She felt Barrin’s muscles harden under her. He sped faster. She waited for his leap or his plunge through the woody hedge. Which was worse?
A surge of muscle and they were flying. She opened her eyes. Barrin sailed over the hedge and landed in a smooth curve on the far side, catching her up.
“Good dog,” she said, bouncing only a little.
She stared ahead. They were almost to the battle line. It had mired to large patches of fighting. Barrin sniffed at the bloodshed. He was a war hound. His head stared longingly toward the battle. He slowed.
“Find… find Kathryn,” Dart reminded him, not knowing if he could hear her squeak.
But his ears were sharp. He focused back on the castillion. He bounded through the edge of the battlefield. Bodies were sprawled everywhere. Barrin simply padded over them and away. He avoided the patches of fighting, but the screeches and shouts kept his ears pricked.
“Kathryn,” Dart whispered. “Kathryn…” She was now repeating it over and over. Not so much to guide the dog, as to calm herself, to distract herself from the blood and torn bodies.
At last they reached the castillion. Barrin flew up a set of stairs to a wide terrace. The dead found their way here, too. The tiles were black with blood. Too much for even the storm to wash away. Ahead, the windows had been smashed during the fighting.
Barrin leaped through the widest.
Dart ducked low to his back to avoid the jagged shards poking down from the top frame. Then they were through, racing down empty halls. Dart stayed low, fingers crimped tight to the hound’s collar. Only now did she spare a worry for Tylar and the others.
Was she too late?
Tylar stared at the black handprint resting between Mistress Naff’s breasts. He found himself unable to move, gripped by shock. What did it mean?
That momentary pause proved his undoing.
From the dark print, a jet of oily darkness poured forth, too fast for the eye to follow. It struck him square in the chest. But there was no impact. The darkness shot through him-no, into him, through his own mark.
He felt the swell behind his rib cage. Bones snapped outward. Flesh tore. And as before, once one bone broke, the rest followed. Agony flamed through him. He knew it would end. The shadowbeast would rise and he would cripple again. But at least the pain would go away.
Until then, agony trapped his breath.
Cries rose around him, but they sounded far away now, muffled by an unknown depth of water. He felt himself sinking deeper.
The pain did not end. What was broken, stayed broken. There was no healing.
Through unblinking eyes, he watched smoky black tentacles sprout from the jet of darkness. They shot and coiled in all directions, flailing out. Some struck him, but to no effect. The darkness draped around them, tangling. He and Naff became caged at the heart of a weaving tangle of smoky tendrils.
Tylar knew what trapped him.
Gloom, a tangle of naether.
But as his own daemon’s smoky form caused him no harm, neither could this darkness. Still, he was caught, a fly in a web, a broken fly, unable to move.
Darkness continued to snake into him.
He swelled, filled from the inside.
Too much…
Finally, something woke in Tylar, lashing out. He felt his body wrenched deep inside. His daemon rose to fight the trespasser. He felt the clash, beyond blood and bone. They writhed and tore. Tylar could not breathe. If the fighting continued much longer, he’d be unmoored. Nothing would be left of him.
Perhaps sensing this, the naethryn inside him pushed outward, dragging the other daemon with it. Smoke billowed thicker between Naff and Tylar. Darkness boiled as daemon fought daemon. Vague shapes took form.
An edge of wing, a glimpse of muzzle, smoky claws.
All belonging to his own daemon.
But that was not all. Other apparitions stirred and roiled in the smoky storm: a lash of snaking tail, a tongue of forked flame, a maw of black teeth. Though caught in glimpses, Tylar recognized the shapes.
From Punt.
Here, fighting his own daemon, was the beast who had murdered Meeryn. It lived inside Mistress Naff.
Mirth seemed to rise like steam.
“I was rewarded after I slew Meeryn,” Mistress Naff said. “Given this skin to wear and walk this world. Now it’s your time to follow.”
Darkness closed around Tylar. The hall dissolved away-but not sight. An inner eye opened. He watched, experienced, lived as someone else. He found himself struggling against someone.
The attacker was impossibly strong.
A tangle of brown hair, stubbled chin, hungry green eyes… Chrism.
No, she mouthed. Why…?
It was Mistress Naff.
She was struck in the mouth, but Tylar tasted the blood. Chrism thrust into her, rough, tearing. Tylar was unprepared. The pain tore his belly, his legs, his groin. She screamed. He screamed.
It stretched endlessly, then the burn of seed spilled into her. He felt it like a wash of fire. It seared through her, through him. They were one. Memories locked.
Raped… by Chrism.
His corrupted seed ate her from the inside. Hollowed her out. All that was once a woman was eaten away. Nothing was left. He felt himself going, too, following.
… NO…
A ring of command shot through him.
… THAT IS NOT YOUR PATH…
The words came from outside, from inside.
… IT IS ECHOES… NOT TO BE FOLLOWED… HERE IS YOUR BODY…
Agony flared anew… a more familiar agony. He knew the break of bones… his bones. He took the pain and claimed it for his own.
… DO NOT LOSE YOUR PATH…
Tylar recognized now the voice of his naethryn daemon.
Vision returned, tunneled and distant.
Corram lunged with a sword, attempting to cut him free. But the naether could not be harmed by mere steel. A lash of Gloom snapped forth, striking Corram in the face. He stumbled back, dropping his sword. He reached for his face. But it was too late. It was already gone.
Corram fell backward, blood pouring from the hollow that was once chin, lips, and nose. He struck the floor, dead.
A dagger flew with deadly accuracy at Mistress Naff’s throat. Thrown by Rogger. But a flow of Gloom turned it to slag in midair. It splattered to the floor. Harmless.
No weapon could pierce the naether tangle.
Save one.
Tylar could not see the Godsword in his hand. But he felt it. The hilt clung to his broken hand, refusing to let go. Tylar willed his body to move, to strike out at the daemon wearing Mistress Naff’s skin, the one who slew Meeryn and won this body. Tylar knew the real woman was long gone. All that was left were shadows and light, meant to trick him, to lure him astray like a will-o’-the-wisp in a dark wood.
Echoes, as his naethryn had claimed.
He struggled to raise the weapon, but he found no strength in his broken limbs. All he had was will. And that wasn’t enough.
Laughter met his struggle.
“We will have the sword… and you,” the daemon promised. A slim arm rose and reached for Rivenscryr. “With it, we will tear open this world, like this shell I wear now, and claim it for our own! We will be free!”
