Banewreaker(102)

There, stark in the wash of ruddy light, was Malthus the Counselor, with two figures cast in shadow behind him.

Tanaros gaped at him, uncomprehending.

For an instant, the wizard's astonishment was equal to his own.

And then an awful knowledge dawned in Malthus' eyes, quicker to grasp what was happening. He was Haomane's weapon, Shaped for the purpose of defeating Satoris himself, and the might he veiled from mortal sight was formidable indeed. In the dark of underearth, there was a brightness upon him it hurt to behold. The wizard's lips began working, speaking a spell. His beard trailed into his scholar's robes, and on his breast the Soumanië, drawing on Haomane's power, the power of the Souma. Even Sundered, it was enough to command the Ways.

"Turn back!" Tanaros wrenched at the reins left-handed, shouting over his shoulder. "Turn back!"

It was too late. Even as his black mount squealed in fear and ducked its head, sunfishing violently, the Way was collapsing. Terror erupted on every side. Tanaros swore, lurching in the saddle and fighting the black. Behind him there was only chaos as the Fjel broke ranks, milling in an awful press. Speros of Haimhault was caught in the crush, his mount borne along by terrified Fjel.

"General!" Hyrgolf's roar rose above the fray. "Your orders!"

Somewhere, in Darkhaven, Vorax kept a thin, desperate thread of the Way open to retreat, pitting the Helm of Shadows against the awful might of Malthus. Tanaros could feel it, taste it. The Ways shuddered and strained beneath their struggle, threatening to splinter into an infinity of passages, but there was still a chance, an alley. "Retreat!" he shouted, willing the Fjel to hear him. "Field marshal, retreat!"

And then the black horse convulsed beneath him, and Tanaros was flung from the saddle. The stony ground rushed up to meet him, striking hard. He covered his head, fearful of stamping hooves. Knowing that the Ways could not destroy him, Tanaros curled around his aching, Souma-branded heart and held himself here, knowing there was naught else he could do. Somewhere, Hyrgolf was roaring, trying to organize his troops, trying to follow the thin thread of hope back to Darkhaven and safety even as the Ways collapsed, flinging them backward in time, sundering their company.

A good general protects his troops.

Everything seemed very quiet, the shouting receding into echoless silence as Tanaros climbed to his feet to face the Counselor, and drew the black sword. "Malthus," he said, testing the weight of his sword, that was quenched in a Shaper's blood. His circumscribed heart was unexpectedly light. "Your path ends here."

"Dani," Malthus said, ignoring him. "Trust me."

It was a boy who stepped forth from the Counselor's fearsome shadow and nodded; a boy, dark-skinned and unobtrusive, accompanied by a wary protector. There was a clay vial at his throat, tied by a crude thong. With a shock, Tanaros recognized it, knew what it must hold. Here, then, was the true enemy, the one who mattered. Here was the Bearer of prophecy, who carried the Water of Life, who could extinguish the marrow-fire itself. And it was a boy, a mere boy, a pawn in Haomane's game. Their gazes met, and the boy's was questioning, uncertain.

"No," Tanaros whispered. "Listen …"

Malthus the Counselor lifted his staff, and light shone between his fingers.

Red light pulsed and the Ways opened. Light flexed, coruscating.





* * *





TWENTY-TWO





« ^ »



IT HAPPENED AS SHE CROSSED the threshold of her reception hall.

One moment she was walking, grateful for Pietre at her elbow, concentrating on keeping her head proudly erect for the watching servants. Relief at the dragon's news made it easier. It didn't matter, now, that the circlet felt too tight around her brow, that the Soumanië lay hot against her flesh, that an unnatural awareness stirred at the base of her skull—those were the harbingers of salvation, signs that the Ways had been opened. Tired as she was, Lilias bore them with gladness.

Between one step and the next, everything changed.

She had been a child, once; a mortal child playing children's games of hide-and-chase in her father's estate in Pelmar. Her younger brother had darted from the ice-house, slamming the heavy stone door in her face. A thousand years later she remembered it; the sound like a thunderclap, the unexpected impact and sudden darkness, and how the air was too tight to breathe.

It was like that, only worse, a hundred times worse. A red light burst behind her eyes as a Way was slammed closed, exploding open elsewhere, splintering into a myriad dwindling passages. By the stinging of her palms, she understood that she had fallen onto the flagstones. Her eyes were open and blind. Somewhere, Pietre was tugging at her arm, begging her to get up. There were tears in his voice. Her brother Tomik had sounded that way, once, when he begged her to abandon the Soumanië after she had descended Beshtanag Mountain to show him. "It's a dragon's gift, Lilias! Put it back!"