Banewreaker

by Jacqueline Carey

  At the base of the mountain, a great shout arose.

  The crash resounded across the forests of Pelmar as a portion of her wall crumbled; crumbled, resolving itself irrevocably into shards and chips, rough-hewn boulders. There was a price to be paid for her lapse, for the act of will that had saved her life and taken his. A gap wide enough to drive a team of four through stood open, and Haomane’s Allies poured through it. For three days, Aracus Altorus had held his troops at the ready, waiting for such an opening. Now he seized it unhesitating, and a trickle of ants grew to a stream, swelled to a flood. A clangor of battle arose and, all along the wall, defense positions were abandoned as the wardsmen of Beshtanag surged to meet the influx. Siegeladders thumped against undefended granite. Haomane’s Allies scrambled over the wall by the dozen, their numbers growing. On the terrace, her Ward Commander Gergon shouted futile orders.

  “No,” Lilias said, numb with horror. “No!”

  How could it all fall apart so swiftly?

  They came and they came, erecting battle-standards on Beshtanag Mountain. Regents of Pelmar, lords of Seahold, ancient families of Vedasia, and oh! The banners of the Ellylon, bright and keen, never seen on Beshtanagi soil. And there, inexorable, moved the standard of Aracus Altorus, the dun-grey banner of the Borderguardsmen of Curonan, unadorned and plain.

  “No,” Lilias whispered.

  Now, Lilias.

  “No! Wait!” She reached for the power of the Soumanië; reached. And for once, found nothing. After all, when all was said and done, she was mortal still, and her power had found its limits. Radovan lay dead, a paring-knife in his open hand, his heart stopped. The earth would not rise at her command and swallow her enemies; the roots of the dense forest would not drink their blood. The Soumanië was a dead ember on her hrow. Somewhere, Sarika was weeping with fear, and it seemed unfair, so unfair. “Calandor, no!”

  It is time Lilias. ,

  She had fallen to her knees, unaware. In a rising stillness no one else perceived, something bright flickered atop Beshtanag Mountain. Sunlight, glinting on scales, on talons capable of grasping a full-grown sheep, on the outstretched vanes of mighty wings. No one seemed to notice. At the base of the mountain, Haomane’s Allies struggled on the loose scree inside the wall, fighting in knots, surging upward, gaining ground by the yard. Assured of her temporary safety, Ward Commander Gergon, striding down the mountain, shouted at his archers to fall back, fall back and defend. All the brightness in the world, and no one noticed.

  “Please don’t,” Lilias whispered. “Oh, Calandor!”

  Atop the mountain, Calandor roared.

  It was a sound like no other sound on earth.

  It held fire, gouts of fire, issuing forth from the furnace of the dragon’s heart. It held all the fury of the predator; of every predator, everywhere. It held the deep tones of dark places, of the bones of the earth, of wisdom rent from their very marrow. It held love; oh yes. It held love, in all its self-aware rue; of the strong for the weak, of the burden of strength and true nature of sacrifice. And it was like trumpets, clarion and defiant, brazen in its knowledge.

  “Calandor,” Lilias whispered on her knees, and wept.

  Haomane’s Allies went still, and feared.

  Roaring, with sunlight glittering on his scales, on his taloned claws, on the vanes of his wings, rendering pale the gouts of flame that issued from his sinuous throat, the Dragon of Beshtanag launched himself. Below the brightness in the sky, a shadow, a vast shadow, darkened the mountain.

  At last, Haomane’s Allies knew terror.

  LONG BEFORE THEY REACHED BESHTANAG they heard the clamor of battle, and another, more fearful sound, a roar that resonated in their very bones and made the blood run cold in their veins. Among the four of them, only the Ellyl had heard such a sound before. Blaise looked at him for confirmation and Peldras nodded, his luminous eyes gone dark and grave.

  “It is the dragon.”

  Blaise looked grim. “Ride!”

  For the last time, they charged headlong through the dense Pelmaran forests, matted pine needles churned beneath the hooves of their horses. Half-forgotten, Carfax brought up the rear, wondering and fearing what they would find upon reaching Beshtanag. From the forest’s verge they saw the encampment of Haomane’s Allies. Above the battlefield, at the foot of the great walled mountain, fire searing the skies.

