Banewreaker

by Jacqueline Carey

  “Gojdta mahk åxrekke …” The young Fjel struggled to his knees, holding his right arm extended and trembling, clawed fist clenched. “Take my axe-hand,” he said thickly in the common tongue. “I kill him. I pay.”

  “No.” Tanaros glanced round at the watchful Fjeltroll, the chagrined Staccians straggling back on their wind-blown mounts. “The first fault was mine. I chose this place without knowing its dangers. Let it be a lesson learned, a bitter one. We are at war. There are no safe places left in the world, and our survival depends on discipline.” He bent and retrieved Thorun’s axe, proffering it haft-first “Hold ranks,” he said grimly. “Follow orders. And keep your shields up. Is this understood?”

  “General!” Hyrgolf saluted, the others following suit.

  The young Fjel Thorun accepted his axe.

  THE TASTE OF FREEDOM WAS sweet; as sweet as the Long Grass in blossom, and as fleeting. She felt the Host of Numireth disperse, its bright presence fading. She felt the Misbegotten’s thought flung out across the plains, a thread of will spun by an unwholesome spider of a mind.

  If he had reached for her, Cerelinde might have resisted. Even with the Helm of Shadows, he was weak from the ordeal and here, on the threshold of Cuilos Tuillenrad, she was strong. The old Ellylon magics had not vanished altogether.

  But no, he was cunning. He turned her mount instead.

  She had dared to hope when it had raced willingly at her urging; another of Haomane’s Children’s ancient charms, the ability to sooth the minds of lesser beasts. But the horses of Darkhaven were willful and warped by the Sunderer’s Shaping, with great strength in their limbs and malice in their hearts. It fought against her charm and the bit alike, its eyes roiling with vile amusement as it turned in a vast circle to answer the Misbegotten’s call.

  She let it carry her back to the ruined city, its path carving a wake through the long grass. There Tanaros stood, watching and awaiting her return. Her dark-dappled mount bore her unerringly to him then stopped, motionless and quiescent.

  “Lady,” Tanaros said, bowing to her. “A noble effort. Bravely done.”

  Cerelinde searched his face for mockery, finding none. “Would you have done otherwise?” she asked.

  “No,” he said simply. “I would not.”

  Behind him, grunting Fjel wielded their maces with mighty blows, breaking the chalcedony slabs into rubble, demolishing forever the inscriptions upon them. They were porting massive chunks of moon-blue stone and heaping them atop a fallen comrade to form a cairn. Cerelinde felt herself turn pale at the sight. “They are destroying the resting-place of my ancestors!” Her voice shook. “Ah, Haomane! Is it not enough the city was destroyed long ago? Must you permit this desecration?”

  Tanaros’ expression hardened. “Lady,” he said, “Your ancestors marched against theirs long before the City of Long Grass fell. Marched into Neherinach, and took arms against Neheris’ Children in the high mountains. Do you blame them?”

  Two spots of color rose on her cheeks. “They chose to shelter the Sunderer!”

  “Yes.” He held her gaze. “They did.”

  Cerelinde shook her head. “I do not understand you,” she said in a low tone. “I will never understand. Why do you serve one such as Satoris Banewreaker, who exists only to destroy such beauty?”

  Tanaros sighed. “Lady, these ruins have stood untouched for centuries. It was you who sought to make a weapon of them,” he reminded her. “For that, I do not blame you. Do me the courtesy of understanding that I must now destroy them in turn.”

  Though his words were just, her heart ached within her breast. The Fjel maces swung onward, breaking and smashing, each blow further diminishing the presence of the Rivenlost in the Sundered World. Never again would the wraiths of the valiant dead of the House of Numireth ride the plains of Curonan. “You did not have to choose this,” Cerelinde whispered. “My paltry effort caused you no harm.”

  “No harm?” Tanaros stared at her. “Lady Cerelinde, I do not begrudge you either your valor or your vengeance, but I pray you, spare me your hypocrisy. One of my lads lies dead, and that is harm aplenty.” Contempt laced his voice. “Unless that is not what such a word means to your people.”

  Without another word, he walked away.

  Cerelinde bowed her head, weary and defeated. It was true, she had forgotten about the slain Fjeltroll. Until this moment, she had not known it was possible for a Man to mourn the passing of such a creature.

  It seemed it was.

  She did not understand.

