"Aye, Lord Vorax." The M�rkhar stowed his figurine. "This way, sir."
It felt like a long walk, longer than usual. Ushahin's madlings were in hiding, and there were only the empty halls of Darkhaven, veins of marrow-fire pulsing with agitation in the gleaming black walls. Vorax felt his own pulse quicken in accord, his heart constricting. Ah, Neheris-of-the-Leaping-Waters, he thought. Have pity on your Children, and those who have dwelled alongside them! We mean no harm, no, not to you. This is your brother Haomane's quarrel.
There was no answer, of course. For ages beyond counting, no Shaper had ever answered the prayers of mortal kind save Lord Satoris. Distant and remote on Torath, they bent their wills to Haomane's pride, while on the face of Urulat, Lord Satoris fought against a dark tide of pain, and kept his promises to all who honored him.
There was only the journey, and its ending, where the towering iron doors of the Throne Hall had been flung apart, standing open as if onto a vast furnace. The diorama of the Shapers' War was split wide open, separating Lord Satoris from the Six Shapers. Beyond lay a maelstrom of darkness and a throbbing red light, source of the infernal pull, beckoning to him like a lodestone.
Godslayer, Vorax thought, his mouth going dry. He's taken it from the Font.
The Havenguard on duty saluted, hands clutched firm on the hafts of their battle-axes. Fjel seldom looked nervous, but these two did. "Lord Vorax," one acknowledged him, deep-set eyes glittering in the light of the marrow-fire. "Be wary. He is wroth."
"I know." Vorax wiped his sweating, blistered brow and sighed. "My thanks, lads," he said, and crossed the threshold. Inside, torches sprang alight with the marrow-fire. He squinted at the blue-white effluence, the shadows of his own body looming in the corners. Fair Arahila, he thought, you've a name for mercy, even his Lordship said so. What wouldn't I give, now, for all that I've taken for granted? A meal fit for a king, a hungry king. A warm bath and a sweet lass to rub oil into my aching shoulders. Is it so much to ask? The red light of Godslayer flared, disrupting his thoughts. Pain seized his chest and hammered him to his knees.
"Kill them!" Lord Satoris' voice cracked like thunder, until the very walls creaked and trembled in protest. "Do you understand? I am giving this order. Kill them. Kill them ALL!"
"My Lord!" Vorax gasped, floundering on the carpet. His eardrums ached with the pressure and his heart was beating so fast it threatened to burst his chest. I am too old for this, he thought, and too fat. "As you will, it shall be done!"
There was silence, and the pressure abated. "Vorax. My words were meant for another. Tanaros Blacksword lives. He has won free of the Marasoumië."
"Good news, my Lord." Gratefully, he struggled to his feet. He could see, now. The black carpet stretching in front of him and the figure on the Throne, illumed in darkness. Vorax made his feet move. It was not hard, after all. That which compelled him was held in his Lord's hands, a shard of red light pulsing like lifeblood. It reeled him onward as surely as a hook in his heart, and he placed one foot in front of the other until he stood before the Throne and gazed at Satoris' face, hidden behind the aching void of the Helm of Shadows. "You summoned me?"
"My Staccian." The Shaper bent his head. "Yes. Matters have… transpired."
"Aye, my Lord." It was hot within the Throne Hall, cursedly hot. The news about Tanaros was welcome. He did not think the rest would be. Vorax watched the dagger throbbing between the Shaper's palms, held like a prayer-offering. The beat of his own scarred heart matched its rhythm. "What matters?"
The shard flared in Satoris' hands. "One of the Eldest has fallen."
Vorax swallowed, hard. "The Dragon of Beshtanag?"
"Yes." Through the eyeslits of the Helm of Shadows, the Shaper stared at him without blinking. "His name was Calandor, and he was old when I first walked the earth; oldest of all, save one. He was my friend, many ages ago."
Dire news, indeed. The Ellylon of old had slain dragons, but never one of the most ancient, the Eldest. Only in the Shapers' War had that come to pass. In the face of the Helm's hollow-eyed stare, Vorax had to look away. "How was it done?" he asked.
Lord Satoris gave a mirthless laugh. "With the Arrow of Fire."
In the sweltering heat of the Throne Hall, his skin turned cold and clammy. Haomane's Prophecy pounded like a litany in his skull. "They did it," Vorax said, forcing the words past a lump of fear in his throat. "Found the lost weapon."
"Yes." The Shaper contemplated the dagger in his hands. Godslayer's flames caressed his fingers, shadows writhing in the Helm's eyeslits. "They did. And they will be coming for us, my Staccian, these Allies of my Brother." His head lifted and his eyes blazed to life. "But what they plan, I have seen! I dare what they did not think I would dare! I am not my Brother, to quail in mortality's shadow! I dare to don the Helm, I dare to pluck Godslayer from the marrow-fire and see!"