“On their way, boss.” One of the Gulnagel pointed past the open door toward the outer gates, where the columns were making their way toward their deep-hewn barracks. He shook himself like a dog, shedding water. Slow, dark blood oozed from pockmarks in his yellowish hide. “This is no good, though, even for Fjel.”

“No,” Vorax said, wincing at the sight “It’s not.” Outside, angry thunder pealed. One of the Mørkhar fingered a carved talisman, leathery lips moving in a whispered prayer. “You, lad,” Vorax said to him. Tanaros would have known his name; he didn’t. For the first time, he felt bad about the fact. “Take me to his Lordship.”

“Aye, Lord Vorax.” The Mørkhar stowed his figurine. “This way, sir.”

It felt like a long walk, longer than usual. Ushahin’s madlings were in hiding, and there were only the empty halls of Darkhaven, veins of marrow-fire pulsing with agitation in the gleaming black walls. Vorax felt his own pulse quicken in accord, his heart constricting. Ah, Neheris-of-the-Leaping-Waters, he thought, Have pity on your Children, and those who have dwelled alongside them! We mean no harm, no, not to you. This is your brother Haomane’s quarrel.

There was no answer, of course. For ages beyond counting, no Shaper had ever answered the prayers of mortal kind save Lord Satoris. Distant and remote on Torath, they bent their wills to Haomane’s pride, while on the face of Urulat, Lord Satoris fought against a dark tide of pain, and kept his promises to all who honored him.

There was only the journey, and its ending, where the towering iron doors of the Throne Hall had been flung apart, standing open as if onto a vast furnace. The diorama of the Shapers’ War was split wide open, separating Lord Satoris from the Six Shapers. Beyond lay a maelstrom of darkness and a throbbing red light, source of the infernal pull, beckoning to him like a lodestone.

Godslayer, Vorax thought, his mouth going dry. He’s taken it from the Font.

The Havenguard on duty saluted, hands clutched firm on the hafts of their battle-axes. Fjel seldom looked nervous, but these two did. “Lord Vorax,” one acknowledged him, deep-set eyes glittering in the light of the marrow-fire. “Be wary. He is wroth.”