Banewreaker
Page 46
But it had, and the Fjel were patient. Even drunk, even sated, the Fjel knew how to be patient. Now they had shaken off their torpor. They were awake, waiting and watching. If it took all night, they would wait all night. One did not survive, hunting in a cold clime, without patience.
In armed silence, they waited.
And in the small hours, there were new sounds.
There were footsteps, and whispering and hissing. Men’s voices, tight with fear and urgency. Liquid sounds, splashing. Skragdal’s nostrils widened, inhaling the sharp odor of seep oil. It was the same oil used in the lamps, only more, much more.
“Boss …” someone murmured.
He hoisted the axe in his right hand and settled his shield on his left arm, General Tanaros’ words ringing in his memory. Keep your shields up! “Soon,” he promised. “Keep your shields high, lads.”
They were alert, all of them. The earl was a fool if he reckoned them slaves to their appetites; Skragdal’s words had done the trick. Words; Men’s tools. He had used them well. In guttering lamplight, Fjel eyes gleamed under heavy brows. It made him proud to see the determination in Thorun’s visage; a fellow Tungskulder, here at his side. Broad shoulders for heavy burdens; so Neheris had said when she Shaped them.
Krick … krick … krick …
“A flint-striker,” one of the Gulnagel said unnecessarily.
Outside, flames whooshed into the air, licking at the dry, oil-soaked tinder. Inside, there were only slivers of brightness, showing between the planks. Smoke, grey and choking, crept under the door. Someone coughed.
“Now!” Skragdal shouted, hurling his weight at the door.
He remembered, and kept his shield high. It hit the stable door with splintering force, the full might of his charge behind it. The door burst outward in an explosion of sparks, singeing his hide. They were minor wounds; he had endured worse when the acid rain fell over Darkhaven, an understandable expression of Lord Satoris’ ire. He kept his head low, letting his charge carry him into the courtyard.
“Who is first?” Skragdal bellowed, axe in hand. “Who is first to die?”
There was no shortage of volunteers. It had been a dozen Men, no more, who had undertaken the mission. They died easily at the bite of his axe, dropping empty jugs of lampoil, cowering in their armor. Skragdal laughed aloud, feeling blood splash his arms, slick and warm on his hide. It felt good, at last, to do what he did best. He strode sure-footed across the cobblestones, laying about him like a Midlander harvesting hay. The earl’s Men poured through the doors of Gerflod Manor, emerging in scores, even as Fjel after Fjel leapt from the burning stable, joining him in the massacre until the narrow courtyard was churning and it was hard to find fighting-space. Over and over he swung his axe, rejoicing in the results. By the leaping flames of the stable he saw the terror in his attackers’ faces. It didn’t last long. Their swords and spears clattered ineffectually against his shield, against the heavy plates of his armor, glancing blows scratching his tough hide where it was unprotected. Neheris had Shaped her Children well. Meanwhile, the keen blade of his axe, swung by his strong arm, sheared through the thin metal of their armor, until the head was buried deep in soft flesh. Again and again, Skragdal struck, wrenching his axe loose to strike again. As their warm blood spilled, ebbing from their bodies, terror gave way to the calm stare of death.
Men died so easily.
“Sir! That was the last of them!” Someone was grappling with him; one of his own. A shield locked with his; over its rim, he met Thorun’s gaze. “You spoke of learning,” the Tungskulder reminded him.
“Aye.” Panting, Skragdal disengaged. “Aye, I did. My thanks.” He gave his head a shake, clearing the haze of battle-frenzy, and lowered his axe. The stable was engulfed in flame, blazing toward the heavens, throwing heat like a forge and illuminating a courtyard awash in blood. Everywhere the bodies of the earl’s Men lay strewn and discarded, pale flesh gouged with gaping wounds. Here and there, one groaned. The Nåltannen hunted through the dead, dispatching the dying. There were too many to count, but he reckoned a good number of the earl’s Men had died in the courtyard. More than the earl had intended to risk. Turning his head, he saw the doors of Gerflod Keep standing open and unbarred. “So,” he said. “Let us learn.”
