Banewreaker

by Jacqueline Carey

  No one bowed, least of all their leader. “Sorceress.” His voice was curt. “I am Aracus Altorus of the Borderguard of Curonan, and I speak for Haomane’s Allies. You know what we have come for. Is she here?”

  Lilias looked past him to the other four. Two of them were mortal, and one she knew; Martinek, Regent of Southeastern Pelmar, whose face bore a cruel, gloating expression. The other, a Borderguardsman, seemed unsteady on his feet. There was something vaguely familiar about him; his dark, sombre eyes and the shock of hair falling over his pale and bandaged brow. The remaining two were Ellylon, their fine-wrought features startling in her stone halls. One of these too she knew, having seen his standard oft enough; Lorenlasse of Valmaré, gleaming in his armor. The other Ellyl, in travel-worn garb, she did not recognize. He looked at her with sorrow.

  “No,” she said at last; to him, to all of them, letting the word fall like a stone. Her fingers clutched the throne’s arms; there was a bitter satisfaction in the message. “You have assailed us in vain, would-be King of the West. Beshtanag has committed no crime. The Lady Cerelinde of the Rivenlost is not here.”

  Aracus Altorus’ sword rasped free of its scabbard. The point of it came to rest in the hollow of her throat. Lilias sat unflinching. Calandor was dead, Beshtanag had fallen, and she did not care if she lived or died. He leaned forward, one foot on the throne’s base, pressing hard enough to draw a trickle of blood.

  “Where is she?”

  His breath was hot on her face; well-fed, smelling of heat and battle-rage, his strength fueled by mutton and deer purloined from the pastures and forests of Beshtanag. “Aracus,” the wounded Man murmured, cautioning. One of the Ellylon spoke to the other in their melodious language. Lilias ignored them and smiled with all the bleak emptiness in her heart.

  “Darkhaven,” she said, relishing his reaction. “She is in Darkhaven, in the Sunderer’s keeping. It is where she has been all along, my lord of the Borderguard. Your people were misled.”

  He swore, Aracus Altorus did, turning away from her. His shoulders shook, and cords stood out in his neck, taut with anguish. Lilias was glad of it. Let him suffer, then, as she did. Let him know the taste of failure. He had destroyed everything she held dear. And for what? For nothing.

  “Son of Altorus.” Lorenlasse of Valmaré addressed him in the common tongue, his voice gentle. “Believe me when I tell you that this news is as grievous to the Rivenlost as to you, if not more so. And yet there is another matter at hand.”

  “Yes.” He went still, then turned back to her. “There is.”

  Despite everything, Lilias found herself shrinking back against the throne. He should have been afraid. He wasn’t. His grief, this defeat in the midst of victory, had granted him that much. There was no anger in his face, nor mercy, only a weary nobility for which she despised him. Why should he be appointed to this victory? What accident of birth, what vagary of Haomane’s will, vouchsafed him this prize?

  Two steps toward her, then three.

  He reached out one hand, palm open. “The Soumanië.”

  It was a dead weight on her brow and it shouldn’t have hurt to face its loss. It did. Especially to him, to this one. Lilias gripped the granite arms of her throne until her nails bent and bled. “Will you take it from me, then?” she asked him. “How then, when you have not won it? Do you claim a victory here? I think not, Altorus. This prize belonged to the Dragon of Beshtanag” She laughed, the sound of her laughter high and unstrung. “Do you think Calandor did not see his end, and I with him? Do you think I did not see who wielded Oronin’s Bow and the Arrow of Fire? Where is the Archer, son of Altorus? I see no women in your train. Do you fear to give such a prize unto a woman’s hand?”

  “Sorceress,” he said patiently. “The Soumanië.”

  “No,” she whispered. “Martinek! You are Pelmaran. Think what this means. Will you let him claim sovereignty over my lands and yours?”

  The Southeastern Regent shifted, adjusting his sword-hilt, setting his mouth in a hard, thin line. He had the decency not to meet her gaze. “I’ve sworn my allegiance.”

