The Shadow of Dread: The Bladeborn Saga, Book Six, page 7
Gerrin answered with a nod. “Just waiting for you, Jonik.”
“Took your time.” Harden peered through Jonik’s woollen cloak, saw the jet black armour clinging to his skin. Recognition dawned. “That plate…”
“Later.” Jonik moved his eyes to what he had been trying not to look at. His mother, wrapped in white linen, lying on a wooden stretcher behind them. He drew a deep breath, closing his heart, his bridge to emotion drawn up. “I’ll carry her myself,” he said. “Harden, take Cabel. Gerrin, accompany the princess. When you reach the other side, stay in the tunnel. Don’t go wandering off.”
“And if we’re spat out into a wall of rock?” Harden squinted at the void like it had insulted his mother. “Lady Cecilia said the tunnels through there are unstable. Said they might have come down. The whole place might be caved in, then what?”
“Then we turn around and come back.”
“And if we can’t? If we get stuck?”
“We won’t.” Jonik didn’t want to hear it. The negativity and doubt. He had spoken to Ilith about this already, and been assured that the passage was safe. The part of him that was Tyrith had passed through the portal, after all. It had been an unpleasant experience for him. He had muttered of the things he’d seen in there, the floating shadows and glimpses of dead faces, the strange sounds that rang out through his head. But it was momentary only, a passing nightmare. My men are stronger than that. And Amilia…her as well.
“Enough talk,” Jonik said. “Gerrin, you take Cabel through. Leave him there and come back. Harden needs to know it’s safe.”
Gerrin set his slab of stubbled jaw and turned, grabbing Cabel by the arm. He pulled him into motion, drawing him toward the door. “It’ll be all right, boy. You’ll get the help you need on the other side.” The youth’s eyes were big and bright with fear, where once they’d been dark and devious, the eyes of a killer. It was sad to see him fallen so low.
The pair disappeared inside.
It happened so quickly, no more than a blink; one minute they were there, then they were not, swallowed up by the lightless, soundless, void. Harden sucked a breath. “Where…they just vanished.”
Ilith presented that smile. “The portal is no normal door, Harden. It moves matter through space almost instantaneously. It is too quick for the eyes to see.”
It did not help with Harden’s anxiety, try as he might to hide it. A rictus smile clung to his thin grey lips. “They’ll be there, then? In Ilithor, already?”
“It will only take a few moments,” Ilith confirmed. “To them it may seem slightly longer, but not to us. Sir Gerrin will return to us shortly.”
He was right. Once more, it happened in a blink, Gerrin reappearing as though from thin air, popping into existence before them. Harden stumbled back in surprise, gasping, and almost fell. Embarrassingly, it was Amilia who had to steady him.
Gerrin went to one knee, breathing hard. He shook his head, staring down at the stone, steadying himself, then stood. Several hard blinks and he was ready to speak. “Cabel’s through. Tunnel’s clear. Bit of fallen debris, but…” He took a further moment to compose himself, rubbing at his eyes, grimacing. A gnarled finger stabbed into his right ear, twisting. Then he went on. “But the tunnel looks clear, from the glance I got. Won’t know for sure until we start the trek, though.”
Harden was staring at him. “How was it?” Jonik had never seen him so tense, this grim spare sellsword who’d travelled half the world. It was almost enough to make him laugh. Harden glanced over at him, scowling, as though knowing. Then he looked back at Gerrin. “It’s not so bad, is it?”
“It’s fine. Strange, but fine. Best just get it over with, Harden. Like jumping into a lake. Sink or swim.”
“I can’t swim.”
Gerrin shrugged. “Just do it.”
“Fine.” Harden stepped forward, pausing as he stared into the shimmering nothingness, the empty space, shuddering. Jonik could almost smell the piss leaking down his leg. For a long moment he just stared, delaying. Jonik gave a silent sigh, met eyes with Gerrin, nodded, and the former Shadowmaster closed in behind Harden, quiet as a cat. One hard shove and the sellsword was tumbling forward, vanishing, his grunt of surprise abruptly cut short.
Ilith gave a chuckle. “That is one way of doing it.”