Once the words were uttered, there was no stopping the Fjel. The Gulnagel, blood-spattered, howled, racing for the doors in great, bounding leaps. Even as they entered the Keep, Nåltannen caught up the cry and streamed after them, weapons clutched in gleaming steel talons, half-forgotten shields held low and dangling.
Skragdal sighed. “Summon the Kaldjager,” he said to Thorun. “We’ll need to leave this place. Swiftly.” Thorun nodded, thrusting his axe through his belt-loop, moving with steady deliberation through the flame-streaked darkness. A good lad, Skragdal thought, watching him go. A good one.
Gerflod Keep lay waiting, its open doors like the mouth of a grave.
Shouldering his axe, Skragdal trudged across the courtyard. He paused in the open door and cocked an eye toward the stable. Its roof sagged as a beam collapsed somewhere inside the burning structure, sending up a huge shower of sparks. Safe enough, he reckoned. Gerflod Keep was stone; stone wouldn’t burn.
He entered the Keep, his taloned feet leaving bloody prints on its marble floors, mingling with the tracks of the Fjel who had gone before. He followed their trail, opening his nostrils wide.
The stink of fear and lies had given way to the reek of terror and the stench of death. All along the way, Men lay dying; Gerflod’s Men, Earl Coenred’s men. Here and there, where they were unarmored and wore only livery, the Nåltannen had given in to old instincts, slitting their bellies with the swipe of a steel-taloned paw. Those Men groaned, dying hard. The Nåltannen had been in a hurry.
Skragdal snorted at the odor of perforated bowels, bulging and blueish through the rents in soft mortal flesh, oozing fecal matter. Those Men, clutching at their spilling entrails, still had terror in their eyes. Murmuring a prayer to Neheris, he raised his axe to dispatch them, one by one. Some of them, he thought, were grateful for it.
In the Great Hall, he found Osric and his Men. None of them were alive. Osric was leaning backward in his chair, grinning. A half-empty tankard sat in front of him and the hilt of a belt-knife protruded from his throat. It was a small knife, made for a Man’s hand, with the earl’s insignia on the hilt. A trail of blood lay puddled in his lap.
“Ah, Osric,” Skragdal said, with genuine sorrow. “I tried to tell you.”
The Staccian lieutenant continued to grin at the ceiling, wordless and blind. Near the head of the table there was a low groan and a scraping sound, a hissed curse. Skragdal trudged over to investigate.
On the floor, Earl Coenred writhed in his shadow, one hand clamped to his throat. Blood seeped through his fingers, where the rending marks of Nåltannen talons were visible. He did not, Skragdal thought, look so smooth with red blood bubbling on his ruddy lips. Stooping, he leaned in close enough to grasp a handful of the earl’s auburn hair and ask the question.
“Why?”
The earl’s eyes rolled up in his head, showing the whites. “The Galäinridder!” he gasped, catching his breath in a burbling laugh. “The Bright Rider, the Shining Paladin!” Droplets of blood spewed from his lips in a fine spray. “We did not welcome him, but he came. Out of nowhere, out of the mountains, he came, terrible to behold, and he told us, told us everything. Haomane’s Wrath is coming, and those who oppose him will pay. Even here, even in Staccia. There is nowhere to hide.” The earl’s face contorted as he summoned the will to spit out his last words. “You are dead, Fjeltroll! Dead, and you don’t even know it!”
“Not as dead as you,” Skragdal said, releasing his grip and straightening. Raising his axe, he brought it down hard, separating the earl’s head from his body.
The edge of his axe clove through flesh and bone and clanged on marble, gouging a trough in the floor and making his arms reverberate. Skragdal grunt
ed. The earl’s head rolled free, fetching up against a table leg. There, it continued to stare at him under drooping lids.
Dead, and you don’t even know it.
“Fjel!” Skragdal roared, straightening, adopting General Tanaros’ words without even thinking. “Fall out! Now!”
THIRTY-TWO
IT WAS DUE TO THE raven that no one else had yet died in the Unknown Desert.