  Blaise Caveros uttered a wordless cry, clapping his heels to his mount’s sides. When they reached the point where the treetops were smouldering he streaked into the lead, the other three following as they burst from dense cover. With his bared sword clutched in one fist, he abandoned his company and charged into battle shouting.

  “Curonan! Curonan!”

  Trailing, Carfax halted and watched in awe.

  The wall that surrounded the mountain seemed impregnable; seamless granite four times the height of a tall man. And yet it had been breached. A vast gap lay open in the great wall that had surrounded Beshtanag, a gaping hole where the wall crumbled into its component stones. There, Men fought in the rubble, Men and Ellylon, and above it all, a bright shadow circled; circled, and breathed gouts of fire.

  His heart caught inexplicably at the sight of it, at the dragon’s vaned wings, outstretched to ride the drafts. Such terrible beauty! But where were the others? Where were the Fjel, stalwart and faithful? Where was the company of Rukhari that Lord Vorax had promised? Where was General Tanaros?

  Peldras drew rein alongside him. “You did not expect this.”

  “No.” Carfax frowned, following the dragon’s flight. “Beshtanag was meant to be a trap. But not like this.”

  “How?” The Ellyl’s voice was calm.

  Atop her mount, Fianna was trembling. “Oh, Haomane!” The quiver she bore at her back pulsed with light. “Carfax, they are dying. Dying!”

  It was true. Whatever had transpired before to breach the wall, Haomane’s Allies were dying now, by the score. Bodies littered the ground inside the wall, many of them charred beyond recognition. Beshtanag’s defenders surged toward the gap, seeking to secure their position and retake the breach, sealing it. And above them all, the dragon circled, casting a vast shadow on the base of the mountain.

  “Curonan!”

  A knot of men answering to the dun-grey standard had forged their way to the forefront. It was to their aid that Blaise had streaked, battling against the tide to reclaim the gap in the wall; where a handful of men held the gap by dint of sheer valor. Above them the. dragon circled, then stooped. The prudent Beshtanagi fell back to regroup on the mountainside. The men of Curonan flung themselves to the ground beneath the dragon’s shadow. It passed over them, so low that its scaled belly almost scraped the top of the wall. The mighty jaws opened and gouts of white-hot flame issued forth from the gaping furnace.

  One of the Borderguardsmen screamed, rolling. Others cried out and beat at smouldering garments. The smell of burning flesh hung in the air.

  “Blaise!” Fianna whispered in anguish.

  He was clear, wrenching his horse’s reins mercilessly, his mount sidling free of the fire’s scorching path. The dragon’s wings beat hard, creating a powerful downdraft as its gleaming body banked and rolled. Its scaled tail, tipped with deadly spikes, swept like a cudgel. Blaise’s mount danced, avoiding it by a narrow margin.

  “Retreat, you idiots!” Watching the battle unfold, Carfax clenched his hands, longing for a blade. “For the love of Urulat, retreat!”

  Horns echoed, silvery and clear, sounding a charge.

  “My kinsmen!” Peldras’ voice held a yearning note.

  Beneath the banner of the gilded bee of Valmaré, a squadron of Rivenlost archers advanced in a gleaming line, paused and knelt, bows bent in taut arcs. A flurry of Ellylon arrows split the air, grey shafts arcing. In midair, the dragon turned, effortless as a fish in water, presenting a scaled shoulder. Arrows fell like rain, glancing off that scaled flesh and bouncing harmlessly on the stony ground as the dragon launched itself skyward
, ascending out of range. Another horn sounded, Man-wrought, calling the retreat in urgent, brassy tones. Under the cover of Ellylon archers, the Borderguardsmen began a methodical retreat to the siege-lines, flanked by Pelmaran and Midlander soldiers. Blaise wheeled his mount, cantering alongside them. On the slope of the mountain, Beshtanagi wardsmen watched and waited.

  “It’s all right,” Fianna breathed. “That’s all right, then.”

  Peldras shook his head, pointing. “I fear not, Lady Archer.”

  High overhead the dragon halted its ascent, turning and stooping. There it hung, held aloft by the steady beating of its enormous wings, a glittering speck against the vast expanse of blue. Like a noonday star, Carfax thought, and wondered what had gone wrong. Something had. Something had gone terribly, terribly awry. The Army of Darkhaven had not come, and the Sorceress’ power had failed. What else could have caused the wall to fall? He hadn’t known every detail of Lord Satoris’ plan—only the Three had known—but he was certain that the Dragon of Beshtanag had played no part in it. Not like this. The dragons had aided Lord Satoris once, and most .of them had been slain for their role, in the days of old when doughty warriors like Altorus Farseer strode the earth and the Lords of the Ellylon wielded terrible power.