“Some men need a little push, my lord.” Gerrin grinned and reached out a hand, palm up. “Your Highness,” he said to Amilia. “There really is nothing to fear.”
The princess snorted. “Do I look frightened?” She strode forth, chin raised, her long lustrous brown hair bouncing at the small of her back. She brushed aside Gerrin’s hand, said, “I’ll see you in a moment,” to Jonik, with a side-glance, and was gone. Not so much as a look at Ilith in parting, which Jonik understood, though didn’t much like.
“Gerrin,” he said, “go after her. Make sure Harden didn’t land too awkwardly.”
There was a twist of Gerrin’s lips, and glint in his hard grey eyes, and into the void he went.
Then it was just the two of them. The demigod and his herald. “I will speak to her, my lord,” Jonik said. “I know you would like her to help.”
“She will. In time.”
Do we have time? He decided not to ask. “I’ll return as soon as I can. With another blade or bearer at my side.”
Ilith nodded, staring forward. There was something sad in his eyes all of a sudden, as though a memory was resurfacing, something painful, a recollection of regret. “I was going to link all the north,” he said, in a voice that was half a whisper.
Jonik barely heard him. “My lord?”
“This portal, Jaycob. It was to be the first of many, a network to connect us, bring us closer together. Can you imagine? A web of these pathways, opening to all the major cities in the north? How easy would it have been, then, to do what must be done?”
Jonik did not know what to say. He chose flattery, and truth. “You built the world, my lord. Isn’t that enough? There is no one in all history so respected as you.”
His smile twinkled, though a little less brightly, as a dying star in the high night sky. It seemed to Jonik that he had aged, a little. A sinking of the posture, a wrinkling about the eyes. It concerned him.
“My lord…”
“You are kind, Jaycob, to say so. Another man of great kindness said the same thing to me once. Right here, it was. Not long before I died.”
Jonik waited, wondering.
“Hamlyn,” Ilith whispered. A tear welled in his eye, dropping, wending down the side of his cheek to hold in the corner of his mouth. “Never was there anyone closer to me, Jaycob. That he died, so I could live…” He looked over. “Do you imagine a demigod’s heart could be broken?”
Jonik’s voice was choked. “I…suppose so, my lord.”
A sad smile tugged at Ilith’s lips. “Ignore me, young one. Here I am lamenting the loss of my friend and you…you stand before your dead mother. I am sorry. That was insensitive of me.”
“Not at all.” I never really knew her. He shuffled his feet, awkward. “And she is a great loss to you as well. To Tyrith, I mean…he knew her well.” Better than me. “He was as a son to her too.”
He sensed that’s what it was. Demigods did not weep, as far as Jonik knew. This was Tyrith’s influence, Tyrith’s emotion, Tyrith’s mortality and weakness.
“My lord, I should go. The others…”
“Of course. Yes, of course. They need you. The world needs you, Jaycob.”
Jonik bent down to lift his mother, carefully picking her up off the floor, cradling her. He caught a whiff of putrefaction, though the worst of the decay was kept behind the layers of linen. My own mother, rotting in my arms. He stepped toward the door, the black void filling his vision. Behind, the light of Ilith was glowing softly, radiating from his skin, his hair. Jonik had once been told that the hottest flames burned out the fastest. He glanced back, wondering. The spirit of a demigod, in the body of a mortal. How long can that flesh sustain him? How much time do we really have?
In Jonik’s head, a clock was ticking.
He stepped forward into the void.
3
“You’re welcome to rest here as long as you like,” Lord Botley Harrow said. “A minute, an hour, a day. Stay forever if you want. The gods know we could use you.”
Everywhere can use me, Elyon thought. “I stopped only to speak with you, my lord. I don’t mean to stay long.”
“Of course. Of course.” Lord Harrow lifted a hand to his mouth, suppressing an audible yawn. Such was the hour, and such the haste of Elyon’s arrival, that he had not been given proper time to dress. From beneath his nightrobes, thick, tree trunk legs sprouted, muscular at the calf, with slippers on his feet. His hair was dishevelled, heavy jaw thick with two-day stubble. “You’ll have to forgive the garb, Sir Elyon. If I’d known you were coming…”
“It’s late, Lord Harrow. You needn’t explain the nightclothes. I landed only to hear if you’d had any further word from Varinar?”