Tanaros didn’t count the days; none of them did. What would be the point? None of them knew how long it would take to cross the desert on their meandering, uncharted course. When they could find shade, they rested by day and traveled by night. When there was no shade, which was most of the time, they marched beneath the white-hot sun. He put his trust in Fetch, in the gift of the Grey Dam Sorash, and led them staggering onward. Better, he reckoned, to walk toward death than let it find them waiting.
It didn’t.
Again and again, Fetch guided them to safety; to shade, to water. Hidden water-holes, drought-eaters, rocky ledges that cast deep shade, anthills, basking lizards, nests of mice: all these things the raven found. Tanaros followed his shadow across the parched earth, the raven’s squawk echoing in his ears, until they reached the place where the raven alighted. Again and again, Fetch preened with satisfaction upon their arrival, as they found themselves in a place where sustenance was to be had.
“How do you know?” Tanaros mused on one occasion, studying the raven where it perched on his forearm. “No raven ever traveled this desert, nor any Were. How do you know?”
The bright eyes gleamed. “Kaugh!”
It was a jumbled impression of thoughts that the raven projected; water, beetles and a tall palodus tree, a dragon’s head, rearing above the treetop. Over and over, the dragon’s head, ancient and iron-grey, dripping with swamp-water and vegetation, its jaws parted to speak or breathe flame.
“I don’t understand,” Tanaros told him.
Hopping onto a thorn-branch, Fetch settled and rattled his feathers.
“And why?” he asked the raven.
One bright eye cracked open a slit, showing him his quarters in Darkhaven, customary order giving way to mess and disarray. An injured nestling. A pair of hands, strong and capable, made to grip a sword-hilt, shaping themselves to cup feather and hollow bone with an unaccustomed tenderness.
“For that?” He swallowed. “It was a whim. A small kindness.”
“Kaugh.” The raven closed both eyes and slept.
In the end, he supposed, it didn’t matter. What mattered was that they survived, step by step, day by day. But it opened a chink in his heart, that might have sealed itself like stone against the thought of love. When the somber faces of Ngurra and the Yarru-yami haunted his dreams, it gave him a tiny brand to hold the darkness at bay.
A small kindness, a confluence of compassion, had saved his life. Was that strength, or a weakness?
Tanaros could not say. If there had been compassion in his heart the day he learned Calista and Roscus had betrayed him, perhaps he would have found the strength to walk away. What brought them together? Passion? Compassion? They had lacked the strength to resist desire. And yet that thought, too, was anathema. In their hearts, they had already made a cuckold of him. Had they been stronger, he would have spent his life living an unwitting lie, and the world would be a different place.
He did not know if it would be a better one.
Nothing was simple.
“Lord General?” Another day without shade, another day’s trek. If there were a chink in the wall of his heart, it was Speros who thrust a wedge into it. Recovered from the ravages of dehydration, the Midlander had shown surprising and stubborn resilience, regaining sufficient strength to place one foot in front of the other, day after day, refusing the aid of the Gulnagel. Now he turned a sunburnt face in Tanaros’ direction, his voice wistful. “What’s the Lady of the Ellylon like?”
“Like a woman,” he said shortly. “An Ellyl woman.”
“Oh.” Speros returned his gaze to the desert floor, watching his feet trudge across the sand. It crunched rhythmically under their boots, under the taloned feet of the Gulnagel, who traded glances over their heads. “I’ve never seen an Ellyl,” he said eventually. “I just wondered …”
“Yes.” Tanaros took a deep breath, the desert’s heat searing his lungs. “They’re very beautiful. She is very beautiful. Do you want to know how much?” He remembered Cerelinde in her chamber, the night he had bade her farewell, and how she had shone like a candle-flame, pale hair shining like a river against her jeweled robes as she turned away from him. Go then, and kill, Tanaros Blacksword! It is what you do. “So much that it hurts,” he said harshly. “So much it makes you pity Arahila for the poor job she made of Shaping us. We’re rough-hewn clay, Speros, a poor second next to her Elder Brother’s creation. So much it makes you despise Arahila for trying and falling so short, yet giving us the wit to know it. Is that what you wanted to hear?”
Speros glanced wryly at him. “Not exactly, my lord.”
“Well.” Despite himself, Tanaros smiled. The unfamiliar movement made the skin of his dry lips split. “You’ve seen Ushahin Dreamspinner.”