  This was one of the last. It should not be here. Not like this.

  “Oh, my Lord!” Carfax whispered, numb with horror.

  Haomane’s Allies halted in their retreat, turning and regrouping, wary of the dragon. They were bunched together; too tight, the ranks too close. Gathering their ragtag forces, the Beshtanagi wardsmen advanced, reclaiming the gap and surging through it, re-forming their line in front of the wall.

  I should have been there, Carfax thought, among those men. If all had gone as planned, I would be among them. If not for Malthus, I would be. And if the rest had gone as planned, Turin, Mantuas and Hunric should be among them, even now. They should have won through to Beshtanag. Have matters gone so terribly wrong that even their mission failed?

  He strained his eyes for a glimpse of a familiar Staccian face, and did not know whether to be glad or anxious to see none.

  I have no people here, he thought, despite all of Darkhaven’s cunning.

  Amid the army of Haomane’s Allies, Blaise Caveros leaned down from the saddle, clasping hands with one of the Borderguardsman. There were discussion, protest, insistence. Dismounting, Blaise cupped his hands to boost the other into the saddle. Carfax watched as the last living descendent of the first King of Altoria removed his steel helmet, throwing back his head to address his army, words lost in the distance. The sunlight glinted on his red-gold hair. Aracus Altorus, who did not fear to lead men into battle, drew his sword, pointing it at the fortress of Beshtanag. Overhead, the dragon’s wings beat steadily, holding it in position, patient as a hawk before it stoops. Aracus Altorus raised his sword aloft like a pennant. A single word tore loose over the din, shouted like a paean, echoed by a thousand throats, Men and Ellylon.

  “ … Cerelinde!”

  “They’re going to stand,” Peldras said somberly. “For the Lady of the Ellylon, they’re going to stand their ground.”

  Something that might have been a laugh or a sob caught in Carfax’s throat. He rocked back and forth in the saddle. digging the heels of his hands into his eyes, unable to express the futility of it all. So many assembled, so many dying! And to what purpose? None. There was nothing here but a failed gambit. The agonizing cries of the wounded and dying on both sides of the battlefield scourged his soul. In anguish, Carfax of Staccia committed his final betrayal. “She’s not there,” he gasped. “She’s not even there!”

  The Ellyl touched his forearm, frowning. “What are you saying?”

  “Oh, Haomane!” Fianna cried. “No!”

  Too late, too late for everything. Far, far above them all, the dragon folded its wings and dove, dropping like a falling star. Its jaws stretched wide, opening onto an impossible gullet. Smoke trailed from its nostrils. Plated armor covered its breast, a nictitating membrane protected its eyes and its foreclaws were outstretched, each talon like an iron spike, driving earthward.

  Whatever resolve Aracus Altorus had instilled in Haomane’s Allies shattered.

  Crying out in fear, vast numbers of the Pelmaran soldiery fled like leaves blown before a gale, carrying ill-prepared Midlander forces with them. Here and there, pockets of Vedasian knights gathered, seeking to rally around their standards, and the archers of the Rivenlost kept their line intact.

  But it was the Borderguard of Curonan that held steadfast in the center.

  At the last possible moment, the dragon’s wings snapped open, membranes spreading like sails to brake its dive. Arrows and spears clattered from its impervious hide. Its neck wove back and forth like an immense serpent’s, fire belching from its open maw as it swept low over the field, cutting a swathe through Haomane’s Allies, not discriminating between nations and races. Everywhere, Men and Ellylon gibbered and wept, cowered under shields, died screaming and scorched. The dragon’s claws flexed and gathered, and bodies dangled from the clutch of its gleaming talons as it soared upward; dangled, and fell like broken dolls as the talons released.

  Somewhere, Aracus Altorus was shouting, and the surviving Borderguard answered with grim determination, gathering tight around him. In the smoke and chaos left in the dragon’s wake, the Beshtanagi forces spread out and advanced, closing in on the far-flung edges of their attackers’ forces, driving toward the center with desperate urgency.

  Their numbers were few—but they outnumbered the Borderguard.

  A lone figure stepped forth beneath the dun standard to meet the onslaught.

