Godslayer (32 page)

"Dani!" Uncle Thulu's voice sounded ghostly far below. "Are you all right?"

"Aye!" He shouted down between his braced legs. "Uncle, it's beautiful!"

In a final surge of strength, he wriggled upward a few more inches and got his arms free of the shaft, levering his body out and onto solid earth. For a moment. Dani simply lay on his back, willing his muscles to uncramp. The sky overhead seemed enormous, a vast black vault spangled with a million stars, and Arahila's moon floating in it like a pale and lovely ship. In the distance there were mountains, tall and jagged, but all around there was nothing but grass; a sea of grass, sweet-smelling, silvery in the moonlight, swaying in waves.

"All right, lad!" Thulu's words echoed faintly from the shaft. "My turn."

Dani rolled onto his belly and peered down. "One inch at a time. Uncle." Reaching to one side, he lore out a handful of grass, "fust keep moving."

It was impossible, of course. He had known that before he'd made it halfway up the shaft. Uncle Thulu, he suspected, had known it all along. He was thin enough to fit in the shaft, but too big to make the climb. His longer limbs would be too cramped. His muscles, supporting his greater weight, would begin to quiver. He would be forced to give up and tell Dam to continue on his own. Dani should have given him a drop of the Water of Life. Now, it was too late.

Sitting upright, Dani began plaiting grass.

It was not as sturdy as thukka-vine, but it was strong and pliant. Head bowed, he worked feverishly. Over and under, fingers flying. It was one of the earliest skills the Yarru learned. From time to time he paused, wrenching up more handfuls of the tough, sweet-smelling plains grass, weaving new stalks into his pattern. Arahila's moon continued to sail serenely across the sky, and a length of plaited rope emerged steadily beneath his hands.

"Dani." Uncle Thulu's voice, low and exhausted, emerged from the shaft. "Dani, lad."

"I know." Fie peered over the edge and saw his uncle's figure lodged in place. Thulu had not quite made it halfway. "Stay where you are." Kneeling, he paid out the rope, hand over hand. It dangled, a few inches too short. "Can you hold on a little while longer?"

"Dani, listen to me…" Angling his head, Thulu saw the rope and fell silent. Moonlight caught the glimmer of tears in his eyes. "Ah, lad!"

"Hold on," Dani repeated, coiling the rope. "A little while."

The words of the Song of Being whispered through his mind as he worked. Although his lips were silent, he spoke them with his fingertips, plaiting grass into rope: each strand, each loop, each growing inch a prayer to Uru-Alat. He did not measure a second time. The rope was a prayer. It would be as long as the prayer. That was the length that was needed.

When it was done, he knelt beside the shaft and lowered the rope. Wedged between the walls. Uncle Thulu braced himself in place with his legs and lashed the rope around his waist, tying it securely.

"Ready?" Dani called.

Thulu nodded. "Ready."

Dani got to his feet. He could feel the words of the Song of Being beneath his hands, chanting in his veins. As he hauled, slowly and steadily, hand over hand, he listened to them. There was wisdom in them, old Ngurra had said; the secrets of Life and Death, twined together in the death of Uru-Alat the World God and the birth of the world. Dani was not wise enough to understand them. But he was trying.

It was part of the Bearers burden.

Arahila's moon was riding low when Thulu clambered clear of the shaft. As Dani had done, he could do no more than roll onto the grass and stare at the stars. For his part. Dani dropped where he stood and sat heavily in the grass. He felt as though his limbs were made of stone. It was a long time before he could summon the strength to speak. "Where are we. Uncle?"

Thulu sat up with an effort, rubbing the aching, cramped muscles of his legs and glanced around him. "The plains of Curonan, lad."

"And Darkhaven?"

Thulu pointed westward across the plains, toward the distant mountains that rose, black and jagged, blotting out the stars. "There."

The candles burned low in Hyrgolf's chamber, until the rocky niches held little more than blue flames dancing above puddles of tallow. For long hours, they had conferred on matters regarding the defense of Darkhaven; the posting of sentries, scouting parties of Gulnagel, inspections of the tunnels, manning of the fortifications, battle-tactics useful against Men and Ellylon and Dwarfs. The night was already old when Hyrgolf rummaged in a corner, bringing forth a half-empty skin of
svartblod
.

"General," he said, holding it forth in one enormous hand. "Drink."

Tanaros hesitated, then accepted it. Uncorking the skin, he took a deep swig. It burned all the way down to his belly, and the foul taste made his eyes water. "My thanks!" he gasped, handing it back.

The Tungskulder Fjel studied him. "I have never smelled fear on you before."

"Fear." Tanaros gave a harsh laugh, his throat seared by the
svartblod's
heat, "Hyrgolf, my skin crawls with it. There is too much I mis-like afoot in this place."

"The Dreamspinner's betrayal troubles you." Hyrgolf said.

"Yes." Tanaros met his eyes; the Fjel's familiar gaze, small as a boar's and steady as a rock. "More than I can say, for I fear there is reason in his madness. Would you do such a thing, Hyrgolf? Would you defy his Lordship's will and betray his wishes if it would avert Haomane's Prophecy at a single stroke?"

