"I pray that I do." Aracus nudged his mount's flanks, bringing him within striking range. His voice was steady, the point of his blade leveled at the Rider. "And I fear that I do not. Are you Malthus, or some trick of the Sunderer?"
The Rider opened his arms. "I am as you see me."
Sunlight dazzled on the clear gem. Lilias flinched. On her right, Fianna unslung Oronin's Bow and nocked an arrow, pointing it at Lilias' heart.
No one else moved.
Aracus Altorus broke into an unexpected grin. "That's a wizard's answer if ever I've heard one." He sheathed his sword, leaning forward to extend his hand. "Welcome back, my lord Counselor! We feared you dead."
"Ah, lad." Malthus' eyes crinkled as he clasped Aracus' hand. "I'm harder to kill than that."
The Borderguard gave a cheer, unbidden. There was no cheering among the Rivenlost, but they lowered their bows, returning arrows to their quivers. Turning her head, Lilias saw that Fianna kept an arrow loosely nocked, aimed in her direction. There was lingering distrust in her gaze.
"How?" Aracus asked simply.
"It took many long days," Malthus said, "for I spent my strength in maintaining the spell of concealment that hides the Bearer from the Sunderer's eyes. What strength remained to me, I lost in my battle with his Kingslayer. When the Sunderer destroyed the Marasoumië, I was trapped within it, scarce knowing who I was, let alone where. And yet, in the end, I won free." He touched the white gem on his breast, his face somber. "I fear the cost was high, my friends. As I am changed, so is the Soumanië. It is a bright light in a dark place, one that may illuminate Men's souls, but no longer does it possess the power to Shape."
A murmur of concern ran through the ranks of Haomane's Allies.
"Is that all?" Aracus Altorus laughed, and removed the gold fillet from his head. A gladness was in his manner for the first time since Cerelinde had been taken from him. "Here," he said, offering it. "The spoils of Beshtanag. It's useless to me. I'd thought to ask you teach me how to wield it, but it's better off in your hands, Malthus. I'm a warrior, not a wizard."
Toward the rear of the company, Lilias made a choked sound.
"Ah, lad." Malthus gazed at the fillet in Aracus' palm, the gold bright in the sunlight, the Soumanië dull and lifeless. "Truly," he murmured, "you have the heart of a king. Would that the gem could be given as easily. No." He shook his head. "It is not truly yours to give, Aracus. The Soumanië must be inherited from the dead or surrendered freely by a living owner. Until that happens, I can wield it no more than you."
Aracus frowned. "Then—"
"No one can wield it." Malthus lifted his head, and his gaze was filled with a terrible pity. With one gnarled forefinger, he pointed at Lilias, who sat motionless, conscious of the Archer's arrow pointed at her heart. "Not so long as the Sorceress of Beshtanag lives."
Dani opened his eyes to see a dark blot swimming in a pool of light hovering above him. His head ached and the bright, blurred light made him feel nauseated. He blinked and squinted until his vision began to clear, and the dark blot resolved itself into the worried face of his uncle, silhouetted against the blue Staccian sky.
"Dani!" Thulu's face creased into a grin. "Are you alive, lad?"
There seemed to be a stone upon his chest. He tried an experimental cough. It hurt in a number of places. "I don't know," he whispered. "Are you?"
"Barely." Thulu sat back, nodding at him. "You can let go of it now, lad. It's safe enough."
"What?" He realized his right hand was clutching the flask containing the Water of Life so hard it ached, pressing it hard against his flesh. His fingers had cramped frozen, and it took an effort to open them. The pressure on his chest eased when he released the flask. He tried to sit and floundered, finding his left arm bound and useless.
"Careful." Uncle Thulu moved to assist him. "There you go."
"What's that for?" Sitting upright, Dani looked at his left arm in bewilderment. It was secured in a damp makeshift sling torn from one of their cloaks, knotted around his neck. He tried moving it. A jolt of pain shot through his shoulder. "Ow!"
"Careful." Thulu repeated. "What do you remember, lad?"
"The river." He could hear it roaring nearby. The sound of it cleared some of the mist from his thoughts. "The Fjeltroll. We were attacked." He blinked at his uncle, remembering red blood swirling in the river foam. "You were wounded."
"Aye." Uncle Thulu showed him the gashes, three lines gouged across his chest. He had packed them with clay from the riverbank to stop the bleeding. It had worked, but his skin had a greyish cast. "I had a time getting you out of the river."
"We hit a rock." Dani felt at his head, finding a painful lump. It throbbed beneath his fingertips. He winced.
