Banewreaker

by Jacqueline Carey

  “General.” Hyrgolf trudged back to his side, stolidly unafraid of the heights. “Ulfreg says they captured a Man in the Defile, two days past. One of your kind, they think. He made it as far as the Weavers’ Gulch. They took him to the dungeons.”

  “Aracus!” Cerelinde breathed, her face lighting with hope.

  It struck him like a blow; he hadn’t believed, before now, that the Lady of the Ellylon could love a Son of Altorus. “Not likely,” Tanaros said sourly, watching the light die in her lovely face. “He’d have been killed thrice over. Dreamspinner?”

  Ushahin, huddled out of the wind with his mount’s flank pressed to the cliff wall, shrugged. “Not one of mine, cousin. I alert the tries when a madling comes. Those with wits to seek shelter have already fled the coming storm.” He touched the case that held the Helm of Shadows with delicate, crooked fingers. “Do you want me to scry his thoughts?”

  “No.” Tanaros shook his head. “Time enough in Darkhaven.”

  Onward they continued, winding through the Defile. After the first peak, the path widened. The Kaldjager continued to lope ahead, scouting. Periodically, one would depart from the path to scale a crag, jamming sharp talons on fist and foot into sheer rock, scrambling with four-limbed ease. There they would perch, yellow eyes glinting, exchanging calls of greeting with the Tordenstem sentries, who replied in booming tones.

  Hyrgolf explained it to Cerelinde with Fjel patience.

  “ … worked together, you see, Lady. Used to be the Tordenstem—Thunder Voices, you call them—would herd game for the Cold Hunters, driving them to the kill. They’d flee the sound, you see, and there would be plenty for all. When your folk invaded the Midlands, they did the same. It worked, too.”

  Her face was pinched. “You herded my people to slaughter.”

  “Well.” Hyrgolf scratched the thick hide on his neck, nonplussed. “Aye, Lady. You could see it as such. The Battle of Neherinach. But your folk, your grandsire’s sons and the like, were the ones brought the swords.”

  “You sheltered the Sunderer!”

  Cerelinde’s voice, raised, bounced off the walls of the Defile, clear and anguished. A sound like bells chiming, an Ellylon voice, such as had not been heard within a league of Darkhaven for ten centuries and more. The Kaldjager crouched yellow-eyed in the heights, and the Tordenstem were silent.

  “Aye, Lady,” Hyrgolf said simply, nodding. “We did. We gave shelter to Lord Satoris. He was a Shaper, and he asked our aid. We made a promise and kept it.”

  He left her, then, trudging to the head of the line, a broad figure moving on a narrow path, pausing here and there to exchange a word with his Fjel. Tanaros, who had listened, waited until they rounded a bend, bringing his mount alongside hers when there was room enough for two to ride abreast. Side by side they rode, bits and stirrups jangling faintly. The horses of Darkhaven exchanged wary glances, snuffled nostrils, and continued. The Lady Cerelinde sat upright in the saddle and stared straight ahead, her profile like a cut gem.

  “I do not understand,” she said at length, stiffly.

  “Cerelinde.” Tanaros tasted her name. “Every story has two sides. Yours the world knows, for the Ellylon are poets and singers unsurpassed, and their story endures. Who in Urulat has ever listened to the Fjeltroll’s side of the tale?”

  “You blame us.” Cerelinde glanced at him, incredulous. “You blame us! Look at them, Tanaros. Look at him.” She pointed at the Fjel Thorun, marching in front of them in stoic silence. He had spoken seldom since Bogvar’s death. His broad, horny feet spread with each step, talons digging into the stony pathway. The pack he bore on his wide shoulders, battle-axe lashed across it, would have foundered an ox. “Look.” She opened her delicate hands, palm-upward. “How were we to stand against that?”

  Ahead, the path veered left, an outcropping of rock jutting into the Defile. Thorun lingered, pausing to lead first Cerelinde’s mount, then Tanaros’, around the bend. Though he kept his eyes lowered, watching the horses’ hooves, unsuited for the mountainous terrain, his hand was gentle on the bridle.

  “He speaks Common, you know,” Tanaros said.

  The Lady of the Ellylon had the grace to blush. “You know what I mean!”

  “Aye.” Tanaros touched the rhios in its pouch. “Neheris-of-the-Leaping-Waters Shaped the Fjel, Lady. Fourth-Born among Shapers, she Shaped them to match the place of her birth; with talons to scale mountains, strong enough …” he smiled wryly, “ … to carry sheep across their shoulders, enough to lay up meat to stock a larder against a long winter.”

