Banewreaker

by Jacqueline Carey

  It was a man on a black horse who led them, and he did not have to be told to know it was one of the Three. The Slayer, who had throttled love with his bare hands. And the sword he bore, the black blade, was forged in the marrow-fire itself and quenched in the blood of Satoris the Sunderer.

  Everything the Counselor had said was true.

  Whatever Malthus had done with the Soumanië had swept them into the Ways, driving them backward—but not the Slayer. Though he had been unhorsed, the Soumanië’s power could not touch him. There was a circle of burning shadow that surrounded and protected him.

  He had drawn his black sword, preparing to slay the Counselor.

  Trust me, Malthus had said.

  And then the world had exploded in a rush of crimson light, and stone had swallowed them whole, sending them hurtling. Away, away, farther than he had dreamed possible. Swallowed them and digested them and spat them out in the cavern in the mountains, so far north that pockets of snow lay in the gulches. And here they had to fight for their survival.

  “Dani, you need to eat.”

  Uncle Thulu’s face was worried. He extended a roasted haunch of hare on a spit. It had taken him the better part of a day to catch it.

  “Yes, Uncle.”

  The meat was hot and greasy. Dani picked at it, burning his fingers. It felt slick on his tongue and juices filled his mouth as he chewed. He swallowed, feeling the meat slide down his throat. His belly growled and contracted around it, and he took another bite, suddenly voracious.

  Uncle Thulu’s dark face creased in a grin. “The Bearer is hungry!”

  “Yes.” He smiled back around a mouthful of meat. “I am.”

  “Good.”

  For a long time, neither of them spoke. There was only the sound of teeth rending meat, the murmurs of gladdened bellies. Between them they picked the bones clean and sucked them. Their little fire crackled merrily. Dani had lit it himself, twirling a sharpened stick between his palms until the pine mast he had gathered caught and glowed, sending a tendril of smoke into the clean air. A good thing, as cold as they were.

  When they had done, Uncle Thulu leaned back and patted his belly. “Ah,” he sighed. “That’s good.”

  “Uncle.” Dani hunched forward, wrapping his arms about his knees, staring at their fire. Afternoon shadows played over his features and the clay vial strung about his neck bumped his bare, bony kneecaps. “Where are we? What has become of us? What has become of Malthus?” He rested his chin on his knees, his expression miserable. “What do I do now, Uncle?”

  “I don’t know, lad.” Uncle Thulu’s voice was brusque. Leaning forward he placed another deadfall on the fire. “We’re in Staccia, I think. Or Fjeltroll country. North.”

  “It’s cold.” Dani shivered.

  “Aye.” Uncle Thulu watched a shower of sparks rise. “A good job that Blaise bought cloaks for us. Wish I’d taken him up on the boots. Might have, if they’d fit.”

  Dani regarded his own feet, bare and calloused, broadened by a lifetime of walking on the desert floor. He did not mind the stones, but the beds of his toenails were faintly blue. “It’s cold here.”

  “Aye.” Uncle Thulu nodded. “We’re in the north, all right.”

  He lifted his head. “He must have had a plan.”

  “Malthus?”

  Dani nodded.

  “I don’t know, Dani.” His uncle picked at his teeth with a splintered bone, thoughtful and frowning. “I don’t think he reckoned on the Sunderer’s army being in the tunnels. I think he did his best to protect us, that’s all. Sent us as far away as he could. As to what happens next, that’s up to you.”

  “I don’t want to decide!”

  His voice sounded childish. Uncle Thulu gazed at him silently. He sighed and bowed his head, cupping his hands in front of him. The radiating lines that marred his palms conjoined, forming a perfect star. What a simple, silly thing! Why should it mean he, and he alone, could draw the bucket from the well? But it did, and he had. The proof of it was bound on a cord around his neck. Dani swallowed, remembering the words that had first stirred him, spoken by Malthus. Yet in the end, the fate of Urulat rests in your hands, Bearer. He had heeded the Counselor’s words. He had drawn the Water of Life. He had borne it. In Malumdoorn, it had drawn life out of death. He remembered that, the green leaves springing from dead wood, the surge of joy he had felt at the sight.