"
You
hit a rock," his uncle corrected him. "
I
fished you out." He padded out of sight and returned to hand Dani a much-battered bowl. "Here. Drink."
Dani sipped broth, made from strips of dried hare boiled in river water, and felt a measure of warmth in his belly, a measure of strength return to his limbs. He glanced around the makeshift campsite. It was sparse, little more than a sheltered fire and a few garments drying on the rocks. Their pine-branch float was nowhere in sight. He shifted his shoulders and felt the pain lance through him. It was bad, hut bearable. "How badly am I hurt?"
"I don't know." Thulu's gaze was unflinching. "I think you broke a bone, here." One calloused finger brushed Dani's collarbone on the left side. "I bound it as best I could. How's your head?"
"It hurts." Dani squinted. "We're not safe here, are we?"
"No." A deep compassion was in his uncle's gaze, as deep as the Well of the World. "They're after us, lad. They'll follow the river. It won't be long. If you mean to continue, we'll have to flee." He opened his empty hands. "Across dry land, those places the Fjel do not believe sustain life."
"You lost your digging-stick!" Dani remembered seeing it, the length of peeled baari-wood jutting from the rib cage of a Fjel corpse. It had saved his life. "Can you still find water's path beneath the earth?"
"I believe it." His uncle stared at his empty palms, then clenched them into fists. "We are Yarru-yami, are we not?" He bared his teeth in a grin made fearful by the loss of fatty flesh, his face gaunt and hollow. "As Uru-Alat wills, I am your guide, Dani. Though we cross dry land, and our enemies pursue us, we will survive. We will flee, cunning as desert rats, until we come to the source of illness. If it is your will to follow the veins of Uru-Alat, I will lead you."
"It is, Uncle." In a gesture of trust, Dani set down his bowl and laid his right hand open like an upturned cup over his uncle's clenched fists. The radiating lines that intersected his pale palm formed a half a star. "Lead, and I will follow."
Thulu nodded, swallowing hard. The apple of his throat moved beneath his skin, and tears shone in his dark eyes. "Finish your broth," he said gently, "then gather yourself. We dare not wait. The Fjeltroll will not be far behind."
"Aye, Uncle." Dani nodded and picked up the bowl, finishing the last of his broth. With his free hand, he levered himself to his feet. For an instant, the world swam around him—then it steadied, anchored around the pain in his left shoulder, and the weight that hung suspended from his throat. He drew a deep breath. "I am ready."
"All right, then." Rising from a squat, his uncle scattered the fire with one well-placed kick of a calloused heel. Seizing their lone cooking-pot, he trampled on the coals, grinding them beneath his feet, then kicked pebbles and debris over the site until nothing of it remained. The River Spume surged past, heedless. Thulu exhaled, hard, and doubled over, catching at his chest. Bits of clay mingled with blood flaked loose. "All right," he said, straightening. "Let's go, lad."
They went.
Skragdal roared.
The Fjel under his command kept silent and out of his way, keeping to the walls of the Nåltannen moot-hall. A Tungskulder in a rage was a thing to be avoided. Skragdal stormed in a circle, stomping and roaring, waving his arms in an excess of rage. The Nåltannen Elders glanced uneasily at the trembling stalactites on the ceiling of their den's central chamber. The Gulnagel runner who had brought news of the sighting crouched and covered his head, waiting for Skragdal's fury to pass.
Eventually, it did.
The blood in his frustrated veins cooled from anger's boiling-point. Skragdal willed himself to stillness and drew a deep breath. Rationality seeped back into his thoughts, the cool battle logic that General Tanaros had tried so hard to instill in him, that Field Marshal Hyrgolf had entrusted him to maintain.
"Tell me again," he rumbled.
Obliging, the Gulnagel stood and repeated his story. The smallfolk had been sighted in the southwestern verge of the Northern Harrow, where the Spume River reemerged from its journey underground. A Tordenstem sentry had given the alarm, and a pack under the command of Yagmar of the Tungskulder had cornered them beside the river. The smallfolk had held them off long enough to make an escape down the river.
"That," Skragdal said ominously, "is the part I do not understand."
The Gulnagel raised his hands in a shrug. "Who expects a cornered rabbit to fight? It was a narrow path and Yagmar's folk were taken by surprise. Besides"—he eyed Skragdal's plated armor, the axe and mace that hung at his belt, "they were not armed by Darkhaven."
"Still," Skragdal said. "They are Fjel."
