Banewreaker

by Jacqueline Carey

  Her skin was warm and soft and the pity in her eyes terrified him. Withdrawing from her, he straightened. “You should go now.”

  Gathering her skirts around her, she stood. Not beautiful, no. A woman, not yet old, with tangled hair and skin sallow for lack of sunlight. She would have been pretty, once, in an ordinary, mortal way. Pity in her gaze, and a terrible knowledge. “I warned you, my lord,” she said softly. “You should have heeded me. She will break your heart. She will break all our hearts.”

  “My heart.” He shook his head, touching his branded chest. “No, Meara. That lesson, I learned too well. My heart is dedicated to Lord Satoris’ service. No other.”

  “I know,” she whispered. “I know.”

  HAOMANE’S ALLIES ARRIVED EARLY.

  Something had happened. The scouting-packs of Were yearlings who were to report on their movements had failed. If not for Calandor’s warning, Beshtanag would have been caught unready. As it was, Lilias had closed the last breach in the wall in haste, sealing Beshtanag against invasion, and themselves within it.

  Her Ward Commander Gergon brought her bits of gossip, gleaned by soldiers shouting back and forth over the granite expanse of the wall. A siege, after all, was a tiresome thing and some few had friends and cousins on the other side.

  It seemed that, against all odds, Martinek, the Southeastern Regent of Pelmar, had taken to Aracus Altorus, the would-be King of the West. The last scion of House Altorus had accorded him the utmost of respect, convincing even the Host of the Ellylon to bend their stiff necks to Pelmaran authority. Deep in their cups, they had established a rapport; so much so that Martinek had allowed himself to be swayed by tales of the Borderguard of Curonan, its small, efficient units able to mobilize and maneuver more swiftly than a full-sized army.

  Regent Martinek had taken Altorus’ advice, and his fellow Regents had followed suit. Instead of advancing in a united front, they had restructured their troops into winding columns. No need, then, to forge a broad path through the forest Unchallenged, Haomane’s Allies made good time through the dense terrain. The troops of Aracus Altorus were the first to arrive, sizing up the granite wall that surrounded Beshtanag with cool, measuring glances, retreating out of bowshot to set up an encampment that sprawled through the unguarded forest.

  Within the space of a day, the others had arrived.

  Pelmaran forces from three of the five sitting Regents, a contingent of Vedasian knights, capable Midlanders—and, oh, worst of all was the Host of the Ellylon, the Rivenlost with their piercing beauty and their keen swords. Back and forth they rode, pacing the circumference of the granite wall, needing neither sleep nor nourishment to sustain them in their quest.

  Only one thing did they require: The Lady Cerelinde.

  “I don’t like this, Gergon.” On her balcony, Lilias regarded the enemy encampment and shivered in the summer’s warmth. “There are so many of them.”

  “We can hold.” Her Ward Commander’s face was grim. “As long as you hold the wall, my lady. Our stores will last another seven days, if need be.”

  “Seven days,” she echoed. What a paltry amount!

  Gergon glanced at her. “The Banewreaker’s army should be here in less. They are coming, my lady, are they not?”

  “Yes.” She made her voice firmer. “Yes. They will be here.”

  At the base of the mountain, a distant figure stepped forth, clad in shining armor. He was the herald of the Rivenlost and he bore a staff from which flew the standards of both Ingolin the Wise and Elterrion the Bold—the argent scroll and the Crown-and-Souma. As he did three times a day, he lifted an Ellylon horn to his lips and blew, the silvery tone echoing from the sides of Beshtanag Mountain. His voice rang forth, clear and carrying. “Sorceress! Surrender the Lady Cerelinde, and your people will be spared!”

  “Ellyl arsehole,” Gergon muttered, adding, “your pardon, my lady.”

  Midway down the mountain, a line of kneeling archers loosed their bows, sending a shower of arrows aloft. Sharp shouts came from sentries posted in the trees, and those of Haomane’s Allies in reach crouched low, raising their shields above their heads. Arrows arced above the granite wall and fell, clattered uselessly onto warding shields and the loose scree. The Ellyl herald stood contemptuous, watching them fall, before turning to retreat untouched.

  “Too far, too high.” Gergon shook his head. “Sorry, my lady.”

  Lilias sighed. “Tell them not to waste their arrows.”

  “As you wish.” He paused. “If it came to it, my lady, there is one weapon they could not withstand.”

  “No!” Her reply was sharp. “Not Calandor.”

