The Wound of the World

  ALSO BY EDWARD W. ROBERTSON

  THE CYCLE OF ARAWN

  The Cycle of Arawn: The Complete Trilogy

  THE CYCLE OF GALAND

  The Red Sea

  The Silver Thief

  THE BREAKERS SERIES

  Breakers

  Melt Down

  Knifepoint

  Reapers

  Cut Off

  Captives

  Relapse

  Blackout

  Mallon, Gask, and other lands.

  AUTHOR'S NOTE

  This isn't the last book in The Cycle of Galand. When you reach the end and it feels like there's still more story to tell, don't worry.

  There is.

  1

  The half-ruined rear wall of the Reborn Shrine held itself up as best it could. A thousand Colleners kneeled in the hard sunlight, gazes turned down to the ground. Hundreds of Mallish soldiers lay prone on the flagstones, blood staining the geometry of the grout.

  And Dante stood alone.

  The Keeper had declared him a god. The avatar of Arawn, arrived, as prophesied, to fight back the Mallish and free the Collen Basin from centuries of torment. As the Colleners kneeled before him, he could feel the yearning roiling off them like stink off a dog. They needed him. Not just for his skill. But for what he represented: the hope that he might finally break their cycle of warfare, rebellion, and slavery.

  Dante knew two things: first, that he was no avatar. And second, that the Keeper had played him like a reed flute. Jaw clenched so tight he thought his teeth would crease, he turned his gaze on the Keeper. She remained on her knees, but gazed back at him from beneath her white brows. Daring him to undo the moment she had created.

  He wanted to throw it back in her face, spit on the Colleners' prophecy, and walk away. A few years ago, he would have done just that. But he had led the city of Narashtovik through war. He knew what a moment like this meant. The morale of a people galvanized to their cause was more valuable than the finest steel.

  He closed his eyes. "People of Collen! For ages, your future hasn't been your own. Instead, it's been at the mercy of Mallish warmongers. Today, that changes forever."

  He opened his eyes. The crowd had lifted their heads and their eyes shined like lanterns reflected in glass windows.

  "They came to your land with soldiers. Priests. Demons. We've thrown them out, but they will come back, just as they always do—unless you unite today. Unless you dedicate your every act to keeping the enemy at bay. Will you do this? Will you fight back? Will you claim your land for good?"

  "Are you really him?" Hesitantly, a young woman raised her hand. "Are you really…Arawn?"

  The crowd seemed to hold its breath. Dante clenched his fists. "I am just as you see." He drew the nether to him in thin lines, letting it swirl around him like the black streaks of a norren ink-painter lost in manic creation. "And I've had enough."

  The woman made a choking sound. Two others beside her burst into tears. Others thrust up their fists and shouted. At first, their words were a babble, but they soon resolved into a single repeated word.

  "Dante! Dante! Dante!"

  He raised his fist. Their chant doubled in volume. He meant to turn and go, but he stood transfixed, riding their emotion like a boat on the swells. What if Arawn had brought him here? Was it that crazy of an idea? The prophecy was an almost perfect match. He was from Mallon; the Reborn Shrine had been destroyed and (again, technically) rebuilt again, completing its cycle; he'd driven not just an army from Collen, but also destroyed an enormous demon. Yes, the prophecy also said that he'd arrive as an incarnation of Arawn, but what if that was figurative? Wasn't his power with the nether more godlike than mortal?

  He scanned the crowd, testing out a smile. A man was holding up a young child. Dante's eyes locked on the boy's. He was blonder than Blays, with the pale and piercingly blue eyes common to Colleners. Unlike the rapt faces around him, who were awash with eager and unquestioning devotion, the boy regarded Dante with a calm stare, chin pushed up, mouth slightly puckered: the clear expression of doubt.

  Dante laughed dryly. Physically, the boy looked nothing like him, but the emotion on the kid's face was exactly how Dante had so often felt when adults had tried to explain the world to him.