The man gave a despairing shake of the head. “None. Not since that crow came the day the city was attacked.” He rubbed at his forehead. “You spoke to my man, then? Sir Hutchin. I sent him as soon as I received Sir Bomfrey’s note.”
“He arrived at King’s Point only hours ago,” Elyon confirmed. “That’s why I’m here, my lord.” He turned his eyes across the lord’s chambers, where he’d been taken upon landing upon the high sturdy walls of Crosswater. On a table he saw a tray of sweetbreads, cheese and cured meats, with a large jug of wine on the side. He would not partake in any drinking, but the food was a welcome sight. “Do you mind if I…?”
“By all means, go ahead.”
Elyon stepped over to eat. Lord Harrow went with him, poured a large cup of wine, and drank deep. “So…King’s Point. How…how is it?”
Elyon took a bite of bread. “Destroyed,” he said, chewing. “Almost entirely in ruin. We lost over half our men.”
The stocky lord gave a sharp intake of air. “Half? Goodness me. And the enemy?”
“Similarly depleted. Some thousands fled into the woods across the river, when the Dread came. The rest ran for their ships and sailed south.”
“They fled? Will they return, do you imagine?”
“We don’t know for sure as yet.” Elyon had another bite of bread, munching hungrily. “So, nothing from Varinar? What about the west? The Twinfort? Anything from there?”
“Nothing. No word, Sir Elyon.”
“And the east?”
The Lord Protector of the Vanguard shook his head. “Except for that crow, everything’s gone dark. No riders have come, no ships. We’re living in fear that Drulgar will pass over our heads, and reduce us to ruin as well. Some of the men even reported seeing him when he flew north. From afar, yes, but even then…” He looked Elyon in the eye. “Is he as big as they say? A flying mountain…”
“More a volcano,” Elyon said to that. “His blood…it’s like lava. The very air around him seems to boil. It is enough to blister skin, my lord.” He did not have time to discuss it in any more depth, nor did he want to think about it. He took another bite of bread, chewing quickly, to replenish his stores of energy, eating like a starved man. Of those there would be many hundreds of thousands soon. Millions, even. These nice full plates will grow scarce, he thought, even for a lord like Harrow. “Are you all on rations here?” he asked.
“We are. In preparation.”
“Preparation is over. It’s happening as we speak.” He didn’t need to define what ‘it’ was. “Well, I should be away then. I’d like to reach Varinar by first light if I can.” Or what’s left of it.
“As long as you’re well rested, my prince? You do seem rather…shaky, shall we say?”
“I’m not quite back to full strength, but will be soon. The wind helps as I fly.” Elyon finished eating, helping it down with a cup of cold water. Lord Botley Harrow followed him as he stepped out through the balcony doors and onto the terrace outside. A cold wind was blowing, whistling unnervingly through a moonless night. Elyon gripped the Windblade’s haft, listened for warnings, heard nothing, and withdrew the blade. The air began to stir around him. “You called me prince just now,” he said, giving Harrow a final glance. “It’s official, I should tell you. Or as close as can be, before we put the crown on his head. My father…we named him king two hours ago.”
A smile gripped at Lord Harrow’s lips. “Well, it’s about time he relented. I trust he got through the battle unscathed?”
“He is uninjured. Only tired.”
“And others? You have to get going, I know, but tell me…”
“Vesryn’s dead,” Elyon said, half blurting it out. The words were a knife to his heart. He had to pray he would find Amara. Pray he found her so he could tell her that he’d released her husband, only to watch him die. But with honour, he told himself. A hero. He restored his pride before he fell. He cleared his throat, trying not to dwell on the nagging notion that it was all his fault. “And Dalton Taynar as well,” he finished. “He bled out on the field, in his nephew’s arms. Rodmond is now Lord of House Taynar.”
“I see.” Lord Harrow took a moment to digest that, performing the expected courtesies as he dulled his tone and dipped his eyes in respect of the fallen. “Their losses will both be felt keenly, I am sure. Your uncle in particular…I always liked him, despite his recent transgressions. Did he…die well?”