  “What of you, my lord Valmaré?” In despair, Lilias forced her tone to one of sweet reason, addressing Lorenlasse of Valmaré. “Have matters changed so in Urulat? Do Haomane’s Children cede the spoils of victory to Arahila’s? This is not a prize for mortal hands to sully. Am I not living proof?”

  The Rivenlost Lord frowned, hesitating.

  “Lorenlasse.” The travel-worn Ellyl spoke the common tongue with soft regret. “Ingolin the Wise himself dared not take on such a burden. Will you gainsay his wisdom, that Malthus the Counselor informed? Let the Son of Aracus claim it. He is the betrothed of the Lady Cerelinde, granddaughter of Elterrion the Bold. Our time ends, and this is his victory. It is his right.”

  Lorenlasse of Valmaré stepped back, nodding, sorrow and a grave acceptance in his countenance. “So be it,” he said. “As I am Haomane’s Child, I fulfill his Prophecy. Son of Altorus, the Soumanië is yours.”

  “Sorceress,” Aracus Altorus said simply, extending his hand.

  He did not threaten. With a conquering army at his back, he didn’t need to.

  “Take it, then!” With trembling fingers, Lilias lifted the fillet from her brow. The Soumanië was a dull red stone in its center. For a thousand years it had maintained contact with her unaging flesh. Even now, when she was spent beyond telling, when its power lay beyond her grasp, the Soumanië sustained her, maintaining the bond that stretched the Chain of Being to its uttermost limit. So it had done for a thousand years, since the Dragon of Beshtanag had divulged its secrets to a headstrong Pelmaran girl. Tears burning in her eyes, Lilias placed the fillet in Aracus Altorus’ outstretched palm and relinquished it. “Let the Shapers themselves bear witness, I do this against my will.”

  He closed his hand upon the Soumanië and claimed it.

  It was done. The bond was severed, a shock as sudden as icy water, and Lilias dwindled back toward mortality. The confines of her flesh closed in upon her, unexpected and suffocating. Her thoughts, that had extended to the boundaries of Beshtanag, became circumscribed by skin and bone. The dense forests, the harsh mountain crags; lost, all lost. Never again would she reach into the world beyond her fingers’ touch, not even toward the emptiness of Calandor’s absence. It was gone, all gone, and the sands of time that the Soumanië had held at bay began to trickle through the hourglass of her fate. Even now, she felt the slow decay of age creeping. Flesh would wither, bone would grow brittle.

  The Sorceress of the East was no more.

  In her place sat a mortal woman, a Pelmaran earl’s daughter, a vain and foolish woman who had lived beyond her allotted years and brought ruin upon herself and her people. In the face of her conquerors’ contempt, Lilias bowed her head, no longer able to meet their eyes. “Calandor,” she whispered to the empty space inside her. “Oh Calandor, I miss you!”

  Somewhere in the distance, Oronin’s Horn was blowing.

  STORMCLOUDS GATHERED OVER THE VALE of Gorgantum.

  Seated in his deep-cantled saddle atop one of the horses of Darkhaven, Vorax frowned, watching the roiling skies blot out the faint red disk of the sun. The terminal half-light of the Vale grew ominous. Beneath his resplendent armor, the scar that branded his sturdy chest itched and burned. Over plain and forest and rising hills, from the cleft of the Defile to the outermost boundaries of the walls, clouds gathered, dense and heavy. On the training-field, the Fjel broke ranks to glance uneasily at the skies.

  “A storm, do you reckon, sir?” Beside him, Hyrgolf squinted at the clouds.

  Vorax scratched at his armored chest with absentminded futility. His mount shifted restlessly, stamping a hoof. “I’m not sure.” His brand was beginning to sting as if there were a hornet’s nest lodged under his armor and there was a distinct tugging in the direction of the fortress. “No.” He shook his head. “No ordinary storm, anyway. Field marshal, cancel the exercise. Dismiss the troops.”