  He was no god. He'd come from the same humble place the boy had. To try to convince himself otherwise was to walk down the same path Gladdic was on.

  "I can help lift you toward your freedom," Dante said. "But only you can reach up and take it."

  He turned his back on the crowd and walked from the square. People murmured questions to each other. Before their uncertainty could fall into fear, the Keeper spoke out, her croaking voice booming through the square.

  Dante didn't bother to listen. He picked his way through the rubble of the shrine, joined by Blays, who was as dirty as Dante was bloody.

  "Where are you off to, Captain God?" Blays stepped over a severed arm. "Got an afternoon miracle to attend?"

  "I'm going to find Naran."

  "When were you planning to tell me about the Keeper's plan to add you to the Celeset?"

  Dante's face flushed with anger. "You think I knew about that?"

  "She pulled that off on her own?"

  "It was a stunt. She used me to fulfill the Colleners' prophecy. In the wake of this, she'll be able to bring the entire basin to her banner."

  "That's a masterstroke of cunning. You'll have to remember that one for the next time you're trying to manipulate someone into war." Blays tilted back his head. "If you didn't know about this, then why did you look so happy about it?"

  Dante strode through a thin puddle of blood. "Want to know the real reason I'm getting out of here? Because if I have to listen to one more of the Keeper's lies, I'll kill her myself."

  He tracked down a servant from the Reborn Shrine and got directions to where Naran was being treated. Dante was too exhausted to run, so as he walked toward the blacksmith's where they had Naran, he got a good look at the state of the city.

  Smoke rose on all sides. Some was from the city burning in the wake of the battle, but other plumes were from cook fires to feed prisoners and refugees starved during the Mallish occupation. The smell of herbed mutton and baking bread mingled with the stink of burning whitewash. The streets were strewn with garbage and debris, most of it so dusty and dingy that it must have been the product of the occupation rather than the day's battle.

  All of the corpses, however, were from that morning. An equal mix of Colleners and Mallish. He looked down on the Mallish with the shallow pity of a commander regarding the enemy's dead grunts. He found that he felt little more than that for the dead Colleners. Because the Keeper had alienated him?

  Or because he'd seen such scenes so often he was beginning to treat them as part of the landscape?

  At the blacksmith's, a pair of Collenese soldiers stood out front, their spear-like wheels planted in the dirt beside them. Recognizing Dante and Blays, the troopers brought them inside. Naran lay on a straw pallet. He appeared to be asleep, but at the sound of footsteps, he popped open a bloodshot eye.

  "You're looking pretty good," Dante said. "Considering that the last time I saw you, you were being buried under an avalanche of rubble."

  Naran looked him up and down. "And you look as though you just finished butchering a herd of cows. They say you destroyed an Andrac as tall as a steeple."

  "He had help," Blays said. "Anyway, don't tell me you've never had to destroy a steeple before. They're not as strong as they look. Mostly because they don't fight back."

  "Where is Gladdic?"

  Dante sighed. "Gladdic used an illusion to make his assistant look like himself. While we chased after the assistant, Gladdic
slipped into the plains. He could have been disguised as anyone."

  "He's escaped. Again." Embers of anger flared in Naran's eyes, but they soon faded. Worn out, he leaned back on his pallet. "Perhaps there is no avenging Captain Twill. Better to go on with our lives than to throw them away by running after a man who can't be killed."

  "He is a man—and that means he's as mortal as the rest of us. Besides, at this point, it isn't just Twill that needs avenging. He slaughtered thousands of innocent Colleners. The only thing that's been saving him is the Andrac. Now that we know how to disperse them, Gladdic's walking out of here in a dead man's boots."

  Naran reopened his eyes, turning them on Blays. "Do you agree with this assessment?"

  "Oh sure," Blays said. "If there's one thing you can always count on Dante to get right, it's killing people."

  Dante kneeled beside the pallet. "He'll have to head back to Bressel to report his failure here. We'll find him, Naran. And when we do, not only will I annihilate his body—but I'll erase the trace of his soul."