  “The choice is yours, Dani.” Uncle Thulu’s voice was gentle. “Always and forever. That is the trust Uru-Alat bequeathed to the Yarru-yami, revealed to us by Haomane’s Wrath. We ward the Well of the World. You are the Bearer.”

  Dani hunched his shoulders. “What if I refuse?”

  “Then that is your choice. Do you want to go home?” With the tip of his bone-splinter toothpick, Uncle Thulu pointed southward, to the left of the lowering sun. “It lies that way, Dani. The rivers of Neheris run south. We have but to follow them until they sink beneath the earth and the desert begins.”

  It was heavy, the vial. It hung about his neck like a stone. The water in it—the Water of Life—could extinguish the very marrow-fire. It had seemed like a glorious destiny at Birru-Uru-Alat. To think he held the power, cupped in his hands, to heal the world! The danger had seemed very far away. Even on the marsh-plains, when they had been attacked, it seemed there was no danger from which Malthus could not protect them. Not any more. Not since the Were had come out of the forest, silent and deadly. Not since he had seen the army of Darkhaven in the Ways in its incomprehensible numbers, led by one of the Three. All that Malthus said; it was true. Satoris the Sunderer had raised a vast legion and he meant to conquer the world.

  And the Company that had sworn to protect the Bearer …

  “Do you think any of them are left alive?” he asked.

  “I don’t know, Dani,” Uncle Thulu said. “It didn’t look good.”

  He turned his head and gazed in the direction of the setting sun, thinking about their companions. Malthus, whom he had believed could do anything. Blaise, steady and competent. The Haomane-gaali, Peldras, so gentle and wise. Proud Hobard, whose anger was not really anger, but a thing driven by fear. Fianna, who was kind and beautiful. And Carfax—oh, Carfax! The Staccian had saved him in the end. Tears stung Dani’s eyes. A golden wash of light lay over the mountain peaks, casting the valleys in shadow. Already the sun’s warmth was fading. He dashed away his tears with the back of one hand and took a deep breath. “How far is it to Darkhaven?”

  Uncle Thulu shook his head. “I cannot be sure. A long way.”

  “Can you find it?”

  There was a pause. “Are you sure that’s what you want?”

  “Yes.” Dani laced his fingers about his knees to hide their trembling and met his uncle’s somber gaze. “If they died, they died trying to protect me. And if they did not …” He swallowed. “I would be ashamed to have them know I failed without trying.”

  Picking up his digging-stick, his uncle hummed deep in his chest, a reassuring and resonant sound. “Then we will find it, Dani. You are the Bearer, and I have promised the Yarru-yami to remain at your side, to guide your steps no matter how you choose.” He turned the stick in his hands, humming absently. “Where water flows beneath the earth, I will chart the ways. When we find the taint of the Shaper’s blood, we will follow it to Darkhaven.”

  “Good.” His burden felt lighter for having decided. He edged closer to his uncle. They sat in companionable silence, sharing the warmth of their cloaks, watching blue twilight descend over the mountains. “Uncle?”

  “Aye, lad?”

  “We’re not likely to live through this, are we?”

  The deep humming faltered. He looked up to meet his uncle’s gaze. “No,” Uncle Thulu said quietly. “Venturing into the bowels of Darkhaven? Not likely, lad.”

  He nodded, remembering the gleam of moonlight on the pelts of the Were, the companions they had abandoned. “That’s what I thought.”

  “I’m sorry, Dani.”

>   “It’s all right.” Beneath his cloak, Dani fumbled for the vial at his throat, closing his fingers about its strange weight, obscurely comforted by his burden. “Uncle, what do you think he meant?”

  “Who?”

  He shivered. “The Slayer. The man with the black sword. ‘Listen,’ he said.”

