Hanging from the branches overhead, half-lost in mists, rested a flock of giant birds, black wings spread wide, batlike and heavy.
Not birds.
Men.
Shadowknights.
The former oath-sworn of Tashijan had been gutted and strung up with their own bowels. Their cloaks and capes extended like wings, soaked with mists and blood.
Aghast with horror, Dart averted her eyes. She gaped at the Huntress.
How could she…?
The Huntress lowered her arms and faced them again. “Your arrival here-he who slew the daemon Chrism- only further supports the righteousness of my actions. You have been flown here to serve me, by destiny and fate, by the sounding of my warhorn. Daemonslayer and godslayer. With you bound beside me, we will free Myrillia.”
Tylar finally stared toward the Huntress. Dart noted the flash in his eye. It was not Grace. It was certainty.
“Never,” he said.
He had climbed here, risked all, hoping to sway her from this path. The Huntress was no servant of the Cabal-in many ways, she was more victim than collaborator. But Tylar knew that neither mattered.
Here was something worse.
Madness given the strength of a god.
“You will drink my blood and join me at my side,” she ordered. “Or all who stand beside you will be flailed of skin and sinew. Their cries-like the whispers out of bone-will sway you to do what must be done.”
“I will need no swaying. I know what must be done.” Tylar stepped aside and used his palm to push Brant forward. “I was also led here not just by fate and destiny-but by the word of one of your own.”
The Huntress finally seemed to note that there were others beside Tylar. She had been so focused on the Godslayer-and all that his arrival portended-that she had ignored those who shadowed him.
Her eyes found Brant, narrowed with momentary confusion, then widened with shocked recognition.
“The banished returned! Another sign! Brant, son of Rylland…hunter and bringer of dark gifts…”
Hope shone from her face.
Marron spoke into her silence. “It is I who bring you gifts now!”
He hurriedly shrugged off Rogger’s satchel and pushed it toward her, almost prostrating himself on the planks, so eager to please, and afraid to have his place usurped in her eyes.
The Huntress backed a step. She must have suspected what lay hidden within the folds of cloth, recognizing a familiar bulge. “It cannot be…”
“Mistress?”
“It had vanished. Surely vanquished.” Her voice began to tremble. “The dark whisper in the night. Then silence. The first sign. I was free to build my army.”
Then her manner sharpened. She leaned forward, eyes narrowing slyly. “Unless…unless you test me, godslayer. To make sure my legion is prepared.”
“You have found me out,” Tylar said, limping forward.
“Take care,” Rogger whispered through his beard, chin lowered. “You play with broken daggers here.”
Tylar nodded, to both Rogger and the Huntress. “Can you face the skull and still hold fast?”
She rose again to a stiff-backed posture, proud and strong. “I have winnowed my realm to its purest.” Then she added with a glare to the south, “Or at least almost…if not for her…”
Tylar glanced to Rogger and Krevan. Both shook their heads, unsure what this newest raving portended.
She faced Tylar, then eyed the satchel, almost with longing. “I would hear it again…so I might resist it this time.”
Tylar nodded, offering both his palms, open and inviting toward the satchel. “So we have come.”
The Huntress sank to her knees, not touching the satchel. She reached out, then away again. A war fought over her features: fear, desire, agony, anguish. Her fingers trembled.
“Perhaps there’s hope for her yet,” Krevan breathed.
Marron seemed to sense his mistress’s weakness and sought to hide it from the strangers here. “Let me, mistress. As always, your servant.”
His words broke her hesitation, but not her resolve. She waved to the satchel. “Show me.”
Marron shuffled gratefully forward on his knees. He fingered loose the strings and reached inside.
“Be ready,” Tylar said to Brant.
Dart tensed. They needed the skull exposed, free of its bile cocoon. She urged Marron not to falter.
He pulled it free as if reading Dart’s thoughts.
Pupp had angled closer, ever curious, perhaps sensing Dart’s attention and focus. None saw him-not even Dart. Not until it was too late.
Marron lowered the wrapped skull to the planks and peeled back the wrap. Brant groaned, falling to his knees, guarded over by Krevan.
“Sing, boy,” Rogger urged. “Speak anything.”
Dart heard Brant whisper through pain-thinned lips, haltingly and agonized. She knew if she touched him now that he would be feverish again.
He sang as he burnt. “‘Come, sweet night…steal the last light…so your moons may glow.’”
The Huntress still knelt before the revealed skull. She slowly lifted her head, like a flower following the sun. “What…?” A hand rose to touch her brow. Her gaze flickered to Brant. “What are you…don’t…”
Lost to his own agony, he continued mumbling his song, gasping out notes as if they pained him. “‘Come, sweet night…hide all our worries…so our dreams will flow.’”
The god’s face squeezed against what she heard. The fingers at her brow turned their nails on her own flesh, dragging gouges. Teeth gritted, a whine escaped, blood flowed, rich in Grace.
“No…stop…”
“Keep going,” Tylar urged.
Marron heard Tylar, then glanced between Brant and the Huntress. Both god and boy were now locked on one another.
The Huntress clenched her face between her two palms, but she did not break her gaze on Brant. Fingers pulled at hair, scratched deeper. “Should not come back…I resisted once…sent you away.”
“What are you doing?” Marron asked, shoving to his feet. “Huntress?”
She ignored him.
Marron stumbled back, unsure, lacking his own will, without guidance. But as the seersong was ripped from his god, the loss also weakened her control over the others. Bows dropped. Hunters stumbled back. Others panicked and swung upon the strangers, arrows nocked and shaking in their direction.
“She’s breaking,” Rogger whispered.
One hunter fell down beside Dart, staring at his hands in disbelief. A wail escaped him, full of heartbreak and horror.
The Huntress echoed his cry, blood flowing like tears down her cheek. “No! I don’t want…it hurts too much…!”
Her eyes glanced to Brant’s clutched fist. She then thrashed back, covering her face, falling on her side.
“What have I done?”
With the skull abandoned by both Marron and the Huntress, another came closer to investigate. With the planks cleared to either side, Dart spotted the fiery glow of his approach, slunk low, glowing with curiosity.
Dart’s heart clenched in her chest. “Pupp…no! Stay back!”
Too late.
He reached forward and nosed the skull. As with all items potent in Grace, the contact pulled Pupp into substance. He bloomed with solidity on the planks of the balcony. His form glowed ruddy and bright, melting and churning, a bronze statue upon a forge.
Marron noted Pupp’s fiery appearance. Though dazed, the hunter finally found something upon which to focus, to vent his confusion. He scrambled to free his bow, arm pointed.