  ~

  With his body on the brink of quitting on him, he spent the rest of the day asleep in the third floor of an empty manor. He didn't think Gladdic would send any assassins for him, demonic or otherwise, but he set undead rats to keep watch on the doors and windows. He dreamed of battling the great Andrac again. This time, as he tried to draw its nether to him, it only grew bigger, its mouth widening, the silver light inside it glaring so brightly it burned out his eyes.

  He woke to darkness and singing. He walked out on the front porch. Blays was there already. The people were running through the streets waving burning bundles of wheat stalks which they appeared to be trying to flick against the buttocks of their friends.

  Dante frowned. "Are they trying to set each other on fire? This is a celebration, right?"

  "Looks more like a rebellion against the tyranny of pants." Blays passed him a cup of the local beer.

  Dante took a hefty swallow. "Is there anything weirder than foreign traditions?"

  "Yes, but I've just handed you a cup of the solution to any strangeness." Blays tipped back his own mug. "The Keeper wants to see us. Before we do that, I consider it my moral duty to make sure you don't want to kill her."

  Mention of her name brought Dante's anger thudding into him like a punch. "I'll try to restrain myself. The faster we finish up here, the sooner we can get the hell away."

  He expected the Keeper to be lording it up in the ruins of her shrine, but Blays led him to the carved arches of the immense underground well they'd used to swim in and out of the city. There, the shrine's surviving monks tended to the wounded and the sick, the latter of which were being carted in from every corner of the city. Their gaunt faces and sharp collarbones told the story of the treatment they'd received under Mallish captivity.

  The Keeper met them, nodding stiffly, though that was more a function of her extreme old age than any disrespect. "You have rested. That is good. There is much work to be done."

  Dante laughed humorlessly. "You have no idea. I've been away from my city for months. I'll stay long enough to help heal your people. After that, I'm going to find Gladdic, then return home."

  "You intend to leave?"

  "Unless you've managed to relocate Narashtovik onto the next butte, I have to leave."

  "But you are the chosen one. Prophesied to free the Collen Basin from the shackles of our mutual enemy."

  "Are you sure we read the same prophecy? You're supposed to be freed by Arawn. You've seen me bleed way too much to believe I'm a god."

  "Are you sure you weren't sent by him?"

  "Yes!" Dante threw up his hands. "I came here of my own accord. Do you know what noble intention brought me here? It certainly wasn't to liberate the poor people of the Collen Basin. It was to execute the son of a bitch who killed Mr. Naran's captain."

  "Perhaps that was the step needed to lead you to your true cause. When the gods' minds turn, the world turns with them."

  "I'm walking away, Keeper. If Arawn wants me to stay, he can ask me himself."

  The old woman lifted her head. The rheuminess of her eyes made it hard to see what lurked behind them. "For a man of the gods, you don't have much faith. Yet you put much stock in politics and strife. In that case, don't stay because of a prophecy. Stay because if you go, Collen will fall."

  Blays coughed. "Right now, I expect he'd count that as a positive."

  "Is that so?"

  "You lied to me," Dante said. "Used me as a prop. And now you expect to wear me like a puppet—and for me to smile while your hand's up my ass."

  "So she's heard the rumors, then," Blays said.

  The Keeper rasped with laughter. "How many times have you done the same? I have heard the stories of the Chainbreakers' War, Galand. You used everyone in reach in service of yourself."

  "We fought that war to free the norren!"

  "And it was sheer coincidence that Narashtovik was freed as well. I won't argue what we both know to be true. But I will tell you this: if you don't help us, Mallon will return. And for our defiance, we will be destroyed."

  Dante lifted an eyebrow. "Is that a promise?"

  "Perhaps I should put it in language you understand. Mallon has no love for Narashtovik. There are rumors they intend to repay Samarand's invasion in kind. But they won't dare to make such a move if there is a strong, independent Collen on their doorstop. Especially if our land is indebted to yours, and is happy to threaten their flank if they dispatch an army to the north."

