Banewreaker

by Jacqueline Carey

  A grin stretched Carfax’s face. Lord Satoris would be pleased, mightily pleased. Mayhap pleased enough to consider making the Three into Four. Immortality would be a fine thing, indeed.

  He drew his sword. “For the honor of Darkhaven!”

  TWELVE

  THE GARRISON HAD TURNED OUT for their return, rank upon rank of Fjel flanking the approach to Darkhaven, holding formation with military discipline, issuing crisp salutes.

  It was an imposing sight. It was meant to be.

  All the tribes were represented; Tungskulder, Mørkhar, Gulnagel, Tordenstem, Nåltannen, Kaldjager. Tanaros gazed over a sea of Fjel, with thick hides of smooth grey, of a pebbled greenish-brown, or black with bristles. His troops, his men. They wore their armor with pride, pounding the butts of their spears in steady rhythm. They kept their shields raised.

  “So many!” Cerelinde whispered.

  Tanaros bowed from the saddle. “Welcome to Darkhaven, Lady.”

  Before them loomed the edifice itself, twin towers rearing against an overcast sky, dwarfing the entrance until they drew near enough to see that the portal itself was massive; thrice the height of any Fjel. The bar had been raised and the brass-bound inner doors flung open.

  In the entrance stood Vorax of Staccia, gleaming in ceremonial armor.

  “Lady Cerelinde of the Rivenlost!” he called. “Lord Satoris welcomes you.”

  At his words, a stream of madlings spewed forth from the interior of the fortress, surging into their midst to lay hands on the bridles of their horses. Tanaros dismounted, and helped the Lady down. He felt her trembling underneath his touch.

  Her gaze was locked with the Staccian’s. “This hospitality is a gift unwanted, Lord Glutton.”

  Vorax shrugged. “It is a gift nonetheless, Lady. Do not disdain it. Hey! Dreamspinner!” He clapped Ushahin on the shoulder. “Still sky-gazing? I hear you did well in the Dale, wielding the Helm of Shadows.”

  The half-breed muttered some reply, moving away from the Staccian’s touch, the helm’s case clutched under his arm. Tanaros frowned. Why were the ravens circling? He spared a thought for Fetch as he approached the entrance, hoping the scapegrace was unharmed.

  “Blacksword.” The Staccian clasped his forearm.

  “Vorax. Your men did well. Commend them for me.”

  “I’ll do that.” Vorax paused, lowering his voice. “His Lordship awaits you, Blacksword; you and the Ellyl. Come see me when he’s done.”

  “The captive?”

  “Aye.”

  “I’ll be there.” An escort of Mørkhar Fjel stood waiting just inside the vast doors; four brethren all of a height, the silver inlay on their weapons-harnesses contrasting with their dark, bristling hides. “Dreamspinner?”

  “You go, cousin.” Ushahin thrust the helm’s case into his unready arms. “You took the risks, not I. Tell Lord Satoris … tell him I am in the rookery. I will make my report anon.”

  “All right.” Tanaros frowned again. It should have been a glorious homecoming, this moment; it was a glorious homecoming. The Prophecy had been averted, and the Lady of the Ellylon was theirs. She didn’t look it, though. As frightened as Cerelinde was—and she was frightened, he’d felt it in his fingertips—she held herself with dignity. “Lady. Are you ready?”

  Wide, her eyes; wide and grey, luminous as mist. “I do not fear the Sunderer.”

  “Then come,” Tanaros said grimly, “and meet him.”

  THE SEDGE GRASS APPEARED TO bow at their approach, flattening as if a great wind preceded them. Carfax, sword in hand, found a Staccian battle-song on his lips as he rode. He sang it aloud, heard other voices echoing the words.

  To battle, to battle, to battle! What a glorious thing it was! The horses of Darkhaven, who had borne them so faithfully, were bred to this purpose. His mount sensed it, nostrils flaring, the broad chest swelling with air as its hooves battered the marshy plains.

  And there, ahead: The Enemy.

