Chapters (39)
- Title Page
- Copyright Notice
- PROLOGUE
- ONE
- TWO
- THREE
- FOUR
- FIVE
- SIX
- SEVEN
- EIGHT
- NINE
- TEN
- ELEVEN
- TWELVE
- THIRTEEN
- FOURTEEN
- FIFTEEN
- SIXTEEN
- SEVENTEEN
- EIGHTEEN
- NINETEEN
- TWENTY
- TWENTY-ONE
- TWENTY-TWO
- TWENTY-THREE
- TWENTY-FOUR
- TWENTY-FIVE
- TWENTY-SIX
- TWENTY-SEVEN
- TWENTY-EIGHT
- TWENTY-NINE
- THIRTY
- THIRTY-ONE
- THIRTY-TWO
- TOR BOOKS BY JACQUELINE CAREY
- PRAISE FOR JACQUELINE CAREY
- GODSLAYER
- Copyright Page
In a strange way, it felt good. His muscles quivered in agony at the strain, but it was a simple pain and one he understood. The Water of Life, the lifeblood of Urulat, coursed in his veins and he had never felt more hale or alive. There was no mystery here, only the body’s strength, pitted against the sheer rockface. At the third tier of gouges his scrambling feet found purchase. Wedging his booted toes into the lowest holes, Tanaros clung to the cistern wall and caught his breath, letting his legs take his weight.
After that, it was simply a matter of climbing.
It took long hours, and there were times when his fingers ached and his muscles quivered and he could do nothing but press his face to the rock and wait for the trembling to pass, longing only to let go, to let himself fall, plunging into the deep cistern below. Easy, so easy! But he was Tanaros Blacksword, one of the Three, and he would not give up that easily. Inch by inch, he climbed, tenacious as any spider to scale the Defile’s walls. Above him, the disk of sunlight broadened, the quality of the light slanting and changing as the sun moved in its circuit westward.
At length his searching hand found no gouge where it reached, only a lip of rough-hewn stone. His fingertips scrabbled, catching a grip. Remembering the taste of the Water of Life in his mouth, Tanaros drew his right leg up beneath him, finding a foothold. Pushing hard and heaving with both arms, he cleared the lip of the well. His head emerged in open air and he shoved hard against the foothold, the rest of his body following as he tumbled over the edge, armor clattering against rock.
“Lord General!” A relieved shout in an unmistakable Midlander accent greeted his arrival. “Am I glad to see you!”
Tanaros found his feet and stood.
The setting sun was as red as blood, flooding the desert with a sanguine hue. He stood atop a promontory of rock situated in the center of a dry basin. Arrayed around its perimeter were standing stones, two and three times the height of a man, casting stark shadows on the sand. Within the circle were other figures, human and Fjel alike, set in a strange tableau.
“Speros!” Tanaros shaded his eyes, unreasoningly glad to see the Midlander alive. “How did you come here? Who are these people?”