We plunge into the churning mass of Noxaurian berserkers, making for the barrier wall.
34
TAAR
Three morleth riders land, dismount, and close in on Elydark. They drive big stakes into the ground to secure him. Even now, reduced in flame though he may be, they are afraid to approach, afraid of his terrible power. Noxaurians pouring through the barrier throw themselves at the stone-armored figures, but are batted away, their attacks too erratic to be effective.
All this I observe with strangely cool detachment from where I lie upon the ground. My hand is already moving, though I’ve not yet made a conscious decision. My fingers reach into the pouch at my belt, close around the glass vial there.
I am weak. Much too weak. I cannot help Elydark. I cannot save him.
But I know who can.
“Give me to drink, Taarthalor.”
The virulium burns as it slides down my throat and erupts in my gut in an explosion of dark fury.
In the next breath I am on my feet, blade in hand. Darkness overwhelms my vision, and I see nothing but the beating hearts of my enemies, hear nothing but the pulse of blood in their veins. I thirst for that blood. I will have it. I will feast upon it.
They do not see me coming. I am not some berserker Noxaurian, too far gone in the poison, all chaotic destruction without thought. No: I am of singular purpose, honed in on my prey. I am upon the first of the trolde warriors before any of them are aware of my coming. I do not use my sword on the first victim, but reach out and, with the strength of hell itself pulsing through me, snap his neck. A single, short cry of pain erupts from his lips, then he falls at my feet.
I am already turning, lunging, driving myvaritartwo-fisted, straight into the face of a second troll. The fire-honed steel pierces through the back of his stone helmet. I yank it out with supernatural speed and strength, whirl on my heels, and cut through the third trolde, slicing him in half, through armor, through hide, through gut and spine.
Then I turn to Elydark and begin hacking at thatchaeoranet, cutting at the resistant fibers, determined to set him free. I hear his song, feeble and distant, trying to penetrate the darkness of the poison roaring in my brain, but it makes no sense. The onlyvoice that matters is that one which screams incessantly:“Give me to drink! Pour out blood unto me!”
Some instinct alerts me to approaching danger. Whirling, I face the Shadow King as he bears down upon me with his crystal blade upraised. Baring my teeth, I lunge at him, faster than I was before and stronger too. My blade hacks and cleaves, and he struggles now to parry me, his own great strength not so dominant as it was before. I feel the edge of his sword slice across my ribcage, but it doesn’t matter. There is no room for pain inside me, only rage. Many Noxaurians close in around us, a wall of screaming madness. I glory in their screams, glory in the insanity of pure blindness.
My blade catches the Shadow King’s wrist, cuts through his bracer and jars the sword from his hand. Rather than lunge to reclaim it, he leaps at me, plants both hands against my chest, and sends me flying backwards through the air.
I’m up again in a flash, my body vibrating. Now I too leave rational thought behind as the poison drags me down deeper and deeper. I feel the rightness of this moment, the absolute inevitability of the fate I have so long sought to elude. Shanaera was right. She was right all along. This is what I am meant for. This is the truth which has lurked in the depths of my heart so long, seeking only opportunity to escape.
I am a child of Carnage, and unto Carnage will I pay all homage.
A roar bursts from my chest, spewing black bile in a fountain’sgush over my chin. Hefting my blade, I charge at my prey, determined to end him, to gut him. To make a sacrifice worthy of my only god.
“Pour out blood unto me.”
I hear.
And I will obey.
35
ILSEVEL
Sylcatha drives her licorneir through the Noxaurians. They are wild with battle frenzy, their black-streaked faces like a demon host surrounding me. Bile pours from their eyes and mouths, and their long teeth gnash with insatiable hunger for flesh-tearing and bone-crunching. When I look at them, I see Taar again . . . Taar as he was on that terrible night, when he succumbed to virulium poison in his blood and nearly lost himself to the rage. I’d sung him back then. I don’t know if I can do it again, not hearttorn as I am.
Please, gods, don’t let him take it!
Kyrsidar cannot burst into battleflame with me on her back. This makes her progress more difficult, for the Noxaurians do not fear her as they should. But Sylcatha rides her nimbly through the throng, dodging and avoiding stray blows from those monsters,who would just as happily tear into their allies as they would any foe. The bond between licorneir and rider is profound, and the two of them work together as a single unit, their song perfectly entwined, their bodies synchronized. It’s a beautiful thing to witness, and were I not in such desperate fear, I would admire their harmony. As it is, I’m desperately staring ahead through the barrier, searching for Elydark’s red flame. I cannot find it. Has it gone out? No, surely not. I will not believe it.
There’s a break in the barrier up ahead. So narrow the Noxaurians cannot fit through and have abandoned it. But I think I can slip inside, if we can just reach it. “There, Sylcatha!” I cry, pointing.
Sylcatha changes her licorneir’s path without a word, and we make for that gap. She hacks another Noxaurian and another after that. There are so many of them, the damnable beasts. One grabs my leg, and I kick viciously, screaming, “Get off!”I don’t have any song to offer, but my gods-gifted voice lashes the broken dissonance in my soul like a whip. It sends the Noxaurian flying backwards, knocking several of his brethren over as he goes. I need to remember that little trick.
“No,” Sylcatha growls suddenly behind me. Then she utters a terrible moan. “No,no!”
In the same instant I see what she has already seen: a smoldering licorneir, trapped under chaeora netting. Tangled up in the fibers with her beast, body bleeding from innumerable wounds—Chief Lathaira.
