Godslayer (43 page)

Horses foundered and went down, squealing in awful agony. Men who could stand struggled to gain their feet and combat the unforeseen menace. Others moved weakly, unable to rise. The Vedasian knights began to move toward the field, ponderous and inexorable.

In the midst of the impossible carnage. Vorax roared with fury, leaning sideways in the saddle, trying to strike low, low enough to reach his nearest assailant. He could see the Dwarfs lace, grim and resolute, silent tears gleaming on the furrowed cheeks. Yrinna's Child, aware of the awful price of breaking her Peace in such a manner.

Too far, out of reach.

And then he was falling; overbalanced, he thought. Too fat, too damned fat. But, no, it was his mount collapsing beneath him. Hamstrung, one knee half-severed.

They went down hard, the impact driving the breath from Vorax's body. He was trapped beneath the horses flailing weight, unable to feel his legs. On the field, the Dwarfs were laying down their arms, bowing their heads. Here and there, overwhelmed Staccians fought in knots. A handful of Vedasian knights were dismounting to dispatch the wounded.

Vorax felt his helmet removed. He squinted upward at the faceless figure above him. It was brightness, all brightness; sunlight shining mirror-bright on steel armor. The figure moved its arms. He felt the point of a sword at his throat and tried to speak, but there was no air in his lungs.

No more bargains.

No more meals.

The sword's point thrust home.

No more.

On the plains of Curonan, Ushahin-who-walks-between-dusk-and-dawn was present and not present.

His Lordship's will had placed him here for the sin of his defiance; his Lordship's will had placed a blade in Ushahin's right arm. And so he rode onto the battlefield for the first time in his long immortal life and beheld the pathways between living and dying, casting his thoughts adrift and traveling them.

Present and not present.

A squadron of Tungskulder Fjel formed a cordon around him. Twice, Rivenlost warriors broke through their line. Ushahin smiled and swung a sword that was present and not present, cutting the threads that bound their lives to the ageless bodies. What a fine magic it was! He watched them ride dazed away to meet their deaths at Fjel hands. One day, Oronin's Horn would sound for him, as it had sounded long ago when he lay bleeding in the forests of Pelmar. Today he whispered what the Grey Dam had whispered to him,
Not yet
.

There were things to be learned, it seemed, upon the battlefield.

And then death came for Vorax of Staccia, Vorax the Glutton, and the shock of it drove Ushahin into the confines of his own crippled body. One of the Three was no more.

The horns of the Rivenlost sounded a triumphant note.

Over the Vale of Gorgantum, an anguished peal of thunder broke.

Tanaros flung back his head and shouted, "Vorax!"

There were no words to describe his fury. It was his, all his, and it made what had gone before seem as nothing. There was no need to hold it, to feed it. It was a perfect thing, as perfect in its way as beauty and love. It filled him until he felt weightless in the saddle. The Helm of Shadows, his armor, the black sword; weightless. Even his mount seemed to float over the field of battle as he broke past the Pelmarans and plunged into the ranks of Haomane's Allies.

His arm swung tirelessly, a weightless limb wielding a blade as light as a feather. Left and right, Tanaros laid about him.

Wounded and terrified, they fell back, clearing a circle around him. What sort of enemy was it that would not engage? He wanted Aracus Altorus, wanted Malthus the Counselor. But, no, Haomane's Allies retreated, melting away from his onslaught.

"General!
General
!"

Hyrgolf's voice penetrated his rage. Tanaros leaned on the pommel of his saddle, breathing hard, gazing at his field marshal's familiar face, the small eyes beneath the heavy brow, steady and unafraid. He had regained his army.

Across the plains, combatants struggled, continuing to fight and die, but here in the center of the field a pocket of silence surrounded him. The battle had come to a standstill. Hyrgolf pointed past him without a word, and Tanaros turned his mount slowly.

They were there, arrayed against him, a combined force of Riven-lost and Borderguard at their backs. Ingolin, shining in the bright armor of the Rivenlost. Aracus Altorus, bearing his ancestor's sword with the lifeless Soumanië in the pommel. Malthus the Counselor, grave of face. Among them, only Malthus was able to look upon the Helm of Shadows without flinching away. The Spear of Light was in his grasp, lowered and level, its point aimed at Tanaros' heart.

"Brave Malthus," Tanaros said. "Do you seek to run me through from behind?"

The Counselor's voice was somber. "We are not without honor, Tanaros Kingslayer. Even here, even now."

Tanaros laughed. "So you say, wizard. And yet much praise was given to Elendor, son of Elterrion, who crept behind Lord Satoris to strike a blow against him on these very plains, ages past. Do you deny it?"

Malthus sat unmoving in the saddle. "Does Satoris Banewreaker thus accuse? Then let him take the field and acquit himself. I see no Shaper present."

"Nor do I," Tanaros said softly. "Nor do I. And yet I know where my master is, and why. Can you say the same, Wise Counselor?"

"You seek to delay, Kingslayer!" Aracus Altorus' voice rang out, taut with frustration. "You know why we are here. Fight or surrender."

Tanaros gazed at him through the eyes of the Helm of Shadows, seeing a figure haloed in flickering fire; a fierce spirit, bold and exultant. Still, his face was averted. "I am here, Son of Altorus." He opened his arms. "Will you stand against me? Will you, Ingolin of Meronil? No?" His gaze shifted to Malthus. "What of you. Counselor? Will you not match Haomane's Spear against my sword?"

"I will do it."

