Then he lunges. The point of his sword pierces my gut.
The world narrows to a tunnel of pain.
No song, no sound, no fear.
Just pain. World-altering. Life-ending.
I stare down at that blade, at the place where it enters my flesh. It seems unreal. As though this moment cannot be happening to me.
I lift my face. Look up into those black-streaming eyes.
There is nothing of Taar there. Only death.
His lips twist. A voice that does not belong to him spits out gobs of blackness to spatter over my face as he snarls: “Pour out blood unto me.”
Then he rips the sword from my belly, and I collapse into the clutching arms of agonized oblivion.
36
TAAR
“Pour out blood unto me.”
The voice of darkness blocks out all song, catching it in its depths and rendering it null.
There is no room in this space of violence and rage and pulsing hunger for the light of soulfire, for the glory of songlight.
And yet . . .
And yet a delicate filament winds its way through my mind. A single strand, so bright by comparison to the hideous darkness, my awareness cannot help being drawn to it. A voice calls to me along that thread, a faint vibration which my ears can only just discern. A voice I have not heard in far too long.
Taar.
Taar.
For a moment I see her before me—an angelicbeing, shining with brilliant light. Small, perhaps, but fiery, valiant, appearing to my eyes as though through parting clouds of black, poisonous fumes. At the sight of her I feel a surge of raw hatred, and I do not know if it belongs to me or to the force moving through me. I know only that this song, which sings of my salvation, is the last thing I want. My heart longs for vengeance, for blood spilled at my feet, bathing my hands, my face. Then it longs for death and, ultimately, damnation. Ah, yes! That is what I crave more than anything now.
“Give me to drink, Taarthalor.”
I draw back my sword. Even in madness, the skill of my arm remains. My first blow is blocked, my second is countered, but the third strikes home, drives deep into that angelic being. Cutting off that hateful song. The hot gush of life goes out from her, flowing over me like a flood.
Then, just for a moment, a voice sings into my mind:Ilsevel!
It isn’t my own voice—it belongs to another. And yet, somehow, it is closer to me than my own skin. A voice of soul, twined deeply with mine, but set apart from this madness pulsing through me.
Vellar! What have you done?
I blink, confused. Red, searing light erupts on the edges of my vision, driving back the suffocating darkness. I shake my head, and my gaze seems to clarify. I see, not an angelic figure standing before me, but a woman. Her eyes wide, staring into mine. Her mouth parted in a silent scream of shock, of pain.
My sword protrudes from her gut.
“T—Taar?” she whispers, a little, shuddering breath.
And in my mind, my own voice answers:Zylnala?
A roar of pure fury draws my gaze. I turn to see my enemy bearing down on me. The black haze returns, clouding my mind. I yank my sword free, leave that woman to collapse into her agony, and turn to defend myself. Even as virulium pulses through me, even as that little space of understanding resists, screaming:No, no, no! What have you done? What have you done? Ilsevel! Zylnala!
Noxaurian monsters surround me, eager to swarm my enemy, to tear him apart. The Shadow King retreats and crouches over the body of the fallen woman, a protective wall against that flood of menace. I melt into the fray, vanishing amid the berserker madness. Though the darkness still urges me to fight, to rend, to tear and destroy, a strange, cold numbness takes over my limbs. In another moment I’ll collapse.