  “Blaise!” Fianna spurred her mount unthinking, guiding it with her legs, her Archer’s hands reaching as she sped across the battlefield, dodging around unmounted Beshtanagi wardsmen. Oronin’s Bow was in her hand, her hand reaching over her shoulder. Light spilled from her quiver as she grasped an arrow, an ordinary arrow, fitting it to the string. The black horn bow sang a single, deadly note as she loosed it, and a wardsman fell, clutching his chest where an arrow sprouted. “Blaise!”

  “Fianna!” Starting after her, Carfax felt the Ellyl’s grip tighten on his forearm. “Peldras, let me go,” he said, trying to pull away. “She’s like to get slaughtered out there without armor or a guard!”

  “Peace, Arahila’s Child. I seek only the truth.” The Ellyl’s grip was gentle, but surprisingly firm. His deep gaze searched Carfax’s face. “Will you withhold it while people die in vain?”

  Above the battlefield, the Dragon of Beshtanag circled low, harrying fleeing soldiers and driving them back onto the battlefield as it came in for another pass. Fire roared, and cries of agony rose; a din of chaos and anguish. Somewhere, Oronin’s Bow was sounding its single note, over and over. On the outskirts of it all, Carfax met Peldras’ gaze. “Can you stop the fighting if I tell you?”

  “I don’t know, Carfax of Staccia.” The Ellyl did not flinch. “I fear it may be too late to sue for a truce. But if the Lady Cerelinde is not here, I will do my best to carry word. Perhaps some lives may be saved, and Fianna the Archer’s among them.”

  It was too late, after all. Too late for everything.

  “She’s in Darkhaven,” Carfax said simply. With those few words, he surrendered the long burden of his loyalty and knew, in doing so, he accepted his death. When all was said and done, it was a relief, an unspeakable relief. He should have died with his men. He wished that he had. There was no honor in a life foresworn. It would be good to have it done. “Your Lady Cerelinde is in Darkhaven. She was never here. It was a trick, all a trick. General Tanaros was supposed to lead the army through the Ways and fall upon you from behind. Something went wrong. I don’t know what.”

  Peldras nodded. “Thank you.”

  “May I go now?”

  The Ellyl removed his hand from the Staccian’s arm and drew his sword. Grasping it by the blade, he presented the hilt. “Take my blade, and my blessing. May
Arahila the Fair have mercy upon you, Carfax of Staccia.”

  He grasped the hilt. It felt good in his palm. Firm. He hoisted it. The blade was light in his grip, its edge keen and silver-bright, its balance immaculate. Ellylon craftsmanship. “Thank you, Peldras.”

  Once more, the Ellyl nodded. “Farewell, my friend.”

  ON THE BATTLEFIELD, ALL WAS madness.

  The Pelmaran forces had been routed to a man. Last to commit, first to flee. Carfax had to dodge them as he rode, his mount’s hooves scrabbling on the loose scree at the base of Beshtanag Mountain. Here and there Beshtanagi wardsmen pursued them. It was hard to tell one from the other, clad alike in leather armor with steel rings, colors obscured by veils of smoke.

  No matter. He wasn’t here to fight anyone’s war.

  A pall of smoke hung over the battlefield, which reeked of smoke and sulfur, of charred flesh and spilled gore, of the inevitable stench of bowels voided in death. Carfax ignored it, guiding his horse with an expert hand past the dead and the dying, deserters and their pursuers, avoiding them and thinking of other times.

  There had been a girl, once, in Staccia. He had brushed her skin with goldenrod pollen, gilding her freckles. And he had thought, oh, he had thought! He had thought to return home a hero, to wipe away the tears his mother had shed when he left, to smile into his girl’s eyes and see her a woman grown, and wipe away the remembered traces of pollen from her soft skin.

  Blaise had asked him: Why do you smile, Staccian?

  To make a friend of death.

  Thickening smoke made his eyes sting. He squinted, and persevered.

  Fianna had smiled at him when he brought her pine rosin for her bow. Her Arduan bow, wrought of ordinary wood and mortal sinew. Not this one, that was made of black horn and strung with … strung with what? Hairs from the head of Oronin Last-Born, perhaps, or sinew from the Glad Hunter’s first kill, sounding a Shaper’s battlecry. It had twisted in her hands when she fought against the Were, refusing to slay its maker’s Children.