  “It seems a folly—”

  “Hear me, Ward Commander.” Lilias fixed him with a steely stare. “This is Shapers’ business, and dragonkind is all but vanished because of it. Calandor will not give battle. Put it out of your thoughts.”

  “My lady.” Gergon bowed, unhappy with her answer. “As you order. I will report again at sundown.”

  It was a relief to have him gone. Lilias watched a pair of ravens circling in the drafts, hoping they made ready to bear word to Darkhaven on urgent wings. While the wall stood, Beshtanag was safe; but there were so many arrayed against them. She touched the Soumanië at her brow, feeling the Shaping force of it pulsing faintly in her veins, in the stone beneath her feet. Faint, so faint! She was spread too thin. It had taken a great effort to raise the wall, and more to sustain it. Always, it took more effort to create than to destroy. The old linkages were stretched and weak—those incorporating the collars of her pretty ones, binding them to her service; those that bound Beshtanag itself, binding the blood and flesh of her people to loyalty. Even the binding that stretched the great Chain of Being to its limits felt thin and tenuous, and Lilias felt old.

  She was old, a thousand years old. Today, she felt it.

  Oh, Calandor! she asked silently. What have we done?

  There was a long pause before the dragon replied, longer than she remembered.

  Wait, little sister, and be strong. You must be strong.

  There was sorrow in the thought, deeper than she’d known the dragon to evince. Lilias gripped the balustrade with both hands, staring at the mountain’s base. There, in the shadow of the forest, a flash of red-gold hair. Aracus Altorus, bare-headed and arrogant, the would-be King of the West Even at a distance, she saw him pause, his gaze measuring her will and searching the sky for dragon-sign.

  And then he turned his back on her, cool and purposeful, ordering his troops as they set about the construction of the implements of war. Ladders of branches, lashed with rope. Siege-towers, capable of holding a dozen men. Entire trunks hewn into battering rams. All of Pelmar’s forests provided fodder for his efforts, as if in league with him. Already Haomane’s Allies had essayed her wall in a score of places. She could hold it, for now, with the aid of Gergon’s wardsmen. What would happen when their stores ran low? What would happen if Malthus arrived to pit himself against her, armed with a Soumanië like her own?

  In her deepest self, Lilias knew the answer.

  Hurry, she prayed in the direction of Darkhaven; oh, hurry!

  TENS OF THOUSANDS OF FJELTROLL were packed into the Chamber of the Marasoumië and the tunnels that underlay Darkhaven. Armor creaked, rough hide jostled hide, horn-calloused feet trod the stony floors. Despite the fact that the ventilation shafts had all been uncovered, the air was stifling with the musky, slightly rank odor of the Fjel. The red node-light was reflected in thousands of eyes, all of them fixed on Tanaros.

  Despite it all, they stood patient, adhering to the formations he’d drilled into them and trusting to his leadership. The swift Gulnagel, the ferocious Nåltannen, the dark Mørkhar and the mighty Tungskulder—all his to command, a vast army, divided into dozens of small units, mobile and skilled.

  And at his side was Speros of Haimhault, grinning a gap-toothed grin, holding the reins of a pair of the horses of Darkhaven; Tanaros’ own black, and a second l
ike enough to be its twin. After much debate, Tanaros had decided to leave the mounted Staccian forces behind. Under Vorax’s command, they and the Havenguard would serve to defend Darkhaven. He had made a promise to the young Midlander, let him serve as his equerry.

  As for the battle itself; ah! For that, he had his field marshal, and there was no one, Man or Fjel, he trusted more than Hyrgolf. In the suffocating press, their gazes met quietly and Hyrgolf gave a nod, showing his eyetusks in a faint smile.

  The Army of Darkhaven was ready.

  “My friends.” Tanaros raised a hand, and the rustling cavern fell into silence. “Tonight, we go forth to achieve a great good. Tonight, we will travel the ancient Ways of the Marasoumië, that traverse the length and breadth of the Sundered World itself.”

  There was a murmur; of eagerness, of anxiety.

  “Be at ease.” He pointed at Vorax, who stood beside the flickering node. “There stands Lord Vorax of Staccia, who will open the entrance. At the other end awaits Ushahin Dreamspinner, who will open the egress. Between them, they will hold open the Way, until the last of us has passed. And I, Tanaros Caveros, the Commander General of Darkhaven, will guide you through it.”

  They were afraid, these mighty warriors, the feared Fjel. It made him fond, and he smiled upon them. “Do not fear, my brothers. We are the Three, branded by Godslayer itself. We are the chosen of Lord Satoris. We will not fail you.”