"No," Hyrgolf said simply. "I do not have the wisdom to meddle in the affairs of Shapers. The Fjel made their choice long ago. General. Haomane's Prophecy binds us to it." He smiled with hideous gentleness. "How did you tell me it went?
The Fjeltroll shall fall
."

"Yet you do not fear," Tanaros murmured.

"Death in battle?" Hyrgolf shook his massive head. "No, not that. Lord Satoris…" He paused, raising the skin to drink. "He made us a promise, once. He said one day Men would covet our gifts." Lowering the skin, he handed it back to Tanaros. "He said Neheris-of-the-Leaping-Waters Shaped us well."

"She did." Tanaros took another scalding swig. "She did at that, Marshal." He wiped his lips and sighed. "Do you think we are so different in the end, Hyrgolf? You and i, Haomane's Allies?"

"No." The Fjel shrugged his heavy shoulders, gazing past Tanaros at the crudely carved
rhios
in a niche behind one of the dwindling candles. His boy's first effort.
Not bad for a mere pup, eh
? "Not in the end. General." He smiled ruefully, a shadow beneath the dense ridge of his brow. "Problem is, we seem to be somewhere in the middle, don't we?"

"Aye." Tanaros got unsteadily to his feet, returning the skin to
Hyrgolf. He clapped one hand on the Fjel's shoulder, reassured by the solid warmth of it, the unwavering loyalty. "His Lordship has the right of it, Hyrgolf. Even now. I envy you."

"General." Hyrgolf heaved his massive body upright. His taloned hands were surprisingly delicate as they closed around Tanaros' arm "Go, and sleep. You have need of it. His Lordship has need of you."

"He entrusted me with his honor," Tanaros whispered.

"Aye." Hyrgolf nodded. "He is wise that way. And you entrust us with yours."

Tanaros shivered. "At what price, Hyrgolf?"

The Fjel smiled one last time, sad and slow. "I do not think that is ever given to us to know. General. We rejoice in it, for it is all we have, all we have chosen." He gave Tanaros a gentle shove, and the advice given to the rawest of recruits. "Go now, and sleep. You will feel better once the battle is joined."

Tanaros went, stumbling slightly. Outside, the cold air struck like a blow, diminishing the intoxicating effects of the
svartblod
he had drunk. He gazed at the horizon, where Arahila's moon swam low, a tarnished silver coin, and remembered the night his Lordship had first called them to the tower to see the red star that had arisen. His soft words, the pain in his voice.

Oh, Arahila!

"Why didn't you stay at his side?" Tanaros, wavering on his feet, addressed the moon. "You, any of you! Neheris, whom the Fjel still worship! Were you frightened? Is that it? Was Haomane Lord-of-Thought that powerful? What did you know that his Lordship did not?"

There was no answer, only a pair of Mørkhar Fjel on patrol, confirming his identity and giving him a wide berth.

Tanaros laughed softly. The air was cold, but the
svartblod
in his veins insulated him from it. Although he was not drunk, his flesh felt warm. "Or what did
he
know that Haomane First-Born did not?" he asked the moon. "Tell me that, O my Shaper!"

Light, only light; the light of the Souma, a lesser light, but no less lovely for it. It shed its silent benison. Things grew by it; things that blossomed in his Lordship's gardens. Tanaros sighed and set his feet on a homeward course.

"He loves you still," he informed the moon, glancing over his shoulder. "But he has made his choices. As I have made mine, as the Fjel have made theirs. The difference is, we made them freely. And
he
allowed us to do it. The Lord-of-Thought would not have done as much."

The moon, the beautiful moon, made no reply.

Dawn broke over the plains of Curonan, a glorious and terrifying sight. The sun's red orb crept slowly over the eastern horizon, staining the waving grass until it resembled a sea of blood. To the west, the mountains of Gorgantum threw up a defiant challenge, their implacable peaks shrouded in darkness.

At night, drenched in silvery moonlight, the plains had been a safe and magical place. It was different by daylight, with the eye of Haomane's Wrath opening in the east and the baleful shadow of Gorgantum to the west. Caught between the two on the vast, open space of the plains, Dani felt horribly conspicuous.

"Which way, lad?" Uncle Thulu asked quietly.

Grasping the clay flask that hung about his neck, Dani bowed his head. Sunlight, he knew. Haomane's Wrath could be terrible and impersonal, but he knew it. He was Yarru, and he understood. Darkness was another matter. Darkness, in which the Sunderer awaited; Satoris Banewreaker, who had slain his people, who wanted nothing more than for Dani to die so he could spill the Water of Life upon barren ground.

And more than anything else, Dani did not want to enter the shadow of those mountains. But he was the Bearer, and the burden of choice was upon him.

"Darkhaven," he said. "We go toward Darkhaven."

Uncle Thulu nodded. "So be it."

They set out at a steady walk, the sun at their backs, trampling their shadows into the sweet-smelling grass. They did not speak of how entrance might be gained into the Vale of Gorgantum. For the moment, the journey alone sufficed.

Hours later, the mountains scarcely seemed closer. Distances were as deceiving on the plains as they were in the desert. What it was that made Dani glance over his shoulder toward the eastern horizon, he could not have said. Regret, perhaps, or simple longing. It had crossed his mind that if the plains were not so immense, they might find Malthus in the east; Malthus, whose wisdom could guide him.