"Yes." The Gulnagel shrugged. "It happened swiftly. Yagmar followed. He caught them where the river bends. He told them if they gave him the flask you seek, he would let them go. They paid him no heed."
Skragdal closed his eyes. "They are Men," he said softly. "Smallfolk from the desert. They do not speak Fjel."
"Oh!" The Gulnagel considered. "Some Men do."
"Staccians, yes." Skragdal opened his eyes. "These are not. And Yagmar should not have tried to bargain. His Lordship's orders are to kill them."
"Yagmar stood this deep," the Gulnagel said, placing the edge of one hand against his throat. "The river runs fast." There was a murmur of comprehension among the gathered Fjel. They appreciated the power of the northern rivers, which Neheris-ol-the-Leaping-Waters had Shaped herself. Some could be forded; not all, not even by a Tungskulder. And none of them could swim. The density of their body-mass would not permit it.
Skragdal sighed. "So Yagmar tried to take the flask."
"Yes." The Gulnagel nodded. "And although it was no bigger than his thumb, it make him sink like a stone."
"Where are they now?" Skragdal stared at the messenger.
"Fled," The Gulnagel grimaced. "Away from the river, back into the dry mountains. It is what I am sent to tell you. Yagmar found their trail, but it leads away from water. After a day and a half, he had to turn back." He pointed at the waterskin slung from Skragdal's belt. "Neheris' bounty provides. We do not carry tools for hunting far from her rivers, where only small prey dwells."
"We are hunting small prey," Skragdal growled.
The Gulnagel gave another shrug. "What would you have us do?"
Skragdal considered the smaller Fjel, then glanced around at his companions. They returned his gaze impassively. None of them would dare advise him; not even Thorun, on whom he relied as a fellow Tungskulder. Dim light filtering through the air-shafts of the moot-hall glinted on their armor and weapons. This was the third den they had visited since leaving Neherinach. It felt strange to be among free-living members of his own people. They seemed vulnerable to him. It was not only the lack of arms, but the simplicity, the innocence. They remembered Neherinach—but that had been before Haomane had sent his Wise Counselors, armed with the Soumanië. Skragdal remembered what had happened in the Marasoumië, and the blasted node-point they had found, the carnage in Earl Coenred's hall. Those of Neheris' Children who did not serve Darkhaven had no idea of the forces arrayed against them.
He wished, very much, to be one of them.
The thought made him turn to the Nåltannen Elders. They were gathered in a group, watching and waiting to hear what he would decide. Skragdal bowed his head and addressed Mulprek, who was senior in this den. She was a female, her withered dugs giving testament to the myriad pups she had born. Her mate, he knew, was some years her junior. "Old mother," he said humbly. "Give me your counsel."
"Does the great warrior seek advice?" Mulprek wrinkled her lip and bared dull, yellowing eyetusks. She shuffled forward to peer up at him, laying a hand on his forearm. Her worn talons gleamed like steel against his hide, and she smelled of musk. Despite her age, her eyes were keen and bright. "This is a hunt, not a battle. Your prey has left a trail. You know where they are bound." She nodded at the Kaldjager Fjel in his company. "Use the Cold Hunters. Flush the prey, and herd them. Lay a trap. So we have always clone. So I say."
It was good advice.
Skragdal nodded. "Let all the tribes remain vigilant," he said. "All hands may be needed for this." He turned to Blagen, whom he knew best among the Kaldjager. "Can your lads do this thing?"
"Aye. If you don't mind losing your scouts." The Kaldjager's eyes gleamed yellow. He slapped his waterskin. It made a heavy, sloshing sound. "We've no fear of dry land. If the Gulnagel will lead us to the trail, we'll hunt. We'll kill them if we can and herd them if we can't. Where do you want the smallfolk?"
The image of a green field dotted with vine-laced barrows rose in his mind. It lay on their route, and it would be a fitting place to make an end to it. Why these desert smallfolk had chosen to oppose his Lordship, he could not fathom. Already, they had paid a terrible price for their folly.
But it didn't matter, only that the thing was done.
"Neherinach," Skragdal said grimly. "Bring them to Neherinach."
A river of wings filled the Tower of Ravens, black and beating.
Flying in a circle.
Tanaros stood outside himself, watching through Fetch's eyes. He was part and parcel of the endless river, riding the silent current. Curving along the basalt walls. Wings, overlapping like scales, glossy feathers reflecting the blue-white flicker of the marrow-fire. He saw his brethren, bright eyes and sharp beaks. It was important that the wings overlap, beating in intricate layers.