  “Strong enough,” she retorted, “to tear down walls, General. You saw Cuilos Tuillenrad! Do you deny the dead their due?”

  “No.” He shook his head. “Only their version of truth, Lady.” He nodded at the axe that jounced against Thorun’s pack. “You see that weapon? Until the Battle of Neherinach, it was unknown among the Fjel. We taught them that, Cerelinde. Your people, and mine.”

  Her face was pale. “Satoris Banewreaker armed the Fuel.”

  “It is what your people claim,” Tanaros said. “Mine too, come to it. But I have learned better in a thousand years, Lady. My Lord armed them, yes; after the Battle of Neherinach, after hundreds of their number fell defending him with tusk and talon. Yes, he taught them to smelt ore, and gave them weapons of steel. And I, I have done my part, Cerelinde. I taught them to use those weapons and such gifts as Neheris gave them in the service of war. Why?” He touched one forefinger to his temple. “Because I have the gift of intellect. Haomane’s Gift, that he gave only to his children, and Arahila’s. And that, Lady, is the Gift the Fjel were denied.”

  Cerelinde raised her chin. “Was their lot so terrible? You said it yourself, General. The Fjel were content, in their mountains, until Satoris Banewreaker convinced them otherwise.”

  “So they should have remained content with their lot?”

  “They were content.” Her gaze was unwavering. “Haomane First-Born is Chief among Shapers, Lord of the Souma. Satoris defied him, and Sundered the world with his betrayal. He fled to Neherinach in fear of Haomane’s wrath, and there he enlisted the Fjel, swaying them to his cause, that he might avoid the cost of his betrayal. Did he reckon the cost to them?”

  Beneath her horse’s hooves, the edge of the path crumbled, sending stones tumbling into the Defile. Tanaros checked his black violently, and it shied against the cliff wall. Ahead of them, Thorun whirled into action, spinning to grab at Cerelinde’s bridle, wedging his bulk between her and the sheer drop. Pebbles gave way as his taloned toes gripped the verge of the path and his eyetusks showed in a grimace as he urged her mount to solid ground by main force, shoving his shoulder against its flank, hauling himself after it

  “My thanks,” Cerelinde gasped.

  Thorun grunted, nodding, and resumed his plodding pace.

  For a time, then, Tanaros rode behind her, watching the shine of her hair, that hung like an Ellyl banner down her spine. Downward wound the path, then upward, winding around another peak. And down again, where the river-basin broadened. Soon they would enter the Weavers’ Gulch. He dug his heels into the black’s sides, jogged his mount alongside hers.

  “How does it feel, then, to owe your life to a Fjeltroll?” he asked her.

  Cerelinde did not spare him a glance. “You brought me here, Tanaros.”

  “Of course.” He bowed from the saddle, mocking. “Proud Haomane will suffer no rivals. Like the Fjel, my Lord Satoris should have remained content with his lot.”

  Ahead, the low river-bottom opened onto a narrow gorge. It was flat, as flat as anything might be in the Defile. The dank trickle of water intensified. This was water tainted by the ichor of Satoris the Shaper, seeping slow and dark. It reeked of blood, only sweeter. The walls of the gorge loomed high on either side, strung across with webs like sticky veils,

  One by one, the Kaldjager Fjel parted the veils and entered. Ushahin Dreamspinner passed into the gorge, seemingly unperturbed. At the rear of the company, the
Staccians mingled with Hyrgolf’s Tungskulder Fjel and made uneasy jests in their own tongue, awaiting their turn.

  “What is this place?” Cerelinde asked, her voice low.

  “It is the Weavers’ Gulch.” Tanaros shrugged. “There are creatures in Urulat upon whom the Shapers have not laid hands, Lady. In these, my Lord is interested. Do you fear them? They will do us no harm if we leave them undisturbed.”

  At the entrance, Thorun waited for them, holding back the skeins of sticky filament so they might pass untouched. A small grey spider scuttled over the gnarled knuckles of his hand. Another descended on a single thread, hovering inches above his head, minute legs wriggling.

  Cerelinde looked at what lay beyond and closed her eyes. “I cannot do this.”

  “I’m sorry, Lady.” It had turned his stomach, too, the first time. Tanaros touched his sword-hilt. “But willing or unwilling, you will go.”