The voice came from behind them. Blaise Caveros rode forward, unbuckling his helm. He removed it to reveal his face, pale and resolute. With difficulty, he fixed his gaze upon the eyeholes of the Helm of Shadows and held it there. Beads of sweat shone on his brow. "On one condition. I have removed my helm, kinsman," he said thickly, "Will you not do the same?"

Malthus the Counselor lifted his head as though listening for a strain of distant music. The tip of the Spear of Light rose, wreathed in white-gold fire, and the Soumanië on his breast sparkled.

Aracus Altorus drew a sharp breath. "Blaise, stand down! If this battle belongs to anyone, it is me."

"No." Blaise looked steadily at Tanaros. "What comes afterward is your battle, Aracus. I cannot wed the Lady Cerelinde. I cannot forge a kingdom out of chaos. But I can fight this… creature."

Tanaros smiled bitterly. "Do you name me thus, kinsman?"

"I do." Blaise matched his smile. "I have spent my life in the shadow of your infamy. Kingslayer. If you give me this chance… an
honorable
chance… to purge the world of its blight, I will take it."

Tanaros pointed toward Malthus with his blade. "Do you speak of honor, kinsman? Let the Counselor relinquish yon Spear."

"Tanaros," a voice murmured. He turned his head to see Ushahin Dreamspinner, his mismatched eyes feverish and bright. "There is madness in this offer."

"Madness, aye." Tanaros said quietly. "Madness to risk the Helm; madness, too, for Malthus to surrender a weapon of Haomane's Shaping while Ushahin-who-walks-between-dusk-and-dawn is afoot."

The half-breed shivered. "I do not know. Vorax's death—"

"—cries for vengeance. Let us provide it for him." Tanaros reached up to unbuckle the Helm of Shadows. Even through his gauntlets, its touch made his hands ache. Behind him, the Tungskulder Fjel murmured deep in their throats. "What say you, Counselor?"

Malthus' hand tightened on the Spear of Light. With a sudden move, he drove it downward into the earth. "Remove the Helm and lay it upon the ground, Kingslayer," he said in his calm, deep voice. "And I will release the haft and honor this bargain, if it be your will to make it."

A bargain was a fitting way to honor the death of Vorax of Staccia. Tanaros glanced around. Word had spread, and stillness in its wake. Across the plains, weary combatants paused, waiting. Some of Haomane's Allies were using the respite to haul the wounded from the field; behind their lines, figures hurried to meet them. The sturdy
Dwarfs aided, earning wounded Men twice their size. The dead lay motionless, bleeding into the long grass. There were many of them on the left flank, clad in Staccian armor.

There were no wounded Fjel to be tended. Wounded Fjel fought until there was no more life in them. There were only the living and the dead.

"Marshal Hyrgolf." Tanaros beckoned. "Order the Nåltannen to regroup, and move the second squadron of Gulnagel in position to harry the Vedasians. Tell them to hold on your orders. Give none until provoked."

"Aye, Lord General, sir!" Hyrgolf saluted.

Tanaros smiled at him. "Once I remove this Helm, I want your Tungskulder lads to guard it as though their lives depended on it. Does any one of Haomane's Allies stir in its direction, strike them down without hesitation or mercy. Is that understood?"

Hyrgolf revealed his eyetusks in a broad grin. "Aye, Lord General, sir!"

"Good." Tanaros offered a mocking bow to Blaise Caveros. "Shall we meet as Men, face-to-face and on our feet? Men did so once upon the training-fields of Altoria, before I razed it to the ground."

Color rose to the Borderguardsman's cheeks; with an oath, he dismounted and flung his head back. "Come, then, and meet me!"

Tanaros sheathed his sword and dismounted. Six Tungskulder stepped forward promptly to surround him. With careful hands, he lifted the Helm of Shadows from his head. He blinked against the sudden brightness, the disappearance of the phantom pain in his groin, the ache in his palms. Astride his foam-white horse, the Wise Counselor watched him, still gripping the planted shaft of the Spear of Light.

"What did you do to my horse, Malthus?" Tanaros called to him.

"All things are capable of change," Malthus answered. "Even you, Kingslayer."

"As are you, Counselor, for we are Lesser Shapers, are we not? Change is a choice we may make." Stooping. Tanaros laid the Helm on the trampled grass. "And yet I do not think you gave such a choice to my horse."

There was a moment of fear as he straightened; if Haomane's Allies were to betray their bargain, it would be now. But, no; Malthus had kept his word and released the Spear of Light. There it stood, gleaming, untouched by any hand, upright and quivering in a semicircle of Haomane's Allies. The eyeholes of the Helm of Shadows gazed upward from the ground, dark with pain and horror. Beyond the Tungskulder Ushahin nodded briefly at him, his twisted face filled with sick resolve.

"So." Tanaros stepped away. A cold breeze stirred his damp hair making him feel light-headed and free. His world was narrowing to this moment, this hard-trodden circle of ground. This opponent, this younger self, glimpsed through the mirror of ages. He gave the old, old salute, the one he had given so often to Roscus; a fist to the heart, an open hand extended.
Brother, let us spar. I trust my life unto your hands
. "Shall we begin?"

Blaise Caveros drew his sword without returning the salute. "Do you suggest this is a mere exercise?" he asked grimly.

"No." Tanaros regarded his gauntleted hand, closing it slowly into a fist. He glanced up to meet the eyes of Aracus Altorus; fierce and demanding, unhappy at being relegated to an onlooker's role. Not Roscus, but someone else altogether. "No," he said, "I suppose not."

"Then ward yourself well," Blaise said, and attacked.