  USHAHIN DREAMSPINNER SLEPT, AND DREAMED.

  On the plains of Curonan, the wind blew low and steady, soughing through the heart-grass. The city of Cuilos Tuillenrad lay three leagues to the south, and the dead lay quiet in it, including Bogvar of the Tungskulder Fjel, who slept the sleep of the dead beneath a cairn of Ellylon rubble.

  On the plains, the Cold Hunters stood sentry, watching the grass bow in the wind through yellow eyes that could see in the dark. Even so, Field Marshal Hyrgolf walked the perimeter with heavy steps, peering into the night. No Fjel were to have died on this mission, and his heart was uneasy.

  General Tanaros slept, fitful in his bedroll.

  In a simple hide tent, Cerelinde of the Ellylon did not sleep, and her eyes were open and wakeful onto the world.

  These, the Dreamspinner passed over.

  Over and over, ranging far afield. Outside the warded valley of Meronil, he sifted through the sleeping thoughts of Altorian warriors, flinching at their violence as they dreamed of a council of war in the halls of the Rivenlost. On the rocking waters of Harrington Bay, he brushed the mind of a dozing Staccian lieutenant, filled with reef-knots and mainsails and a dagger stuck in a Free Fisherman’s throat.

  Further.

  Further.

  A dry land, so dry the ravens feared it.

  There, he found seven minds sheltered, warded against incursions in one manner or another. One, that shone like a red star, he avoided like plague. One was Ellyl, and made him shudder. One was wary, bound with suspicion. One dreamed only of the bow’s tension, the drawn string quivering, the arrow’s quick release.

  One dreamed of water, following the veins of the earth, carrying a digging-stick.

  One dreamed of marrow-fire and clutched his throat.

  But one; ah! One seethed with resentment and dreamed of what displeased him, and his envy made brittle the wardings that protected him until his thoughts trickled through the cracks and he might be known, his place located and found upon the face of Urulat, his destination discerned. Hobard of Malumdoorn was his name, and he was Vedasian. A young knight, given his spurs only because of his family’s long association with the Dwarfs and the secret they guarded. Were it not for that, he would never have been knighted, never sent to Meronil to confer with the wise.

  Never chosen for the Company of Malthus.

  In the darkness, Ushahin smiled, and woke.

  Sitting cross-legged, he summoned the ravens of Darkhaven.

  TEN

  SUNLIGHT FLOODED THE GREAT HALL of Meronil, streaming through the tall windows. The slender panes of translucent blue flanking the clear expanses of glass laid bars of sapphire light across the polished wood of the long table.

  Ingolin the Wise surveyed those assembled.

  “There are tidings,” he said to them. “Good and ill.”

  “Give us the bad news.” It was Aracus Altorus who spoke. The loss of Cerelinde had struck him hard, etching lines of sorrow and self-blame into his features. No longer did the ageless Ellylon behold the Altorian king-in-exile and reckon him young for one of his kind.

  “The Lady Cerelinde’s abductors elude us,” Ingolin said. “Even now, we pursue them across the waters. But hope dwindles.”

  “Why?” Aracus’ voice was grim. “Do our allies fail us?”

  Duke Bornin of Seahold cleared his throat. “Kinsman, I have bargained with the Council of Harrington Bay on our behalf, and all aid they have given us. This much i
s known. The miscreants booked passage to Port Calibus aboard the Ilona’s Gull. Witnesses in the harbor attest to the fact that the Lady Cerelinde was with them, and seemingly unharmed. But,” he said somberly, “ships returning from Vedasia report passing no such vessel en route. I fear they changed their course at sea.”

  There was silence in the great hall.

  “So we have lost them?” A single frown-line knit the perfect brow of the Lady Nerinil, who spoke for the surviving members of the House of Numireth.

  “Yes.” Ingolin bowed his head to her. “For now. If they are bound for Port Calibus, we will intercept them there. If not—”

  “Lord Ingolin, we know where they are bound. All signs point to Beshtanag.” Aracus Altorus flattened his hands in a patch of blue light atop the table. “The question is whether or not the Rivenlost and our allies dare to challenge the Sorceress of the East.” His face was hard with resolve. “Ingolin, I fear the Sorceress and the Soumanië she wields, that we must face without the aid of Malthus the Counselor. I fear the Dragon of Beshtanag in his ancient lair. But I fear more hearing you say, ‘hope dwindles.” He raised his chin an inch, sunlight making a brightness of his red-gold hair. “Cerelinde lives, Ingolin. The Prophecy lives, and where there is life, there is hope. The Borderguard of Curonan will not despair.”

