“Dreamspinner,” he said. “There is a thing that must be done.”
Ushahin raised his head, daring to hope. “The Lady—”
“Damn the Lady!” Tanaros’ voice cracked. “She’s a pawn, nothing more!” Removing his borrowed helm, he passed a vambraced forearm over his face. For an instant, Ushahin imagined that he wiped away tears. “You were right,” he said in a low tone. “The foundation … the foundation is crumbling, and Ushahin, I think he’s coming. The Bearer. It’s all happened, piece by piece. And I need to stop him.”
“All we need to do—” Ushahin began.
“They’re coming, Dreamspinner!” Tanaros took a deep breath. “We have to seal the Defile. Rally the Tordenstem, get them to those ricks Speros built. They won’t think to do it on their own, they’ll need orders. My lads’ lives depend on it, those that are left.”
“Tanaros,” Ushahin said, shifting the case in his arms. “With the Soumanië, Aracus Altorus can—”
“Time,” Tanaros said abruptly. “Aracus is a mortal Man, he can only do so much. It will purchase time, Ushahin! And lives, too; my lads’ lives. I beg you, don’t let all their sacrifices be in vain.” A muscle in his jaw twitched. “And I pray you, do not make me do more than beg.”
The Defile Gate stood open. They stared at one another.
“All right, cousin,” Ushahin said gently. “You know well that I lack the strength to oppose you. For the moment, I will do your bidding. And afterward, in this time we have earned, you will heed my words.”
“My thanks, Dreamspinner.” Tanaros extended his free hand.
Ushahin clasped it with his right hand, his strong, healed hand. “Go, then, and protect the marrow-fire! I will see your Fjel home safely, all those who remain.”
Together, they passed through the Defile Gate.
Ushahin watched Tanaros lash his mount, sprinting for the fortress. He shook his head as he turned the blood-bay stallion’s course toward the high path along the Defile, thinking of the Grey Dam Sorash, who had raised him as her own, who had given her life to this venture.
It was folly, all folly. Yet he knew well, too well, the cost Tanaros bore this day.
Forgive me, Mother, he thought.
The Tordenstem were glad to see him; pathetic, bounding like dogs, squat, boulder-shaped dogs. Everything had gone wrong, confusing them. Ushahin sighed, riding to the verge of the crags where the easternmost rick was stationed and peering over the edge.
Tanaros’ Fjel were coming, a straggling line of them. It shocked him to see how few they were, how slowly they moved. At the Defile’s Maw, a scant dozen had made a stand, barring the path to Haomane’s Allies, there where it was narrow enough to be defended. They were wielding maces and axes to deadly effect, roaring in defiance.
“Tan-a-ros! Tan-a-ros!”
It wouldn’t last. A spark was moving on the plains; a red spark, a Soumanië, twinned with a diamond-brightness. Aracus Altorus was coming, and Malthus the Counselor with him. They were all coming, all of Haomane’s Allies.
Ushahin sighed again. “How did it come to this?”
Levers in hands, the Tordenstem exchanged confused glances. “Boss?”
“Pay me no heed.” Ushahin shook his head, impatient. “On my word, make ready to loose the first rockslide.”
”Aye, boss!” They positioned their levers.
Ushahin watched, raising one hand. The Fjel were hurrying, hurrying as best they could. Aracus Altorus had arrived at the base of the Defile. He forged a swath through Haomane’s Allies, his Soumanië flashing. Malthus the Counselor was at his side. The path began to crumble beneath the Tungskulder defenders’ feet.
“Tell the others to hurry,” Ushahin murmured to the Tordenstem.
One filled his lungs, his torso swelling. “Snab!” he howled. “Snab!”
The Fjel column hurried, even as the defenders began to fall and die, and Haomane’s Allies to push past them. Not daring to wait, Ushahin let his hand drop. “Now!” he cried.
The Tordenstem heaved on their levers. Rocks tumbled, boulders fell, all in a great rumbling rush, bouncing down the crags, blocking the Defile.
For a time.
Below, the red spark of the Soumanië gleamed, and pebbles began to shift, slow and inexorable.
For a third time, Ushahin sighed. “Let us go to the next station. Perhaps this time we can manage to crush a few of Haomane’s Allies.”
There was scant consolation in the thought, but at least it would take him a step closer to Darkhaven. Glancing uneasily toward the fortress, Ushahin prayed that it would not be too late, that it was not already too late. He remembered the Delta and the words of Calanthrag the Eldest.
Yet may it come later than sssooner for ssuch as I and you … .
In his heart, he feared it had not.
TWENTY-THREE
Tanaros strode through Darkhaven like a black wind.
The shock of his arrival rippled through the fortress with a palpable effect. The Havenguard hurried from far-flung quarters of Darkhaven to meet him, falling over one another in their haste. His abrupt, awful news shocked them into momentary silence, and he had to shout at them twice before they were able to tell him what had transpired in his absence.
Two Men, Charred Folk, madlings caught one …
He wasted precious minutes hurrying into the dungeon, clattering down the slippery stair, hoping against hope to see the Man the madlings had caught. It gave him an unpleasant echo of the memory of Speros, hanging in chains, grinning crookedly with his split lips. Not Speros, no; not the Bearer, either. It was the other Yarru, his protector. Manacled to the wall, scratched and beaten and bloodied, he hung limp, lacking the strength to even stir. The Fjel had not been gentle. Only the slight rise and fall of his scarred torso suggested he lived.
“Where’s the boy?” Tanaros asked, prodding him. “Where’s the boy?”
Unable to lift his head, the prisoner made a choked sound. “Slayer,” he said in a slow, thick voice. “Where do you think?”
Tanaros cursed and ran from the dungeon, taking the stairs two at a time.
He made his way behind the walls, through the winding passages, through the rising heat, to the chasm. To the place he had known he must go. The madlings had scattered, abandoning the places behind the walls, hiding from his fury, from the terrible news. There was only the heat, the light-shot darkness, and the chasm like a gaping wound.
There, he gazed over the edge.
Far below, a small, dark figure was descending laboriously.
Straightening, Tanaros shed his gauntlets. With deft fingers, he unbuckled the remainder of his armor, removing it piece by piece. When he had stripped to his undertunic, he replaced his swordbelt, then lowered himself into the chasm and began to climb.
It was hot. It was scorchingly, horribly hot. The air seared his lungs, the blue-white glare blinding him. Narrowing his eyes to slits, Tanaros willed himself to ignore the heat. It could be done. He had done it in the Unknown Desert. He was one of the Three, and it could be done.
Fear lent his limbs speed. Hands and feet moved swift and sure, finding holds. He took risks, careless risks, tearing and bruising his flesh. The worst thing would be to fail for being too slow, to be halfway down and find the marrow-fire suddenly extinguished.
It did not happen.
Reaching the bottom, Tanaros saw why.