 
Hyrgolf roared a command in the Fjel tongue, a signal relayed by his bannerman. Pennants dipped and waved under the glowering skies, and a rumble of thunder answered. Thousands of Fjeltroll began to disperse in semi-orderly fashion, forming into winding columns and setting off at a slow, steady jog for their barracks.

  Above the looming edifice, clouds built. Layer upon layer they gathered, dark and billowing, echoing the towering structure below. Angry lightning flickered, illuminating the underbellies of the bruise-colored swells. Whatever they contained, it didn’t bode well for anyone caught on the field.

  “It’s his Lordship,” Hyrgolf observed. “He’s wroth.”

  “I think you’re right.” Vorax grimaced and bent over his pommel as pain clutched at his heart like a fist and the tugging sensation intensified. “Field marshal!” The words emerged in a grunt. “Help me. I have to get back there. Now.”

  “Aye, sir!” Hyrgolf gave a crisp salute and stooped to grasp the reins of Vorax’s mount a half a foot below the bit. “Make way!” he bellowed at the retreating backs of his army as he forged a path. “Way for Lord Vorax!”

  The columns wavered at his order and parted to create an alley. Through his pain, Vorax was dimly aware of being impressed at the discipline Tanaros had drilled into his troops and at the steady competence of the Tungskulder Fjel who commanded them. Then a bolt of lightning cracked the skies and thunder pealed. His mount, unwontedly skittish, sought to rear, tugging at the reins the Fjeltroll held in an iron grip. With his chest ablaze, it was all Vorax could do to stay upright in the saddle.

  Thunder pealed again, sharp and incisive, and the clouds split open to unleash their burden. The rain that spat down was greasy and unclean, reeking of sulfur. Worse, Vorax realized with a shudder, it burned like sulfur. It was an unnatural rain, carrying the taint of a Shaper’s fury. His flesh prickled beneath his armor, fearful of its touch on his skin, and he was glad his Staccian company wasn’t on the field.

  “Sir!” Hyrgolf was bawling in his ear, his hideous face looming close. Water dripped from his brow-ridges, carving steaming runnels in his obdurate hide. “Sir, I’ve called for a Gulnagel escort! It’s the fastest way!”

  Another seizure clutched at his chest, and his mount trumpeted with pain and fear, flaring its nostrils at the rain’s stench. “My thanks!” Vorax managed to gasp; and then the others were there, one on either side, a pair of Gulnagel baring their eyetusks as they leapt to secure his reins.

  They set out at a run, ignoring the deluge. The reins stretched taut and his horse followed anxiously in their wake, moving from a trot into a canter, settling into a gallop as the Gulnagel lengthened their strides into swift bounds. Their taloned feet scored deep gouges in the earth as they passed their hurrying brethren. Vorax clutched his deep pommel with both hands, concentrating on keeping his seat. The field was a blur. Corrosive rain sheeted from his Staccian armor and he tucked his chin tight against his chest, letting the visor of his helmet deflect the rain from his face; still, burning droplets pelted his cheeks. His mount squealed, steam arising from its sleek hide. The Fjel yelped and ran onward, leading him at breakneck speed.

  At the outermost postern gates, one of Ushahin’s madlings was dancing from foot to foot. He held out his hand for the reins in a pleading gesture, heedless of the bleeding scores the rain etched on his face. Still ducking his chin, Vorax struggled to free his feet from the stirrups as the Gulnagel helped him dismount. The madling crooned to his mount, shoulders hunched against the punishing rain.

  And then Vorax was on solid ground, screwing his eyes shut as burning moisture seeped under his visor, trickling down his brow. He heard hoofbeats echo on the flagstones as Ushahin’s madling led his horse at a run for the shelter of the stables. The obedient Gulnagel gripped his arms, hustling him through the rain toward the inner gate, where the Mørkhar Fjel of the Havenguard granted them passage.