“As a hero,” Elyon said, remembering the defiance as he stood before the Dread, remembering the crushed armour, the whispered words that had left his uncle’s lips as he died. “Aleron should have been First Blade,” he’d croaked. “I’ll give…my seat…to him.” His parting thoughts as he’d left this plane had been for the wrongs he’d perpetrated, for Aleron, for his part, however small it might have been, in denying his nephew the chance to forge himself into a great man, to win a famous seat of his own at Varin’s Table. Elyon had passed out soon after his uncle’s death, he had later learned, undone by the blast of Eldur’s staff, by the godly power of the Bondstone. Yet when he awoke, alone, moved to a bed in the ruin of the city, he had wept for his uncle’s loss…and those words…those words that would live with him forever.
I’ll give…my seat…to him.
He drew a deep breath, steadying himself, and looked upward. “Watch the skies, my lord,” he said to Harrow, without turning to face him. “I will stop again on my way back, if I can, and report on what I find.” He said nothing more than that. Summoning the winds, he soared, up and away into the starless night.
The flight to Varinar was not a long one, not by the standards he set himself. Over the last months he’d flown often between Varinar, King’s Point, and the cities in the east, and only days ago he’d engaged himself in his most taxing flight so far; from King’s Point to Eldurath and back, with barely any rest at all. And when I returned…
He had anticipated the risk of finding the city under siege. He knew he might have to fly straight into battle. But Drulgar? Eldur? The Calamity and the demigod? Such world ending threats were not expected, and Elyon, exhausted, frazzled, with the Windblade in his grasp and the Eye of Rasalan on his back, had flown right down and fought them both.
Or tried to, he thought, as he glided smoothly above the dark waters of the Steelrun River, reflecting on the battle. In truth he was little more than an irritant to Drulgar, a fly to be swatted, powerless to hurt him. No. No, that isn’t true, he tried to tell himself. The Dread felt it when I drove the Windblade through his scales. He reared and roared. I made him feel pain. It was a small thing, yes, a pinprick in his hide, but enough to give them some hope. He is vulnerable, and he knows it. Father is right. It only takes one bolt…
He quickened his speed a little, eager and afraid in equal parts to find out what had become of the city. The fool in him, the hopeful boy, clung to the small thin chance that he would find Drulgar dead. That he would sight that great black-red carcass lying astride one of Varinar’s many hills, with a thousand ballista bolts poking from his body and one, that crucial one, embedded in his eye and down into his brain. He could imagine it. How the defenders of Varinar had cheered as he fell. How the man who released the mechanism that fired the bolt upon the beast would be revered as a hero for all time, honoured beside Varin himself. A common soldier. Not even a knight, less one of Varin’s Order, raised above all others as the one to down the Dread.
The notion pleased him, unlikely as it might be, and he flew on, heart pounding, basking in that desperate hope. I’ll know soon, he thought. Soon the city would unveil itself, still burning in places he did not doubt. In King’s Point the fires had burned out quickly, with so many stone structures denying its spread, but Varinar was different. Though the ancient inner city had been raised in marble and fine stone, the same could not be said for the vastness of outer Varinar, where timber structures dominated sprawling sections of the Lowers. Fires were common there in summer, and had been for long centuries. Once before they had ripped through entire city regions…now there were fail-safes and procedures to contain the spread…but this was different. ‘The very fires of hell itself pouring from the Lowers’ Sir Bomfrey Marsh had written in his note. There will be no stopping such a spread, Elyon thought. It will feast until it’s had its fill, and there’s nothing anyone can do to sate it.
He clenched his jaw, the wind whipping at his hair. He had taken off his helm, attaching it to his swordbelt, to let the air rush past his cheeks, to keep him awake and alert. It knocked against his armour as he went, a wild constant rattling that seemed to announce the death of a man, woman, or child with every toll. Elyon was not certain what the population of Varinar was, though the word million had been used more than once. And more now, he knew. Thousands upon thousands had poured in through the gates in recent months, fleeing to the capital to escape the war. They went there to keep their children safe. They were told the city was unbreachable…they were promised they’d have nothing to fear…