  “Nor do I suggest it,” Ingolin said gently. “Son of Altorus, did I not say there were glad tidings among the sorrowful?” Turning in his chair, the Lord of the Rivenlost beckoned to an attendant, who came forward to set a gilded coffer on the table before him. It was inlaid with gems, worked with the device of the Crown and Souma.

  “That is the casket Elterrion the Bold gave to Ardrath, Haomane’s Counselor, is it not?” the Lady Nerinil inquired.”

  “Yes.” Ingolin nodded. “And it passed to Malthus, who gave it to me. ‘Ward it well, old friend,’ he told me, ‘for I have attuned the humble stone within it to the Gem I bear. If it kindles, you may know we have succeeded.’”

  And so saying, he opened the casket.

  It blazed.

  It blazed with light, a rough shard of tourmaline, spilling pale blue light across the polished surface of the table like water in the desert. Incontrovertible and undeniable, the signal of Malthus the Counselor shone like a beacon.

  “The Unknown,” said Ingolin, “is made Known.”

  And he told them of the Water of Life.

  STRIPPED TO THEIR BREECHES AND sweating, the riders straggled along the riverbank, each picking his path through sedge grass. Insects rose in buzzing clouds at their passage, and even the horses of Darkhaven shuddered, flicking their tails without cease. Little else lived along the lower reaches of the Verdine River, which flowed torpid and sluggish out of the stagnant heart of the Delta itself.

  “Sweet Arahila have mercy! I’d give my left stone for a good, hard frost.”

  Snicker, snicker. “Might as well, Vilbar. It’s no use to you.”

  “A sodding lot you know! I’ve had girls wouldn’t give you a drink in the desert”

  “Wishing don’t make it so.”

  “Wish we were in the desert. At least it would be dry.”

  “Wish I had a girl right now. This heat makes me pricklish.”

  “Have a go at Turin, why don’t you? He’s near pretty enough.”

  “Sod you all!”

  “Quiet!” At the head of their ragged column, Carfax turned to glare at his men. They drew rein and fell into muttering silence. “Right,” he said. “It’s going to get worse before it gets better. If you think this is bad, wait until we get into the Delta. In the meantime, save your breath and keep your flapping jaws shut.”

  “Who’s going to hear us out here, lieutenant?” Mantuas gestured, indicating the broad expanse of sedge grass, the open sky. “The local frog-hunters? There’s not a living soul in shouting distance! Vedasian patrols wouldn’t bother getting their gear muddy this close to the stinking Verdine. Look around you, there’s …” He stopped, staring.

  To the west, three specks in the sky.

  “Ravens,” someone breathed.

  “Hey!” Turin dragged the Lady Cerelinde’s cloak from his saddlebag, waving it in the air. “The Dreamspinner must have sent them to find us, lieutenant. Mayhap they carry a message. Here!” he shouted, waving the white cloak. Gilt embroidery and tiny rubies flashed in the sun. “We’re over here!”

  High above, a half league to the west, the ravens paused, circling.

  “Over here!” Turin shouted. “Here!”

  “Idiot!” Carfax jammed his heels into his mount’s sides, plowing through the sedge grass to snatch the cloak away. “They’re not looking for us.”

  “Then what” Turin shoved his fist against his teeth. “Ah, no!”

  A faint streak, tipped with a spark of sunlit steel; one, two, three. Arrows, shot into the sky, arcing impossibly high, impossibly accurate. A burst of feathers, small bundles of darkness plummeting; one, two, three.

  “Haomane’s Allies.” Mantuas swallowed. “You think they found the ship, lieutenant? Are they after us?”

  “They couldn’t have found the damned ship.” It had been near dusk on the second day at sea when Carfax had dispatched the captain of the Ilona’s Gull, planting a dagger in the side of his throat. An ignoble death, but a swift one. His men had seen to the crew, and together, under cover of darkness, they’d gotten the ship headed north, making landfall the next day at the fetid, uninhabited mouth of the Verdine. “Why would they look there?”

  Turin retrieved the Ellyl cloak and folded it away, not meeting his eyes. “We were seen crossing the Traders’ Road, lieutenant.”