  "So your little scheme helps us both. How considerate of you."

  "The best plans turn those who are indifferent into happy allies."

  "If this was all so reasonable, why didn't you ask me first?"

  "I need my people to believe that this time, things will be different. That we will finally be free. If I had asked your permission to invoke the prophecy, and you had denied me, their resolve would have faltered as soon as the Mallish returned." She met his glare without flinching. "I took the route that would make sure to forge them into steel strong enough to turn aside the coming blow. Would you have done any different?"

  Dante rubbed his eyes, wishing he'd had a second beer before agreeing to see the Keeper. "I need to speak with Blays."

  Without waiting for her permission, he stalked away from the well. Stars twinkled overhead, dazzlingly clear in the cool desert night. Blays strolled along beside him, giving a smile and a nod to everyone he passed.

  Dante stopped in the shadow of one of the rune-carved stone posts. The smell of fresh water wafted from the well. "What do you think?"

  "I think if you're bothering to ask my opinion, then you've already decided to change your mind about going home."

  "What she's saying makes sense. Especially the idea of establishing Collen as a buffer between us and Mallon."

  "Yet you don't want to accept it. Because you're so mad at her that you're tempted to set fire to Collen yourself."

  "Not only that, but even if I were convinced it was in our interests to help, we've already been here for weeks. It feels like every time we're ready to leave, some new emergency draws us back in. Where does it end?"

  Blays shrugged. "When you're out playing a game of thunders, when does that end?"

  "When you run out of coins. Or everyone else does."

  "Pretend for a moment you're not an utter degenerate, and in a much further leap of imagination, that you have a wife. When you're out gambling, how do you avoid running into trouble with her?"

  "By setting a limit on how much I can afford to lose," Dante said. "Or on what time I need to be home by."

  "So here you are, playing thunders with Collen and Mallon. Back home, your wife—that would be Narashtovik—is starting to get worried. Soon, her worry will become annoyance. How long can you afford to stay out before she uses the window to introduce your belongings to the street?"

  "It's just like gambling, isn't it? You lose ten chucks, and in trying to get them back, you chase t
hem with ten more. When those run dry, you throw out ten more. Soon enough, you've lost everything. Unless you set a limit."

  Even after reaching this conclusion, his spite was such that he was still tempted to walk away into the darkness, never to set foot in the Collen Basin again. He might have done so if not for the hundreds of sick and injured people crowding around the well. Had the Keeper chosen to meet in this location because she was tending to the casualties?

  Or because she knew that, seeing the citizens like this, Dante couldn't help but imagine how much worse it would be if Mallon struck back?

  He'd built Narashtovik to be strong. It could last a little longer in his absence. He walked back to the Keeper, hand resting on the hilt of his sword.

  "You have decided," she said.

  "It's autumn already," he said. "Mallon won't have time to mount more than one attack before winter ends the campaign season. We'll help until the first lasting snow. After that, Collen's on its own."

  2

  After the Keeper's manipulation, agreeing to continue aiding her tasted as bitter as a fresh-plucked Gallador tea leaf. But the dose of comfort that came with making a decision was even more bracing than the effects of the lakeland's leaves. Consolidating the Collen Basin's resistance against Mallon wasn't only strategically wise, it was morally sound. If Dante could set aside his anger, in a few years, he would look back on this decision with pride.

  "I am grateful for your assistance," the Keeper said. "Yet by the time the lasting snows come to Collen, the Dundens will be locked beneath a blizzard. You won't be able to cross into Gask until spring. It would be safer to remain here."

  Dante rolled his eyes. "Don't even try it."

  "I'm not suggesting you spend the extra time waging war on the Mallish. As you said, after the snows, the campaigning season will be over."

  "We've crossed through the Woduns," Blays said. "Compared to that, getting over the Dundens is about as hard as hopping over a turd in the street."