them home again.

*

The shadow-thing quivered with fear, eliciting a sigh from Kholster. Kholster closed his eyes. Such deceptively simple words: “Because I need your help . . .”

The instant Torgrimm had spoken them to him, Kholster had known that he would agree to help the god, no matter what he asked. Kholster recalled the second time he'd met the deity . . .

An Aern had lain dying on the battlefield, the first Aern to die, and Kholster had seen Torgrimm walking toward him across the blood-soaked plain littered with Zaur. The battle had been over for days, yet the Aernese army had remained in place, because of Irka.

Irka, after whom Kholster had named his Freeborn son, had been Ninety-Second of One Hundred. He had never been comfortable with the fighting. He had fought because he was Oathbound and because he was Aern, but when he lay dead, his body turned to iron and was broken and not re-forming, not even slowly. After several days he had even begun to rust.

In those days, Torgrimm had worn a rich blue cloak and dressed like a human nobleman, a sword belted to his waist. A vague point had begun to show at the tips of his ears, and his canines had been only slightly sharpened. He had walked across the field to Kholster and been instantly recognized. Kholster remembered snarling at the god and knowing, yet still not believing, why the Harvester had come.

“He is dead, General,” Torgrimm had said tenderly.

“Aern do not die!” Kholster had shouted. “We are warriors eternal. Not even death can stop us! I will take his bones back to the Life Forge.” Kholster began to gather Irka's iron into a pile as he spoke, leaning over it protectively. “Maybe he just needs help re-forming. I will work him back together. If I cannot do it then I will beseech Uled . . .”

“You could,” the god had agreed. “I would allow it. But he is tired. You know that he has never been happy with this.” The god gestured to the battlefield where the gnawed-upon bones of the Zaur lay scattered, blood still mingling with the dew. Kholster had ignored him, busying himself with Irka's remains.

“His children,” Torgrimm had continued, “are like the rest of you, but an unintended gentleness was worked into Irka.” Torgrimm had stepped closer to Kholster, kneeling next to him. “If you command it, I am certain that he would return. He would do anything for you. You are his general.”

Kholster paused with Irka's rusted iron hand held gently in his as he considered it. “What will happen to him?” he asked finally. “Will he be required to go to an afterlife like the one of which the Eldrennai speak . . . with white towers and endless singing of praises to the gods?”

“I'm not certain.” Torgrimm stood, wiping a thin layer of rust from the knees of his breeches. “You see, his soul was not made by the Artificer's will. He, like you, is entirely of the mortal realm. I could allow it. Is that what you think the Aern who have perished would want?”

“What do you mean?” Kholster had asked, dropping the hand and standing to face the god. “He is the only dead Aern. He will be the only dead Aern.”

“I do not believe that will be so, General. Time can make even the strongest soul wish for release.”

“You are the god of death and birth.”

“I am.”

Kholster, less than a century old at that point, his name not yet a verb or a rank, had stared blankly at the Harvester, eyes searching him for falsehood. Finding none, he had allowed himself to continue. “What does Irka want?”

“He wants to help you, all of you, wants to be with you, but he is so tired . . .”

“Fine,” Kholster snapped. “Then add him back to us somehow. No Aern would want white towers anyway. No Aern would want to spend day after day singing songs to frivolous deities in idiotic robes any more than we enjoy bowing and scraping before the masters we already serve.”