  It braced them like svartblod. Tanaros saw it, felt it in his veins. His spirits soared, running high. Within the scarred circle on his chest, his heart beat, strong and steady. This was what he had been born to do. Lord Satoris himself had said it, summoning him to the Chamber of the Font. There, amid the blue-white coruscation of the marrow-fire, Godslayer’s pulsing and the sweet reek of ichor, he had spoken words that filled his general’s heart to bursting with pride and nameless emotion.

  I trust you, Tanaros Blacksword. You will not fail me.

  “Brothers!” Tanaros ripped his sword from its sheath, holding it aloft. “Though Haomane First-Born cowers on Torath, for too long his tyranny has held sway over Urulat! In his pride and refusal to relent, he rouses his Children against us, he sends his Counselors to wage war, and looses his Prophecy on us like a hunting dog. Lord Satoris grows weary of being brought to bay like an animal, and I grow weary with him. Have the Fjel not been persecuted by his Wrath, threatened with extinction? I tell you, it need not be so. Our destiny lies within our grasp. Haomane’s Allies await us! Shall we make an end to it?”

  They roared, then; roared acclaim and battle-readiness, and the sound within the cavern was deafening. Speros dropped the reins he held and clapped his hands over his ears in dismay while the restless horses tossed their heads. Tanaros smiled, letting the sound wash over him in waves, beating against his skin. It was good, this sound. It was a fitting sound to accompany the end of a world; or the beginning of one.

  “So be it!” he cried when they had subsided. “By this sword, quenched in the blood of Lord Satoris himself, I do swear it. We will prevail in his name.” In a single motion, he sheathed the black sword. “The next blood it tastes will be that of Haomane’s Allies, or I am foresworn. We will assemble on the plains of Rukhar. Is all in readiness?”

  Hyrgolf turned, repeating the question in the Fjel tongue. Here and there standards rose and dipped, their colors dim in the cavernous light as subcommanders in a sea of Fjel gave answer, yes and yes and yes. The ranks held, the companies were ready. Hyrgolf was smiling broadly as he turned back to his leader, his upper and lower eyetusks gleaming. “They’re ready, General,” he said in his deep rumble. “For our children and our children’s children, shall we make an end to this battle for once and for all?”

  “Let’s.” Tanaros reached out, clasping his field marshal’s taloned hand, feeling the stone-roughened hide against his skin. “Let us do that, my brother.”

  Clearing his throat beside the node-light, Vorax lifted the case that held the Helm of Shadows. “Blacksword,” he said softly, red light flickering on the gold inlay of his armor as he summoned Tanaros’ attention. “The night is waxing. Are you prepared to depart?”

  It was harder than he had reckoned. “You’ll keep Darkhaven safe?”

  “As immortal fiber can make it.” The Staccian smiled into his beard and opened the case, removing the Helm of Shadows. An agony of darkness pulsed between his hands. “Ride forth, cousin. The Dreamspinner is waiting on the other end. Go now, and Lord Satoris’ blessings upon you.”

  So saying, Vorax placed the Helm upon his head and opened the Way. A wash of ruby brilliance filled the Chamber. Squinting against it, Tanaros groped for the reins of his mount, fumbled as Speros handed them to him with tardy alacrity. Swinging himself into the saddle, he set his face toward the open Way and took the first step.

  The Army of Darkhaven was on the march.

  TWENTY-ONE

  DANI SMILED AT HIM IN the twilight. “I”m glad you’re staying with us.”

  Carfax poked at the fire without answering. A knot burst, releasing a crackle of sparks and the fragrance of pine. His muscles ached from the day’s hard labor. On the far side of the glade, a dark fissure yawned beneath an overhanging granite shelf, clear at last of the rockfall that had blocked it.

  It was there, deep below the earth. A node of the Marasoumië. Alone among Haomane’s Allies, Malthus the Counselor knew the secrets of the Ways, and did not fear them.

  And he had helped them uncover it.

  Wind rustled in the tall pine-tops. Accompanied by the Ellyl, the archer Fianna walked the perimeter of the glade, Oronin’s Bow half-drawn. They had seen ravens from afar. At her back, the quiver that held her arrows gleamed with a faint, eldritch light, and one shaft shone a pale silver. It would flame white-gold if she withdrew it.

  “Carfax?” Dani prompted him.

  “Aye.” With an effort, he gathered his thoughts. “Aye, Dani. I’m here.”