  Beneath the tall, heavy ceilings they were safe from the rain. One of the Gulnagel spoke in their guttural tongue, and the Havenguard replied in the same. With deft care, Fjeltroll talons unbuckled straps, removing his armor piece by piece, lifting the helmet from his head. Rainwater dripped and sizzled harmlessly on the stone floor, making the entryway reek of rotten eggs. The Fjel wiped his sword-belt dry, settling it around his waist. Vorax braced his hands on his thighs and took a deep breath against the dizzying pain in his chest. Straightening, he wiped his brow with his sleeve. The fumes made his eyes sting as he opened them and a patch of blisters was rising on his forehead, but he was whole.

  “The army?” It was important to ask.

  “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.”

  “I know.” Vorax wiped his sweating, blistered brow and sighed. “My thanks, lads,” he said, and crossed the threshold. Inside, torches sprang alight with the marrow-fire. He squinted at the blue-white effluence, the shadows of his own body looming in the comers. Fair Arahila, he thought, you’ve a name for mercy, even his Lordship said so. What wouldn’t I give, now, for all that I’ve taken for granted? A meal fit for a king, a hungry king. A warm bath and a sweet lass to rub oil into my aching shoulders. Is it so much to ask? The red light of Godslayer flared, disrupting his thoughts. Pain seized his chest and hammered him to his knees.

  “Kill them!” Lord Satoris’ voice cracked like thunder, until the very walls creaked and trembled in protest. “Do you understand? I am giving this order. Kill them. Kill them ALL!”

  “My Lord!” Vorax gasped, floundering on the carpet. His eardrums ached with the pressure and his heart was beating so fast it threatened to burst his chest. I am too old for this, he thought, and too fat. “As you will, it shall be done!”

  There was silence, and the pressure abated. “Vorax. My words were meant for another. Tanaros Blacksword lives. He has won free of the Marasoumië.”

  “Good news, my Lord.” Gratefully, he struggled to his feet. He could see, now
. The black carpet stretching in front of him and the figure on the Throne, illumed in darkness. Vorax made his feet move. It was not hard, after all. That which compelled him was held in his Lord’s hands, a shard of red light pulsing like lifeblood. It reeled him onward as surely as a hook in his heart, and he placed one foot in front of the other until he stood before the Throne and gazed at Satoris’ face, hidden behind the aching void of the Helm of Shadows. “You summoned me?”

  “My Staccian.” The Shaper bent his head. “Yes. Matters have … transpired.”

  “Aye, my Lord.” It was hot within the Throne Hall, cursedly hot. The news about Tanaros was welcome. He did not think the rest would be. Vorax watched the dagger throbbing between the Shaper’s palms, held like a prayer-offering. The beat of his own scarred heart matched its rhythm. “What matters?”

  The shard flared in Satoris’ hands. “One of the Eldest has fallen.”

  Vorax swallowed, hard. “The Dragon of Beshtanag?”

  “Yes.” Through the eyeslits of the Helm of Shadows, the Shaper stared at him without blinking. “His name was Calandor, and he was old when I first walked the earth; oldest of all, save one. He was my friend, many ages ago.”

  Dire news, indeed. The Ellylon of old had slain dragons, but never one of the most ancient, the Eldest. Only in the Shapers’ War had that come to pass. In the face of the Helm’s hollow-eyed stare, Vorax had to look away. “How was it done?” he asked.

  Lord Satoris gave a mirthless laugh. “With the Arrow of Fire.”

  In the sweltering heat of the Throne Hall, his skin turned cold and clammy. Haomane’s Prophecy pounded like a litany in his skull. “They did it,” Vorax said, forcing the words past a lump of fear in his throat “Found the lost weapon”

  “Yes.” The Shaper contemplated the dagger in his hands. Godslayer’s flames caressed his fingers, shadows writhing in the Helm’s eyeslits. “They did. And they will be coming for us, my Staccian, these Allies of my Brother.” His head lifted and his eyes blazed to life. “But what they plan, I have seen! I dare what they did not think I would dare! I am not my Brother, to quail in mortality’s shadow! I dare to don the Helm, I dare to pluck Godslayer from the marrow-fire and see!”