Chapter 35

Hall of Emperors, the Chaldar

On the northern coast of Hith’s Cauldron, the halls of the gnomes vomited smoke high into the night-black sky. Every now and then, a tongue of fire licked out of one of the many windows and gates, flashing blood-red in the gloom. The cries of the dying had long since stopped, an awful silence settling over Ilmach’s burning ruins. The fire minions reveled, feasting on the minoi and their works. Machinery melted, metal twisting and splitting in the unholy heat. Libraries became raging storms of flame.

Elsewhere, along the coast of the Tiderun, fishing boats tried to outrun a fleet of black ships with gray sails. But the larger vessels were made for war and easily overran the tubs, smashing them to pieces and drowning their crews as they bore down on the village of Kharto, a sleepy cluster of huts in a cove on the easternmost edge of the strait. The setting sun made the waters seem bathed in blood. Along Kharto’s wharf, men and minotaurs scrambled as war drums rolled. Most folk of fighting age had gone south from the village months earlier to join the wars, both before Emperor Rekhaz took the throne and after his murder, but perhaps thirty still remained.

They weren’t enough; a hundred times as many wouldn’t have been able to withstand what was coming. The Kheten Voi gathered into ranks upon the ships’ decks, staring at the city in emotionless anticipation. As the first arrows shot by Kharto’s defenders glanced off their stone bodies, they leaped over the gunwales and sank beneath the waves. Moving as one, with eerie precision, they settled to the harbor’s bottom then began to slog through the silt toward dry land. In less than an hour, Kharto would be in ruins, its people dead, and Aurim’s new army would have its first victory.

Maladar sat upon his dragon-horn throne, eyes shut, his sight venturing far across Taladas. It had begun. He smiled at the promise of conquest, of his enemies scattered and broken and begging to join his reborn empire. He would allow them… some of them, anyway. But first, there was another matter to see to.

He shifted his gaze, drawing back across the Burning Sea to look down upon the Chaldar from without. There, at the base of the tower, the gates were flung wide. Standing before them, alone amid the grandeur of the black city, were three tiny figures.

Three. Not one.

His sentinels had failed, then. The minions and the Voi had both been under strict orders: kill everyone aboard the gnomish fireship except for Barreth Forlo’s son. They had slaughtered the minoi and slain the centaur—he saw the horse-man’s body, lying in a sad and huddled heap not far from Aurim’s north shore—but the others had survived. The Uigan and the elf, the damned elf who had troubled him since the Brethren and their servants first picked up the Hooded One’s trail at Blood Eye. There was a stubborn one. He would make sure she felt as much pain as possible when he killed her.

He watched through his spell as they entered, tapping his fingers on the arm of his throne. His gaze followed them, invisibly, across the foyer of his palace and on toward the tall, broad stairs that led up to where he waited. The steps wound around and around the inside of the Chaldar, all the way to the top. They would be an hour or more climbing the winding stairs. Once he saw their ascent had begun, he left them to it, his mind pulling back to his body. His eyes flicked open.

Since the boy was near, he could sense him as clearly as a candle flame on a starless night. It was a strange sensation, his soul sharing two bodies. He could see only through Barreth Forlo’s eyes and hear through his ears, but he could feel two hearts beat at once and breathed the brimstone-heavy air with two sets of lungs. The closer the other half of him got, the more those curious feelings grew.

His weakness could not be clearer. Had he been whole, he could have reached out and destroyed the intruders in his domain with the merest thought. He could have flayed them alive, as he had done to the Seven Swords the day he died, long ago. This time, though, he couldn’t. The boy wouldn’t let him, was resisting him, his power creating a shell of safety around his friends that Maladar couldn’t penetrate.

My power, Maladar thought, furious. He’s just a vessel with no more innate sorcery in his blood than either of his parents. He uses my own strength against me!

He had to concentrate, center himself, make the anger abate. Let the boy wield the magic. Let him think he had the power. He would see, soon enough. They would all see. And they would weep to wish they hadn’t.

He stood before the throne, watching the doorway, waiting for them to emerge. It was strange to think it had come to that—not armies clashing upon a battlefield, or a violent battle with a legion of wizards, just three wretched people, winding their way up an almost endless stair, alone, and him waiting for them, to make himself whole again, to come into his full power and begin his reign anew.

He felt Hith’s presence, a cold wind rushing through the room of solid flame. He saw the god watching him, the red-skinned creature in its black armor, eyes smoldering like coals. Hith said nothing, only nodded slightly, then turned to shadow and vanished. Even the god refused to meddle in what was coming. Destiny hung thick in the air.

My empire, Maladar thought. Oh, beautiful Aurim, kingdom of kingdoms. Soon your glory will return. You will soar, and the whole world will tremble before your might. Who will stand against you? Who?