“No.” Speros shook his head. “I’ve only heard tales.”
“Ah.” Tanaros licked his split lip, tasting blood. “Well, he is a paltry, cracked mirror through which to behold the beauty of the Ellylon, but I imagine you’ll see him in time. And if the Dreamspinner isn’t Ellyl enough for you, unless I am much mistaken, you’ll encounter Ellylon aplenty on the battlefield, and be sorry you did, for they’re doughty fighters beneath their pretty hides.”
“Aye, Lord General.” For a few moments, the Midlander was silent. “I would like to see the Lady, though,” he mused. “Just to see her.”
Tanaros made no reply.
Speros glanced at him again. “Will Lord Satoris kill her, do you think?”
“No.” The word leapt too quickly from his cracked lips. Tanaros halted, rubbing his hands over his face. It felt gritty with sand and grime. His head ached from the effort of walking, from Speros’ questions, from too little food, and too much light. Once, in Beshtanag, he had welcomed the sight of it. Now he yearned for the dim, soothing light of Darkhaven, for the familiarity of its gleaming black walls and corridors. After the endless sunlight of the Unknown Desert, he wouldn’t be sorry if he never left the cloud-shrouded Vale of Gorgantum for another mortal lifespan. “Speros, save your breath. We’ve a long way to go yet today.”
“Aye, Lord General.”
This time the Midlander was properly subdued, and his silence lasted what Tanaros gauged to be the better part of a league. He set as brisk a pace as he dared, rendering further speech impossible. He wished he could outpace his own thoughts. There were too many words etched into his memory, chasing themselves around and around in his mind. Cerelinde’s voice, his Lordship’s, Ngurra’s … and now Speros’, his voice with its broad Midlands accent, asking a question in innocent curiosity.
Will Lord Satoris kill her, do you think?
The thought of it made his palms itch and bile rise in his throat. He remembered altogether too well how his wife’s face had looked in death; blind eyes staring, all her lively beauty turned to cold clay. Even in his fury it had sickened him. The thought of seeing Cerelinde thusly was unbearable.
He was glad when the landscape made one of its dull, inhospitable shifts from rippled sand to barren red earth, dotted here and there with thorn-brush. Loose rocks and scattered boulders made the footing tricky, and it was a relief to have to concentrate on the task of walking. Fetch’s shadow wavered on the uneven ground, then vanished as the raven veered westward, becoming a tiny black dot in the unbroken blue sky, then disappearing altogether. Tanaros led his company in the direction the raven had taken, keeping its flight-path fixed in his mind and placing his feet with care. There was little else to relieve the tedium. Once, a hopping-mouse broke cover under a thorn-brush, bounding into the open in unexpected panic.
“No, Krolgun,” Tanaros said, remembering Freg, and how he had offered him a handful of termites. “It’s yours.” He looked away as the Fjel devoured it whole, hoping the scant nourishment was worth the effort.
Another hour, and another. Tanaros slowed their pace, scanning the skies with growing concern. He forgot to watch his steps, fixing his gaze on the sky. Had he kept their path true to the trajectory of Fetch’s flight? He thought so, but it was hard to tell in the featureless desert. They had been too long on the march, and their waterskins were dwindling toward empty. Nearby he could hear Krolgun still panting, his steps beginning to drag. The others were little better and, crane his neck though he would, there was no sign of the raven.
Only the empty blue skies, filled with the glare of Haomane’s Wrath.
“Lord General?” Speros’ voice, cracked and faint.
“Not now, Speros,” he said impatiently.
“Lord General!” The Midlander’s hand clutched his arm, dragging his attention from the empty skies. Speros’ mouth was working, though no further words emerged. With his other hand, he pointed westward, where a line of twisted forms broke the horizon. “Look!” he managed at length.
Frowning, Tanaros followed his pointing finger. “Are those … trees?”
“Aye!” Releasing his arm, Speros broke into a mad, capering dance. “Jack pines, Lord General!” he shouted. “Good old Midlands jack pines! General!” There were tears glistening in his eyes, running down his sunburnt face. “We’ve reached the edge!”