  Uncle Thulu gazed at the fire, his hands gone still on his digging-stick. It was dark now, and the flickering light cast shadows in the hollows of his eyes and the crease beside his broad nose. “I don’t know, Dani,” he murmured. “I am only the guide. You are the Bearer.”

  “He sought to kill Malthus.”

  “Aye.” His uncle nodded. “Aye, that I believe he did.”

  He held the vial, pondering its heft. “Well,” he said at length. “It is a long way to Darkhaven. We will see.”

  “Aye,” his uncle said softly. “That we will.”

  THE MARASOUMIË WAS LOOSENING ITS grip on Tanaros.

  The terrible will he exerted was only part of it. In truth, he should not have been able to prevail against Malthus; not with the wizard wielding the Soumanië. Once he regained a measure of his depleted strength, Malthus should have been able to wrest himself into the Ways, sealing Tanaros in the Marasoumië.

  He hadn’t, though. Foolish wizard. It seemed his priorities lay with his Companions. Even now he struggled like a fly caught in amber, sending his strength elsewhere to shore up a fading spell, using the dregs of his exhausted power to cast a pall of protection over those who had none. Sensing it, Tanaros grinned without knowing it, the memory of his face shaping a rictus. With his right hand clenched on his sword-hilt, feeling the annealing power of a Shaper’s blood temper his will, he fought for mastery of the Ways.

  Fought, and won.

  It came all of a rush, a node-point opening to his command. Gathering himself and his will, Tanaros scrambled for selfhood, wresting his shape out of the molten nowhere of the Marasoumië, reclaiming the mortal form he had worn for more than a thousand years. If there was a hand to grip a sword-hilt, there must be an arm to wield it. If there was a mouth to grin, there must be a face to wear it. If there was a heart to beat, there must be a breast to contain it. Bit by bit, Tanaros gathered himself until he was a man, standing, his feet beneath him.

  There.

  His lungs opened, drawing in a sobbing breath. Without a second thought, he hurled himself into the Ways, into the constricting passage. One step, two, three; my Lord, I am coming, he thought, an ecstatic rush surging into his palm, fueling his veins. The black blade trembled, keening its own song. Stone rushed past him, disorienting.

  Crimson light pulsed.

  Tanaros stumbled, staggering, into open air.

  It was a cavern. That much he saw, as his mastery of the Marasoumië faded. He set his feet and turned slowly in a circle, his sword extended. The sound of his breathing filled the empty space. The node-light went grey and lifeless, and darkness reclaimed the cavern. Somewhere in the Marasoumie, Malthus the Counselor had realized his error and managed to close the Ways at last.

  Wherever Tanaros was, he was trapped.

  He gave a short laugh at the irony of it. The cavern lay within the Ways, so there must be tunnels—but he was deep, deep below the surface, with no idea in which direction an egress might lie. No food, no water. There was air, for the moment. How long could he endure without them? What would become of his immortal flesh? Tanaros closed his eyes, remembering another journey beneath the earth, and beauty and terror commingled. “Cerelinde,” he mused aloud. “Have I found the death you feared?”

  His voice echoed in the vaulted space, punctuated by the sound of a drop of water falling; amplified, louder than any drip should be.

  Tanaros opened his eyes.

  It was dark in the cavern, but not wholly so. And it smelled of water, of the essence of water, of something that was to water as the Shaper’s ichor was to mortal blood. Like water, only sweeter.

  With dark-adjusted eyes he saw it—there, on the far side, a pool of water and a tiny point of light upon it, refracting a distant glitter of sun. Putting up his sword, Tanaros approached it. Deep, that cistern; unknowably deep. A single stalactite overhung it, glistening with gathering moisture. Leaning over the pool and craning his neck, he saw fresh marks gouged into the wall of the cistern. He knew those gouges. Deep and plunging, taking bites from stone as if from a hunk of stale bread; that was the work of a Fjeltroll’s talons. A man could climb using those handholds, if he were strong enough to hoist himself up there.