No one.

Time passed. The second heartbeat in his breast grew stronger. His whole body tingled. He licked his lips and brought his fingers up to them, steepled together. He could hear footsteps upon the stairs… slow, halting, tired. He trembled as he stood before the throne.

Then the doors swung open, and the boy came in, his companions by his sides. The two heartbeats became a single pulse. A smile of triumph curling his lips, Maladar stepped forward to greet his other half.

My son. My son. My son.

Forlo felt his mind tearing in half. The figure at the far end of the throne room was no boy, not even a young man. No, he was old, older than Forlo himself, older than his father had been when age and a bad heart killed him. His long hair ran to gray and was moving on to silver. Lines creased his face, and he moved stiffly, his joints troubling him.

His boy, less than a year old, his life run almost to the end of its course.

There, too, were Hult and Shedara—both weary and soot-smeared—staring in shock at him, Maladar, with Forlo’s face and body. That they had survived their long quest, only to die there, broke Forlo’s heart.

Essana wasn’t there. Either she was dead, as he feared, or she had decided the road to him was too dangerous. He didn’t know what to make of her absence, and he couldn’t ask. He forced his mind away from her, back to the three who were, even then, crossing the floor of the throne room. They stopped on the far side of the ornamental pool, with its darting flame-fish.

“Welcome,” said Maladar, sweeping his hand to encompass the whole chamber. “You are the first to seek audience in my rebuilt hall. I trust it is to your liking?”

“I would rather be in a swineherd’s hovel,” Hult replied. He folded his scarred arms, looking around. “It would not stink so badly.”

Maladar nodded. “Defiant to the last. You Uigan never change. This time, though, your kind will not best me.”

Hult frowned. Shedara stepped forward, her chin held high. “You won’t win this fight, Maladar,” she said. “We’ve come a long way to find you. We’ve watched a lot of good people die along the way. And you won’t be—”

She moved so quickly, Forlo didn’t even realize it until it was done. In midsentence she flicked both wrists, slapping knives into her hands and hurling them as part of the same motion. The two blades spun end over end, directly toward Forlo’s heart, each a killing throw.

Yet no sooner than Shedara started moving, so did Maladar. His hand came up, fingers splayed as the daggers left her hands. He spoke a word, and Nuvis’s power flowed through him, then out his fingertips as a glowing green orb. It flashed toward the whirling knives and made a metallic, shrieking noise when they met. With a flare of foul light, both the orb and the daggers vanished, leaving only a puff of dust hanging in the air.

Shedara stared, her hands still extended from the throw. It took a moment for what had just happened to sink in; then she slumped, sighing.

Maladar sneered. “Stupid girl. You really thought that would work?”

“No.” She shrugged, a trace of a smile ghosting her lips. “But I had to try, didn’t I?”

Maladar’s hand rose again, his fingers working quickly. Black moonlight shot out in a torrent that spilled through the air like ink through water. Shedara had time enough to open her mouth and let out the beginning of an alarmed cry before the spell engulfed her.

It was a spell of torment, devised to cause extraordinary agony before death. When the flow ended, Shedara ought to have been nothing but a mummified corpse, twisted on the fiery floor. But she wasn’t: the black magic broke around her, and when it cleared, she stood in the same spot, unscathed, the air around her shining like mist in the sunlight. Forlo’s son stood beside her, one hand touching her shoulder. The mist swirled around him as well, slowly fading into the air.

“That didn’t work very well either,” Shedara said, still smiling.

Maladar uttered a wordless snarl, eyes flicking from elf to Uigan. Hult drew his curved sword and held it low, a stance Forlo knew well. Shedara shook her head, waving him off.

“Not yet,” she said. “You won’t get near him.”

Hult gave no reply, except for a deepening of the crease between his brows. But he didn’t move, either. It was enough to satisfy Shedara; planting her hands on her hips, she turned her attention back to Maladar.

“Face it: what we have here is a stalemate,” she declared. “We can keep playing this game if you want until we’ve all run through every spell and trick we know. Or we can work this out another way.”

“What other way?” Maladar demanded. “There is only one thing I want from this. Him.”

They all looked at Forlo’s con. He met Maladar’s gaze, and the air blazed like lightning. Forlo felt Maladar shudder inside him and sensed the force that bound the two parts of his soul together. It was like an invisible cord, running from his body to his son’s and back again, back and forth and back and forth without end.

“This body will not avail you, Maladar,” the old man said. He held his arms outstretched to either side. “It fares worse than the one you now wear.”

Fury shot through Forlo’s mind: Maladar hadn’t expected the boy to be so old, so decrepit. After a moment, however, the anger subsided, yielding to cold, glittering malice.