  At the threat, she opened her eyes to regard him. She was Ellylon, and the fineness of her features, the clear luminosity of her skin, were a silent reproach, a reminder that he aspired to that which was beyond him.

  Tanaros clenched his teeth. “Go!”

  Drawing her hood, the Lady Cerelinde entered the Weavers’Gulch.

  ELEVEN

  “HERE’S A GOOD SPOT, LIEUTENANT.”

  Crawling on his belly, Carfax made his way to Hunric’s side. Saw-toothed blades of sedge grass caught at him, sweat trickled into his eyes and midges buzzed in his ears. He fought the urge to swat at them.

  “Hear that, sir?” The tracker laid his ear flat to the ground. “They’ll be along presently. It’s a small company, I’m thinking.”

  Carfax rubbed at the sweat on his brow with the heel of his hand, leaving a grimy streak. “As long as they can’t see us.”

  “Not here.” Hunric glanced at him. “Long as we stay quiet. It’s tall grass, and we’ve a clear sight-line to the verge, there. Lay low and you’ll see, Lieutenant.”

  Overhead, the sun was relentless. One forgot, in Darkhaven, how bright it could be—and how hot. It had made him squint at first and, despite many days on the road, he had not fully adjusted to it. A moist heat arose from the earth, smelling of roots. Carfax was aware of his own odor, too, rank as a badger, and Hunric no better. A good tracker, though, the best in the company. In Staccia, he could track a snow-fox through a blizzard. Pity there wasn’t a blizzard here. The place could use one. Or a good hard frost, like Vilbar had said. It wouldn’t be so bad, hoar-frost glistening on the sedge grass, every blade frozen …

  “Sssst!”

  Hoofbeats, and a single voice raised in tuneless song, the words unfamiliar. Plastered to the earth, Carfax squinted through the tall grass and caught himself before he whistled in amazement.

  “What the sodding hell?” Hunric whispered.

  Seven strangers, traveling in company, led by a bearded old man in scholars’ robes, astride what was clearly the best horse in the lot. An Ellyl, who traveled on foot, stepping lightly, with that annoying air of his kind. A young man sweltering in the armor of a Vedasian knight, ill-fitting and much-mended. Another, older, dun-cloaked and watchful.

  “Borderguard,” Carfax muttered. “That one’s from Curonan.”

  “Blaise Caveros?” Hunric’s eyes widened. Everyone in Darkhaven knew that General Tanaros’ distant kinsman was second-in-command among the Borderguard.

  “Could be.”

  “Then that’s—”

  “Malthus’ Company.” Carfax studied the remaining three. One, to his surprise, was a woman; clad in leathers, a quiver and an unstrung bow at her back. An Archer of Arduan. And good, too. She would have to be. The carcasses of three ravens dangled from her saddle, tied by their feet, a sad bundle of black feathers. But the others … he frowned.

  “Charred Folk,” Hunric murmured. “Heard tell of those, Lieutenant.”

  Indeed they were, their skins a scorched shade of brown. It was one of the two who was singing tunelessly, riding astride a pack mule, clad only in a threadbare breechclout. From time to time he patted his brown, swelling gut, punctuating his song. Carfax, listening to the incomprehensible words, found himself thinking of water, flowing the hidden pathways of Urulat, coursing like blood in the veins, racing from the leaping snowmelt of a swollen Staccian river to sink torpid in the Delta, bearing life in all its forms …

  “One’s scarce more’n a boy,” Hunric observed.

  Last among them, a wide-eyed youth, wiry and dark as sin, perched uneasily atop a pony. Something hung about his throat; a flask of fired clay, strung on corded vine. He was the one the Borderguardsman shadowed, unobtrusively wary in his dun cloak.

  Small hairs stirred at the back of Carfax’s neck.

  He felt a chill, like a wish granted.

  “Hunric,” he whispered, his mouth dry. “They’re not following us, and they didn’t come from the Traders’ Road. Or if they did, it was only long enough to buy mounts. They came from the Unknown. This is the Prophecy at work. And whoever sent the ravens, whether it was the Dreamspinner or Lord Satoris, they failed.”

  Side by side in the sedge grass, they stared at one another.

  “What do we do, Lieutenant?”

  It was a gift, an unlooked-for blessing. Malthus’ Company, crossing their path unaware. Three dead ravens, tied by their feet; it meant no one in Darkhaven knew anything of this. Carfax licked his dry lips. There were only seven of them, and two, surely, were no warriors. What about the Counselor? Malthus had fought at the Battle of Curonan, had nearly slain Lord Satoris himself. If the news of Dergail’s fall had not caused the armies of Men to falter, he might even have prevailed.

