They made war upon him, and when the loyal Fjeltroll honored their pledge and defended him, they made war upon the Fjeltroll.
They made war until Satoris grew weary and bitter and angry, and raised an army of his own; of Fjeltroll, with their brute strength, and the grey Were, Oronin’s hunters. All those who felt abandoned by the Six Shapers heeded his words, and he Shaped their will to his and marched against his enemies. What Haomane had named him, he became. Banewreaker, Bringer-of-Doom.
For a time, they laid waste to Urulat, pressing toward the west.
But his Elder Brother was cunning.
Haomane First-Born took three ruby-red chips of the Souma, smoothing them into gems of power: the Soumanië. Three Counselors he Shaped to bear them: Ardrath, Dergail and Malthus. Three weapons he gave them to wield: the Helm of Shadows, the Spear of Light and the Arrow of Fire. And he sent them across the Sundering Sea to raise an army of Ellylon and Men loyal to the Six Shapers to do battle with Satoris.
It had been a near thing.
Not a defeat, no. Not a victory, either.
He was alive and Godslayer was his. Still, he had been wounded anew, twice over, and forced to flee the field. But his enemies, Haomane’s Allies, had taken grievous blows. Two Counselors slain, the Arrow of Fire lost, and the Helm of Shadows in Satoris’ possession. The war had not ended, but there would be a reprieve, while ages passed and Haomane conceived his next move.
All Satoris could do was make ready for it.
First, he healed the mortal wound. The Ellyl blade that struck him from behind had cut deep, severing the tendons behind his knee. It had surprised him, that; so much so that he had dropped the dagger. And without Godslayer, he was—what? A Shaper, but powerless.
Sundered.
There had been his Gift, once. He smiled with bitter irony as he healed himself, drawing on the power of Godslayer to splice his sinews and knit his flesh. Even if it had not been stripped from him, his Gift would have availed him nothing in this struggle. That time had come and gone in ages past, vanished in an eyeblink.
He had offered his Gift to Haomane’s Children.
Haomane had refused it.
The second wound was more difficult, for it had been dealt by a weapon Shaped by his brother. If the first had been a surprise, the second had been a shock. He could see it, still; the Spear of Light, its shaft gleaming under the sullen skies. It extended in a straight line from the place where agony flared, where the shining, leaf-pointed blade was buried in his side. And at the other end, both hands locked fast on the haft, was the last Counselor; Malthus, his brother’s final emissary.
It had hurt, a hurt second only to one, as he tore himself loose, a gaffed fish fighting the hook. Such indignity! It was almost worth it to see the Counselor’s dumbstruck face. There was only one weapon capable of killing Satoris.
Godslayer.
They had both reached for it at once. The dagger, the shard of the shattered Souma. He grimaced in remembrance, pressing its blade to the ragged lips of the wound in his side. It pulsed there, and light kindled in its rubescent depths. So it had pulsed between their joined hands. Closing his eyes, he called upon its power. Somewhere, beyond the Sundering Sea, the light of the Souma flickered in distant sympathy. His kindred would wonder what he did with it.
Let them wonder, and fear. He drew upon its power for this second healing, so much more difficult than the first. Inch by slow inch, he sealed the wound. It left a scar that shone with a pale light, another memento of his brother’s wrath.
When it was done, he was weary.
Not all wounds could be healed.
Always, there was the third wound, the immortal one; there, in the hollow of his thigh, where Oronin had struck him with Godslayer itself. It festered with deep poison and wept unceasing tears of ichor, and where they fell, the land itself was blighted and changed.
So be it, he thought. I have fled my brother’s wrath, and he has found me. I have challenged his might, and he has thwarted me. My siblings have forsaken me; even Arahila, though her memory makes me weep. Yet I do not regret my choice. If Haomane asked a fourth time, I would refuse him anew. In his pride, the Lord-of-Thought does not see the Shape of what-would-be if my Gift were forever uncoupled from his. I see; all too clearly, I see. Thus in my pride, I name myself my brother’s enemy, and not his victim. I did not seek this role, though it has been thrust upon me. Loathe it though I may, it is my lot. I am what I am. I cling to such honor as is left to me. Here I will abide, and make of this place a sanctuary; a stronghold. And when I am done, I will place Godslayer at the heart of it, where no other hand may touch it.
Being whole, or as whole as he might be, he summoned the Fjeltroll.
There, in the vale of Gorgantum, he flung up jagged peaks to surround his place of hiding. He brought forth great slabs of marble from the earth and Shaped them, black and gleaming. And he showed them his plan, the vast citadel with its high towers, its encircling wall, and the secret heart of it like a twin-chambered nautilus. There the Fjel labored, honoring their ancient oath. Strong and high they built its walls—and deep, deep below it they delved, in Gorgantum, the hollow, where the earth’s strong bones conjoined.
When they reached the Source, he sighed to see the marrow-fire.
Godslayer would be safe.
It was a lingering essence of the blazing godhead of Uru-Alat; a blue-white fire that ran through the bones of the earth, the spark of which fueled the dragons’ fiery bellies at their emergence. Here, at the Source, it gathered. Nothing mortal could withstand its touch. He had enough of a Shaper’s power yet to Shape the marrow-fire. It took delicacy, tapping just enough to lace the veined marble of his citadel, to light the unfaltering torches. For the first time, he understood the joy his siblings had taken in Shaping the emerging world, and wondered what it would have been like to do so in the fullness of power before the Souma was shattered.
No matter. This would have to be enough.
Of its smoke, he wrought a pall of darkness, and this he flung like a cloak over the vale of Gorgantum, until the very skies were shrouded. And at this, too, he smiled, for it veiled his Elder Brother’s prying eyes and sheltered him from the sun’s wrath that had scorched his form to blackness.
The Source itself, he dared not alter, but from it he drew a steady flow, a Font in which the marrow-fire danced in an endless coruscation of blue-white flame. In the Font, where no mortal hands would dare reach, he placed the dagger, Godslayer. And there it burned, throbbing like an angry heart; burned, yet was not consumed.
His citadel was complete, and he was pleased.
And he was alone, and lonely.
There were the Fjeltroll, always, faithful to their oath. He had never lied to them. It was true, he treasured them for their very simplicity. But oh, how quickly their lives flickered past, measured against his own! Generations passed in the building of his sanctuary. And in the brute simplicity of their very fidelity, they served as a stark reminder of his complicated, solitary existence. To whom could he turn, when first he heard the whispers of his brother’s new Prophecy? It was a cunning plan.
No one.
He turned instead to the prize the Fjeltroll had seized from the battlefield and brought him like a trophy at his summons. The Helm of Shadows, Men had named it.
It hurt to look upon it, even for him. His Elder Brother, who had Shaped the sun of the Souma’s light, had Shaped this thing of its absence, from the lightless cracks of its shattering. On the battlefield, Men had averted their eyes, and even the Ellylon had wept to behold it. It held the darkness of all things lost and broken beyond repair—of the Souma, of the concord of the Shapers, of the Sundered World itself.