She did fear, though; he supposed he couldn’t blame her. It had taken him hard, a thousand and more years gone by. A Man in his prime, with blood on his hands and a heart full of fury and despair, riding in answer to a summons he barely understood.
Bring your hatred and your hurt and serve me …
Then, he had shouted in reply; had faced the Tordenstem as it crouched atop the peak with its barrel chest and mouth like a howling tunnel, and shouted his own defiant reply, filled with the fearless rage of a Man to whom death would be a welcome end. And the Tordenstem, the Thunder Voice Fjel, had laughed, barrel chest heaving, ho! ho! ho! Maybe you are the one his Lordship seeks, scrawny pup!
And it had been so, for he was; one of the Three, and the Tordenstem had led him along the treacherous passage to Darkhaven, where he pledged his life to Lord Satoris, who had withdrawn Godslayer from the marrow-fire and branded him with its hilt, circumscribing his aching heart. A haven, a haven in truth, sanctuary for his wounded soul …
“What?” Echoing words penetrated his reverie; the Tordenstem sentry—kinsman, perhaps, of the long-dead Fjel who had intercepted him, was shouting a message, incomprehensible syllables crashing like boulders. Tanaros shook himself, frowning, and called to his field marshal. “What did he say?”
“General.” Hyrgolf trudged back to his side, stolidly unafraid of the heights. “Ulfreg says they captured a Man in the Defile, two days past. One of your kind, they think. He made it as far as the Weavers’ Gulch. They took him to the dungeons.”
“Aracus!” Cerelinde breathed, her face lighting with hope.
It struck him like a blow; he hadn’t believed, before now, that the Lady of the Ellylon could love a Son of Altorus. “Not likely,” Tanaros said sourly, watching the light die in her lovely face. “He’d have been killed thrice over. Dreamspinner?”
Ushahin, huddled out of the wind with his mount’s flank pressed to the cliff wall, shrugged. “Not one of mine, cousin. I alert the tries when a madling comes. Those with wits to seek shelter have already fled the coming storm.” He touched the case that held the Helm of Shadows with delicate, crooked fingers. “Do you want me to scry his thoughts?”
“No.” Tanaros shook his head. “Time enough in Darkhaven.”
Onward they continued, winding through the Defile. After the first peak, the path widened. The Kaldjager continued to lope ahead, scouting. Periodically, one would depart from the path to scale a crag, jamming sharp talons on fist and foot into sheer rock, scrambling with four-limbed ease. There they would perch, yellow eyes glinting, exchanging calls of greeting with the Tordenstem sentries, who replied in booming tones.
Hyrgolf explained it to Cerelinde with Fjel patience.
“ … worked together, you see, Lady. Used to be the Tordenstem—Thunder Voices, you call them—would herd game for the Cold Hunters, driving them to the kill. They’d flee the sound, you see, and there would be plenty for all. When your folk invaded the Midlands, they did the same. It worked, too.”
Her face was pinched. “You herded my people to slaughter.”
“Well.” Hyrgolf scratched the thick hide on his neck, nonplussed. “Aye, Lady. You could see it as such. The Battle of Neherinach. But your folk, your grandsire’s sons and the like, were the ones brought the swords.”
“You sheltered the Sunderer!”
Cerelinde’s voice, raised, bounced off the walls of the Defile, clear and anguished. A sound like bells chiming, an Ellylon voice, such as had not been heard within a league of Darkhaven for ten centuries and more. The Kaldjager crouched yellow-eyed in the heights, and the Tordenstem were silent.
“Aye, Lady,” Hyrgolf said simply, nodding. “We did. We gave shelter to Lord Satoris. He was a Shaper, and he asked our aid. We made a promise and kept it.”
He left her, then, trudging to the head of the line, a broad figure moving on a narrow path, pausing here and there to exchange a word with his Fjel. Tanaros, who had listened, waited until they rounded a bend, bringing his mount alongside hers when there was room enough for two to ride abreast. Side by side they rode, bits and stirrups jangling faintly. The horses of Darkhaven exchanged wary glances, snuffled nostrils, and continued. The Lady Cerelinde sat upright in the saddle and stared straight ahead, her profile like a cut gem.
“I do not understand,” she said at length, stiffly.
“Cerelinde.” Tanaros tasted her name. “Every story has two sides. Yours the world knows, for the Ellylon are poets and singers unsurpassed, and their story endures. Who in Urulat has ever listened to the Fjeltroll’s side of the tale?”
“You blame us.” Cerelinde glanced at him, incredulous. “You blame us! Look at them, Tanaros. Look at him.” She pointed at the Fjel Thorun, marching in front of them in stoic silence. He had spoken seldom since Bogvar’s death. His broad, horny feet spread with each step, talons digging into the stony pathway. The pack he bore on his wide shoulders, battle-axe lashed across it, would have foundered an ox. “Look.” She opened her delicate hands, palm-upward. “How were we to stand against that?”
Ahead, the path veered left, an outcropping of rock jutting into the Defile. Thorun lingered, pausing to lead first Cerelinde’s mount, then Tanaros’, around the bend. Though he kept his eyes lowered, watching the horses’ hooves, unsuited for the mountainous terrain, his hand was gentle on the bridle.
“He speaks Common, you know,” Tanaros said.
The Lady of the Ellylon had the grace to blush. “You know what I mean!”
“Aye.” Tanaros touched the rhios in its pouch. “Neheris-of-the-Leaping-Waters Shaped the Fjel, Lady. Fourth-Born among Shapers, she Shaped them to match the place of her birth; with talons to scale mountains, strong enough …” he smiled wryly, “ … to carry sheep across their shoulders, enough to lay up meat to stock a larder against a long winter.”
“Strong enough,” she retorted, “to tear down walls, General. You saw Cuilos Tuillenrad! Do you deny the dead their due?”
“No.” He shook his head. “Only their version of truth, Lady.” He nodded at the axe that jounced against Thorun’s pack. “You see that weapon? Until the Battle of Neherinach, it was unknown among the Fjel. We taught them that, Cerelinde. Your people, and mine.”
Her face was pale. “Satoris Banewreaker armed the Fuel.”
“It is what your people claim,” Tanaros said. “Mine too, come to it. But I have learned better in a thousand years, Lady. My Lord armed them, yes; after the Battle of Neherinach, after hundreds of their number fell defending him with tusk and talon. Yes, he taught them to smelt ore, and gave them weapons of steel. And I, I have done my part, Cerelinde. I taught them to use those weapons and such gifts as Neheris gave them in the service of war. Why?” He touched one forefinger to his temple. “Because I have the gift of intellect. Haomane’s Gift, that he gave only to his children, and Arahila’s. And that, Lady, is the Gift the Fjel were denied.”
Cerelinde raised her chin. “Was their lot so terrible? You said it yourself, General. The Fjel were content, in their mountains, until Satoris Banewreaker convinced them otherwise.”
“So they should have remained content with their lot?”
“They were content.” Her gaze was unwavering. “Haomane First-Born is Chief among Shapers, Lord of the Souma. Satoris defied him, and Sundered the world with his betrayal. He fled to Neherinach in fear of Haomane’s wrath, and there he enlisted the Fjel, swaying them to his cause, that he might avoid the cost of his betrayal. Did he reckon the cost to them?”