  Far, far above was sky, a blue disk no larger than a teacup.

  Sheathing his sword, Tanaros reached out into the air above the cistern. The narrow shaft of sunlight illuminated his hand. It was warm on his skin; hot and dry. He rotated his hand. Sunlight lay cupped in his calloused palm. On the underside, the air that kissed his knuckles was cooler and moist, rising from the pool below. He could almost taste it.

  “The Well of the World,” he whispered.

  It seemed impossible … and yet. What other water was so still, so motionless? Surely this must be the very navel of Urulat. He crouched beside the pool and watched the motionless water. It was folly to be here, and folly to linger. Still, he could not leave. If it was true, this water was old. It had been old when the world was Sundered; it had been old when the world was Shaped. With the utmost care he extended his arm and dipped the tip of one finger into the water, which didn’t even ripple.

  It was cool.

  It was wet.

  It was water, and it was the lifeblood of Urulat; of Uru-Alat, the World-God that was. It was the essence of water, all water, everywhere. Of the snow that fell in the mountains of Staccia, of Meronin’s seas that circumscribed dry land. Of rain that fell like mercy on the plains of Curonan, and springs that bubbled in the forests of Pelmar. Of stagnant water standing in the Delta, and swift rivers flowing fresh through the Midlands.

  With an effort, Tanaros withdrew his hand.

  A single drop of water gathered on the tip of his finger. It was heavy, so heavy! With his free hand, he braced his forearm, watching the drop swell and gather, hanging round and full on his fingertip. It gleamed in the narrow sunbeam, refracting an entire world in its globular walls. Sun and sky, water and stone. As he watched, the drop of water changed shape, its rounded base broadening. Where it touched the pad of his fingertip, there where his skin whorled in tiny ridges, the connection narrowed, becoming a taut band of water, stretching, impossibly thin, until it snapped.

  It fell.

  A drop of water, falling into the pool. At close range, it rang like a gong in the enclosed space. Slow concentric ripples spread from the center of the pool, measured and perfect. Watching them lap against the edges of the pool and rebound with infinite precision, Tanaros stuck his finger into his mouth and sucked it.

  Moisture, the essence of moisture, penetrated his parched tissues.

  He hadn’t know, until then, how deeply he thirsted. But there was enough life, enough water, in the thin film that clung to his skin to revitalize the flesh he had reclaimed from the Marasoumië. Strength, green and young, surged in him; he felt made anew. Every fiber of his being sang with vitality. He had not known such hope and urgency since his wedding night.

  That, too, had been a kind of rebirth. A celebration of a mystery, of two becoming one. Of the quickening of desire, the joining of the flesh. A shared breath passed from one mouth to another, hearts beating in rhythm. Calista had laughed aloud in wonder at the discovery; the memory of it still cut like a blade. Tanaros could never have believed, that night, that she would betray their marriage bed.

  But she had, and something in him had died. Yet here he was, born anew.

  And he had his Lordship’s trust, aye, and the loyalty of the Fjel. These things alone sufficed to render life worth the living. Who was to say what else his future held in store? Desire, perhaps; or even love. Not even the Seven Shapers knew the whole of what-might-be.

  Tanaros bounded to his f
eet and laughed. With a standing leap, he caught the lowest tier of holes gouged into the cistern wall, digging his fingers into them. He hung suspended. With an effort he hauled his body upward until his gaze was level with his own knuckles. His armor dragged at him, threatening to dislodge him. Too late to remove it now.

  This would be the hard part.

  Taking a deep breath, he let go with one hand, reaching upward without hesitation. If he’d swung on Malthus with the same speed at their first encounter, the wizard might have died in the Ways. He shouldn’t have hesitated when he saw the boy. Blind and questing, his fingertips found the second tier of handholds; found, and held. Trusting for an instant to his grip, he dangled from one arm. Then he found the second hold with his left hand. His arms strained in their sockets as he hoisted his body upward.

  Once more.

  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.