  Malthus’ Company had heard their approach, the hooves drumming like thunder. They prepared, as best they could, making a stand on the open sedge. Carfax watched them encircle the Charred Ones, back to back to back.

  “Fan out!” he cried, seeking to pick his target.

  The Staccian riders divided, two wings opening to encompass the tight-knit company, which they outnumbered nearly three to one. Which one, which one? The old Counselor, staff in hand? The Vedasian, glaring defiance? The Archer, coolly nocking arrows? The Ellyl lordling with his bright eyes, sword braced over his shoulder?

  Ah, no, Carfax thought. You, Borderguardsman. You, in your dun cloak and false modesty. Unless I am much mistaken, I think you are charged with the protection of this Company, Blaise Caveros, my General’s kinsman. We are of an age, you and I; but I am Tanaros’ disciple, and you are Altorus’ dog. Let us cross steel, shall we?

  He swung close, close enough to exchange blows. His round Pelmaran shield rang with the force of the Borderguard’s strength; rang, and held true. Carfax kneed his mount and swung away, exultant. In the center of their circle, the Charred lad looked wild-eyed, clutching a flask at his throat. Only his kinsman, the fat one, stood at his side, wielding a digging-stick like a quarterstaff, huffing as he did.

  Carfax laughed aloud.

  Thrum, thrum, thrum.

  Arrows, flying level as a bee to clover. Two Staccians cried out, fell. The Archer of Arduan had dismounted, kneeling on the marshy soil; the Vedasian knight protected her, swinging his father’s sword with ferocious blows.

  “Take the Archer!” Carfax cried, readying for another pass at the Borderguard.

  He was aware, distantly, of his men closing in on Malthus’ Company, overwhelming them by sheer force; surging past the old Counselor, peeling the Vedasian away from the Archer and surrounding her, penetrating the silvery circle of defense the Ellyl wove with the point of his blade. A surprise, there on the inside, how deftly the fat one wielded his digging-stick, protecting his young kinsman.

  It didn’t matter, though. They were too few, and Carfax’s men too many. He watched Blaise Caveros angle for position, setting his sword a touch too high. A good trick, that, good for luring in an overconfident enemy. General Tanaros had devised it a thousand years ago and taught it to his troops, as well as how to evade it.

  All those hours on the practice-field paid a reward.

  Carfax shifted his grip on his sword, digging his heels into his mount’s sides. Let him believe, he thought, bearing down on his dun-cloaked opponent. Let him believe I have taken the gambit, and at the last moment, I shall strike high where he looks for low …

  “Enough!”

  It was Malthus who spoke, and the Counselor spread his arms, his staff in his right hand. There, gleaming through the parted strands of his beard, was the Soumanië. Red, it was, like a star, and it shone upon his breast, until no one could look away. A ruddy glow rippled in the air and a force struck like a hammer.

  And the world … changed.

  Carfax felt it, felt his mount’s knees buckle beneath him, shifting and … changing. He hit the ground, hard, flung from the saddle. Like a vast wave, the might of the Souma overtook them all. Horses fell, and Men. The Counselor closed his eyes as if in pain, wielding the Soumanië. In the space of a shrieked breath, Staccian and equine flesh crumbled to loam, fingers sprouted tendrils and strands of hair sank rootlets into the earth. Shaped from their bodies, hummocks arose on the flat marshes, marking the territory forevermore.

  Where they fell, sedge grass grew.

  Except for Carfax.

  He tried to move, the cheek-plates of his Pelmaran helmet scraping the rich loam. No more could he do; the strength had left his limbs. Only his senses worked. Through helpless eyes, he watched as the Borderguardsman’s booted feet approached. Ungentle hands rolled him onto his back and patted him down, taking his belt-knife. His sword had been lost when he fell. Lying on his back, Carfax stared helpless at a circle of empty sky.

  “Is he … dead?” A
soft voice, an unplaceable accent.

  “No.”

  A face hovered above him; young and dark, rough-hewn, with wide-set eyes. Sunlight made a nimbus of his coarse black hair and an earthenware flask dangled around his neck, swinging in the air above Carfax.