“The body does not concern me. It is only a shell,” Maladar said. “I will take another—the Uigan’s, perhaps. You know full well what I desire. It has nothing to do with the flesh in which it dwells. Now… come.”

The cord between Maladar and Azar flared bright, then tightened. Forlo felt it yank at his flesh as it drew taut, but the pull on the old man was stronger. With a grunt of surprise, he stumbled forward. His eyes widened as he tried to resist but found he couldn’t. The power was too great. He took a second step, then a third, and soon he was on the bridge that led across the pool to the dragon-horn throne.

Maladar smiled, pulling him forward. “Yes,” he said. “You will obey me. You have no choice. Come closer. There is so much we must share.”

“Azar, no!” Shedara shouted, reaching for him. When she touched his arm, however, a noise like a thunderclap filled the throne room, and she fell back, staggering and dropping to her knees. Her hand smoldered.

So that’s his name, Forlo thought as his son was jerked toward him like a Thenolite corpse-warrior, no longer in control of his own body. Azar: it was a Rainward name. The cord brightened, tightened, pulling him on. The old man who was Forlo’s son fought and struggled, but couldn’t keep from moving.

Hult made his move, scimitar rising for a hard cross-stroke as he charged. He wasn’t aiming at Maladar, though, but at Azar. The sword rose high, then came hacking down toward the old man’s neck. It whistled toward flesh, a blow that surely would have taken off his head, but it didn’t. Instead, Azar twisted at the last instant and clapped his hands, catching the blade between them. Then he and Maladar both spoke a single, mind-piercing word, and Hult flew through the air as if a catapult had flung him. He hit the floor thirty feet away and lay there, clutching his ribs, too stunned to move.

Azar still held Hult’s sword, pressed between his palms. He stared at it, his brows knitting.

“This was how you thought to best me?” Maladar scoffed. He glared at Hult, who was trying to push back to his feet, and Shedara, who was nursing her injured hand and had a look on her face as if she’d just been run through with a spear. “You brought him to me! You have handed me my victory. It is over, and nothing any of you can do will stop it!”

“Nothing?” Azar replied. “Do not be so sure.”

He smiled… and drove Hult’s scimitar through his own throat.

No! Forlo thought.

“No!” Shedara cried.

“NO!” shrieked Maladar.

Only Hult stayed quiet, watching in grave silence as bright red blood shot from Azar’s throat. Already the light in the old man’s eyes was fading. He pulled the sword from the wound and released it, letting it clatter onto the bridge. His leather breastplate turned crimson.

Forlo felt his body moving, Maladar driving forward as his son dropped to his knees. The cord between them turned the color of rust and began to fray, faster and faster. Maladar dragged himself along its length, trying to reach the old man before it came apart altogether… and made it, just as the last withered strands were straining, ready to snap. He seized Azar by the shoulders, pulled him up, shook him. Blood splattered everywhere.

“No, you won’t,” growled Maladar, pulling in Nuvis’s power and forcing it into Azar. “You won’t rob me so easily.”

He yanked on the cord with all his might. It pulled taut, and something started to emerge from Azar’s dying form. It was a glittering apparition, a shadowy ghost without a face. Maladar’s soul. He was ripping it out of Forlo’s son, by force.

Azar looked up, his eyes dull amid a face so white it might never have seen the sun. Forlo’s heart broke to see that face, then broke again at the sound of his son’s raspy voice, ruined by the scimitar’s blade.

“I am sorry, Father,” Azar said. Blood spilled from his mouth in a long, thick strand. “I did what I could.”

My son, Forlo thought, shaking with rage and grief.

“Father,” Azar gurgled. His head drooped, his knees buckled. At the same moment, Maladar’s soul tore free, and Azar’s body toppled into the pool.

“I have it!” Maladar howled, pulling the specter of his other half toward him. “I have it! Aurim will rise again! All Taladas will—”

Rage came over Forlo, such a fury as he’d never felt before: not when the dragon took Essana, not when he killed Rekhaz, not even when he fought the Faceless Brethren. Their child was dead. His son was dead. His only son was dead. And Maladar was to blame.

With all his might, he pushed.

Distracted by what he was doing to the part of him that was Azar, the part of Maladar’s soul that dwelt in Forlo didn’t realize what was happening until it was too late. It howled, tried to push back, and clutched and clawed at Forlo’s mind, but Forlo’s anger and sorrow were too strong. With a lung-bursting bellow, he shoved Maladar out of his pitiful body.

He saw them together, twin ghosts linked by a frayed cord of magic, floating in the air between him and the place where Azar had fallen. Then, mercifully, blackness crawled over him and made it all go away.