  “We were supposed to be seen. Heading north, overland to Pelmar.” Carfax passed a hand over his face, found it oily with sweat. If he looked anything like his men, he looked a mess, the walnut dye darkening his skin to a Pelmaran hue streaking in the humid heat. That had been the last effort of their pretense, crossing the old overland trade route that ran between Seahold and Vedasia. Since then, they’d seen no other travelers and had let their guises fail. “We’ve made good time. They couldn’t have followed that quickly.”

  “Well, someone did.”

  They watched him, waiting; waiting on him, Carfax of Staccia. His comrades, his countrymen. There was no one else in command in this desolate, humid wasteland. What, Carfax thought, would General Tanaros do if he were here?

  “Right,” he said smartly. “Someone did. Let’s find out who.”

  THEY HAD REACHED THE DEFILE’S Maw.

  It was aptly named, a dark, gaping mouth in the center of the jagged peaks that reared out of the plains, surrounding and protecting the Vale of Gorgantum. They looked to have been forced out of the raw earth by violent hands, those mountains; in a sense, it was true, for Lord Satoris had raised them. It was his last mighty act as a Shaper, drawing on the power of Godslayer before he placed the shard of the Souma in the flames of the marrow-fire. It had nearly taken the last reserves of his strength, but it had made Darkhaven into an unassailable fortress.

  Tanaros breathed deep, filling his lungs with the air of home. All around him, he saw the Fjel do the same, hideous faces breaking into smiles. The Staccians relaxed, sitting easier in the saddle. Even Ushahin Dreamspinner gave a crooked smile.

  “We are bound there?”

  He studied the Lady Cerelinde, noting the apprehension in her wide-set eyes. They were not grey, exactly. Hidden colors whispered at the edges of her pleated irises; a misty violet, luminous as the inner edge of a rainbow. “It is safe, Lady. Hyrgolf’s Fjel will not let us fall.”

  She clutched the neck of her rough-spun cloak and made no answer.

  Kaldjager Fjel ran ahead up the narrow path, bodies canted forward and loping on knuckled forelimbs, pausing to raise their heads and sniff the wind with broad nostrils. They climbed the steep path effortlessly, beckoning for their comrades to follow.

  “Lady,” Hyrgolf rumbled, gesturing.

  One by one, they followed, al
ternating Fjel and riders. The horses of Darkhaven picked their way with care, untroubled by the sheer drops, the steep precipice that bordered the pathway. Below them, growing more distant at each step, lay the empty bed of the Gorgantus River. Only a trickle of water coursed its bottom, acrid and tainted.

  At the top of the first bend, one of the Kaldjager gave a sharp, guttural call.

  A pause, and it was answered.

  It came from the highest peaks, a wordless roar, deep and deafening. Thunder might make such a sound, or rocks, cascading in avalanche. It rattled bones and thrummed in the pits of bellies, and Tanaros laughed aloud to hear it.

  “Tordenstem Fjel,” he shouted in response to the panicked glance Cerelinde threw him over her shoulder. “Have no fear! They are friends!”

  She did fear, though; he supposed he couldn’t blame her. It had taken him hard, a thousand and more years gone by. A Man in his prime, with blood on his hands and a heart full of fury and despair, riding in answer to a summons he barely understood.

  Bring your hatred and your hurt and serve me …

  Then, he had shouted in reply; had faced the Tordenstem as it crouched atop the peak with its barrel chest and mouth like a howling tunnel, and shouted his own defiant reply, filled with the fearless rage of a Man to whom death would be a welcome end. And the Tordenstem, the Thunder Voice Fjel, had laughed, barrel chest heaving, ho! ho! ho! Maybe you are the one his Lordship seeks, scrawny pup!

  And it had been so, for he was; one of the Three, and the Tordenstem had led him along the treacherous passage to Darkhaven, where he pledged his life to Lord Satoris, who had withdrawn Godslayer from the marrow-fire and branded him with its hilt, circumscribing his aching heart. A haven, a haven in truth, sanctuary for his wounded soul …

  “What?” Echoing words penetrated his reverie; the Tordenstem sentry—kinsman, perhaps, of the long-dead Fjel who had intercepted him, was shouting a message, incomprehensible syllables crashing like boulders. Tanaros shook himself, frowning, and called to his field marshal. “What did he say?”