  But he had borne the Spear of Light, then.

  He wasn’t carrying it now.

  And where was the Soumanië? Mayhap he didn’t bear it, either. It would be foolish, after all, to risk such a treasure on an ill-protected journey. Mayhap, Carfax thought, Malthus had entrusted the Soumanië to the keeping of Ingolin the Wise, who would keep it safe in Meronil. After all, this mission was undertaken in secrecy. And if it were so …

  “Regroup!” he hissed to Hunric. “We need to plan an attack!”

  USHAHIN DREAMSPINNER GAZED ABOUT HIM as he rode.

  It was a wondrous place, the Weavers’ Gulch, though few appreciated it. Everywhere he looked, gossamer filaments were strung, filtering the few rays of cloud-muted sunlight that pierced the gulch with its inward-leaning cliff walls.

  And the patterns, ah!

  Intricate, they were; and vast. Some, incomprehensibly so. He watched the grey spiders shuttle to and fro, the weavers at their loom. How long did it take for a single spider to spin a web that crossed the Defile? One lifetime? Generations? With delicate thread that broke at a hand’s careless wave. But it was strong, too. Given time, Satoris’ weavers could spin a cocoon that would render a strong man immobile. And small though they were, their sting was paralyzing.

  It could be done, in time.

  No wonder Satoris was interested in them.

  It saddened him, that so few people understood this. There was a pattern at work in the Sundering of Urulat, one would take many ages to come to fruition. Ushahin, born unwanted to two races of the Lesser Shapers, raised by a third, understood this in his ill-mended bones. He wished that Tanaros understood it, too. It would have been good if he had. But Tanaros, when all was said and done, was a Man, burdened with the short sight of his race. Even now, after so long.

  Among all the Lesser Shapers, only Men had found no way to make provision for the shortness of memory. Oronin’s Children had done so. What the Grey Dam had known, the Grey Dam knew, and it encapsulated all that every predecessor before her had known. So it was among the Fjel, who passed their memory into the bone and bred it among their descendants. It was why they had remained loyal to Lord Satoris after so many generations, remembering that first promise.

  A single thread, Ushahin thought, descending through time.

  A pity, after all, that they la
cked the scope—the wit—to discern the pattern. That was what Haomane had denied them. A single spider, shuttling on the loom of Weavers’ Gulch, had more perspective.

  Of course, no one had Shaped them.

  Tanaros should have seen it. After so many centuries in Darkhaven, he had learned to see its underlying beauty. Was that not enough? Ah, but he was a Man, and ruled by his heart. Arahila’s Child, in whom love and hatred grew intertwined. Look at him now, solicitous of the Lady of the Rivenlost. Haomane’s Child, whose people had no need of a remembrance born in the flesh, for their flesh was untouched by time. Of their fallen, they told stories, shaping history in their image. And the Children of Men, who emulated them in all things, learned to do the same though their lives were as the passage of shooting stars measured against the span of the Ellylon.

  Yet their numbers increased, while the Ellylon dwindled.

  The Lady Cerelinde gave a choked cry, beating at her cloak. Ushahin watched with a cynical gaze as Tanaros aided her, brushing hurriedly at the woolen fabric with his gauntleted hands. Small grey figures dropped, scuttling on the rocks. One of the Tungskulder Fjel stamped after them, squashing them beneath the impervious hide of his feet. It wouldn’t do to have their prize arrive in a state of paralysis.

  “This land breeds foulness!” The Lady was pale. “It is the taint of the Sunderer!”

  Foul is as foul does, Ushahin thought in silence. What harm did the weavers do before you blundered through their webs? If they did not feed, we would have a pestilence of flies in Darkhaven, because yes, Lady, this land is tainted with Lord Satoris’ blood, which has seeped into the very ground, which taints the waters we drink. He bleeds and bleeds anon, for the wound that was dealt him with the Godslayer, the wound that destroyed his Gift, is unhealing.

  And why was he wounded?

  Smiling to himself, Ushahin gazed at the delicate spans of webbing. Hanging veils, swags of filament, finespun and milk-white. The vast network filled him with delight. What architect could have wrought such a thing? A tendril of thread, flung out into empty space, meets another. Is it chance, or destiny? Will the weavers defend their territory in jealous battle, or will they knit their threads together to span the void?