Please—
'Do what a friend would do. And free yourself, if I am to be so presumptuous as to offer you a gift in return. We must end this.'
He shook his head, seeking to deny everything. Coward! Strike him down now! Drag him away from here – far away – he
will return to consciousness recalling none of this. I can lead him away, in some other direction, and we can be as we were, as we always have been—
'Rise, please, the others await us.'
The Trell had not realized he was on the ground, curled tight. He tasted blood in his mouth.
'Rise, Mappo. One last task.'
Firm, strong hands helped him climb to his feet. He tottered as if drunk or fevered.
'Mappo, I cannot call you friend otherwise.'
'That,' the Trell gasped, 'was unfair—'
'Aye, it seems I must make you what I seem to be. Let anger be the iron of your resolve. Leave no room for doubt – you were ever too sentimental, Trell.'
Even your attacks with words are kindly said. Ah, gods, how can I do this?
'The others are deeply shaken by what they have seen – what shall we tell them?'
Mappo shook his head. Still a child in so many ways, Icarium. They know.
'Come along now. My home awaits this prodigal return.'
'It had to come,' Fiddler said as they arrived. Mappo studied each of them in turn and saw the knowledge plainly writ, in every hue. Iskaral Pust's wizened face was twisted in a febrile grin – fear, anticipation and a host of other emotions only he could explain, had he been willing. Apsalar seemed to have set aside whatever sympathy she felt, and now eyed Icarium as if gauging a potential opponent; her uncertainty at her own ability showed for the first time. There was resignation in Rellock's eyes, all too aware of the threat to his daughter. Crokus alone seemed immune to the knowledge, and Mappo once again wondered at the certainty the young man seemed to have discovered within himself. As if the lad admires Icarium – but what part of the Jhag does he admire?
They stood on a hill, the roots chaotic underfoot. Some ancient creature lies imprisoned beneath us. All these hills . . . Ahead, the landscape changed, the roots rising in narrow ridges to create thick walls, forming corridors in a sprawling, wild maze. Some of the roots within the walls seemed to be moving. Mappo's gaze narrowed as he studied that ceaseless motion.
'Make no efforts to save me,' Icarium announced, 'should Tremorlor seek to take me. Indeed, assist those efforts in any way you can—'
'Fool!' Iskaral Pust crowed. 'The Azath needs you first! Tremorlor risks a cast of the knuckles that even Oponn would quail at! Desperation! A thousand Soletaken and D'ivers are converging! My god has done all he can, as have I! And who will thank us? Who will acknowledge our sacrifice? You must not fail us now, horrid Jhag!'
Grimacing, Icarium turned to Mappo. 'I shall defend the Azath – tell me, can I fight without. . . without that burning rage?'
'You possess a threshold,' the Trell conceded. But oh so near.
'Hold yourself back,' Fiddler said, checking his crossbow. 'Until the rest of us have done all we can do.'
'Iskaral Pust,' Crokus snapped. 'That includes not just you, but your god—'
'Hah! You would command us? We have brought the players together – no more can be asked—'
The Daru closed on the High Priest, a knife-point flashing to rest lightly against Pust's neck. 'Not good enough,' he said. 'Call your god, damn you. We need more help!'
'The risks—'
'Are greater if you just stand back, dammit! What if Icarium kills the Azath?'
Mappo held his breath, astonished at how deeply Crokus understood the situation.
There was silence.
Icarium stepped back, shaken.
Oh yes, friend, you possess such power.
Iskaral Pust blinked, gaped, then shut his mouth with a snap. 'Unforeseen,' he finally whimpered. 'All that would be freed ... oh, my! Release me now.'
Crokus stepped back, sheathing his knife.
'Shadowthrone ... uh ... my worthy Lord of Shadow ... is thinking. Yes! Thinking furiously! Such is the vastness of his genius that he can outwit even himself!' The High Priest's eyes widened and he spun to face the forest behind them.
A distant howl sounded from the wood.
Iskaral Pust smiled.
'I'll be damned,' Apsalar muttered. 'I didn't think he had it in him.'
Five Hounds of Shadow emerged from the wood like a loping pack of wolves, though each was as tall as a pony. To mock all things natural, the pale, sightless Hound named Blind led the way. Her mate Baran ran behind and to her right. Gear and Shan followed in rough flanking positions. The pack's leader, Rood, sauntered in their wake.