  It had been a near thing. Here, in this glade, their paths would diverge. Malthus the Counselor was leaving them for a time. Alone, he would travel the Ways of the Marasoumië to Beshtanag, where he would confront the Sorceress of the East. Malthus’ Company would continue without him, to be reunited in Jakar. Their task—Carfax knew it now—was to shepherd Dani the Bearer and the precious Water of Life to Darkhaven.

  To extinguish the marrow-fire and free Godslayer.

  There had been quarrels, of course. It had sat ill with the young Vedasian knight Hobard to play nursemaid to a Charred One while his kinsmen gained glory at Beshtanag. Malthus had pointed out the route to the northeast and invited him to depart. In the end, Hobard had elected to stay—but he had argued hard for disposing of Carfax.

  The argument had taken hours to resolve.

  Dani, soft-hearted Dani, had protested, backed by his uncle. Fat Thulu; not so fat, after their travels. Blaise Caveros stirred, narrowed his eyes, and said nothing. Peldras the Ellyl laced his elegant hands about his knees, thinking abstruse Ellylon thoughts. And Fianna … Fianna spoke in a faltering voice on mercy’s behalf, her words uncertain.

  In the end, of course, it fell to Malthus.

  The wizard had fixed him with that keen gaze that seemed to see right through him, eyes bright beneath his fierce brows. And Carfax, to his shame, had trembled. Once upon a time, he had been willing to die for Lord Satoris, filled with a Staccian warrior’s pride. No more. He was afraid.

  “Yes,” Malthus had said with finality. “Let him stay.”

  So it had been decided, and when it was done, Carfax wished they had killed him after all. It would, at least, be swift The itch in Blaise’s fingers as they strayed over his sword-hilt promised as much. It would put an end to his knowing. Malthus the Counselor traveled the Ways into a trap, that much he knew. Carfax thought upon it with guilt and grim satisfaction as he labored to shift rocks on the wizard’s behalf. Oh, Malthus might hope to defeat the Sorceress with her Soumanië—but it would take a mighty effort. When General Tanaros and th
e Army of Darkhaven fell upon Haomane’s Allies, the wizard would have naught left to give in their defense.

  And yet … and yet.

  The Company would struggle onward. How doomed were their efforts, if Darkhaven prevailed? It would become a game of cat and mouse, with Lord Satoris’ paw poised to strike. He would tell them, if he dared. He would spare them. Not all, no; not the surly Vedasian, nor Blaise Caveros—but the others, yes. Dani, at the least. Poor Dani, who was beginning to feel the weight of his burden, and the cost of protecting it. He belonged in the Unknown Desert, he and his uncle, at peace and unaware of the Shapers’ War being waged over Urulat.

  Better I should die, Carfax thought, than see this through.

  Only I am afraid to die.

  And so, alone, he tended the fire and dwelled with his tongue-locked thoughts, while their stores were shared out and everyone ate. And then, in the small hours, Peldras the Ellyl stayed awake with him, with his drawn sword over his knees, watching the moon’s course. They had become comrades in these small hours. Even the wizard snored. And as before, it was the Ellyl who spoke first, turning his luminous gaze on the Staccian. “You have given thought to Arahila’s mercy, have you not?”

  “Mayhap.” Carfax kept his gaze fixed on the embers. “Does it matter?”

  “It does.”

  “Why?”

  There was a long silence.

  “Where to begin?” Peldras sighed, a sound like the wind through pine needles. “I am Rivenlost, Carfax of Staccia. I am one of Haomane’s Children; Haomane First-Born, who alone knew the will of Uru-Alat. The world as He Shaped it was a bright and shining thing. I am Ellyl, and I remember. I grieve for what was Sundered from me.”

  Carfax lifted his head. “Lord Satoris did not—”

  “Satoris Banewreaker would cover the world in darkness!” The Ellyl cut him off, his tone grim. “A tide is rising, Staccian. In Darkhaven, it rises. The Fjeltroll are seen in numbers, and the Helm of Shadows has been worn once more. What passes in Beshtanag is merely an opening gambit. Look, there.” He pointed to the red star, riding high above the horizon. “There is Dergail’s Soumanië, that the Sunderer wrested from him. It is a sign, a challenge. And it is one the Six Shapers cannot answer, for they are trapped beyond the shores of the Sundered World, islanded in their might. It falls to us, Son of Man. We are the last, best hope; each one of us. Do you matter?” He softened his voice. “Yes, Staccian. You matter. You are the twig that may turn a flood. If you choose a path of redemption, who is to say how many will follow?”