  “Stand back, Dani.” It was a weary shadow of the Counselor’s voice. “It may yet be a trap.”

  The face withdrew. A boot-tip prodded his side. “Shall I finish him?”

  “No.” Unseen, Malthus the Counselor drew a deep breath. “We’ll bring him with us. Let me regain a measure of strength, and I’ll place a binding upon him. There may be aught to learn from this one.”

  Unable even to blink, Carfax knew despair.

  MADLINGS SKITTERED ALONG THE HALLS of Darkhaven, their soft voices echoing in counterpoint to the steady tramp of the Fjel escort’s feet. Old and young, male and female, they crept almost near enough to touch the hem of the Lady Cerelinde’s cloak before dashing away in an ecstasy of terror.

  It had been a long time, Tanaros realized, since he’d seen Darkhaven through an outsider’s eyes. It must seem strange and fearful.

  Inward and inward wound their course, through hallways that spiraled like the inner workings of a nautilus shell. There were other passageways, of course; secret ones, doors hidden in alcoves, behind tapestries, in cunning reliefs. Some were in common usage, like those that led to the kitchens. Some were half-forgotten, and others existed only as rumor. Madlings used many, of course, taking care not to be seen. Vorax disdained them, and Ushahin preferred them. Tanaros used them at need. The Fjel used them not at all, for the passages were too winding and narrow to admit them. No one knew all their secrets.

  Only Lord Satoris, who conceived them—or their beginnings.

  And so the main halls spiraled, vast curving expanses of polished black marble, lit only by the veins of marrow-fire along the walls. It was a winding trap for would-be invaders, Fjel guards posted at regular intervals like hideous statues. It should have awed even the Lady of the Ellylon.

  Tanaros stole a sidelong glance at her to see if it did.

  There were tears in her luminous eyes. “So many!” she whispered, and he thought she meant the Fjel again; then he saw how her gaze fell on the madlings. She paused, one hand extended, letting them draw near enough to touch and turning a reproachful look upon him. “Merciful Arahila! What manner of cruelty is this, Tanaros? What has been done to these folk?”

  “Done?” He stared at her. “They sought sanctuary here.”

  “Sanctuary?” Her brows, shaped like birds’ wings, rose. “From what?”

  “From the world’s cruelty, which drove them to madness.” Tanaros reached out, grabbing the arm of the nearest madling; by chance, it was one he knew. A woman, young when she came to Darkhaven, elderly now, with a birthmark like a dark stain that covered half her wrinkled face. “This, my Lady, is Sharit. Her parents sold her into marriage to a man who was ashamed of her, and beat her for his shame. Do you see, here?” He touched her skull beneath wispy hair, tracing a dent. “He flung her against a doorjamb. Here, no one will harm her, on pain of death. Is that cruelty?”

  “You’re frightening her,” Cerelinde said softly.

  It was true. Repentant, he released the madling. Sharit keened, creeping to crouch at Cerelinde’s skirts, fingers plucking. The Mørkhar escort waited, eyeing Tanaros. “I didn’t mean to,” he said.

  “I know.” She smiled kindly at the madling, laying a gentle hand on the withered cheek, then glanced at Tanaros. “Very well. I do not deny the world’s cruelty, General. But your Lord, were he compassionate, could have healed her suffering. You said as much; he offered to heal the half-breed.” Her delicate fingers stroked Sharit’s birthmark, and the madling leaned into her touch. “He could have made her beautiful.”

  “Like you?” Tanaros asked quietly.

  Cerelinde’s hands fell still. “No,” she said. “Like you.”

  “Like Arahila’s Children. Not Haomane’s.” Shifting the Helm of Shadows under one arm, Tanaros stooped, meeting the old woman’s eyes. They were milky with cataracts, blinking under his regard. “You don’t understand,” he said to Cerelinde, gazing at Sharit. “To Lord Satoris, she is beautiful.”

  There was magic in the words, enough to summon a smile that broke like dawn across the withered face. Taking his hand, she rose, proceeding down the hall with upright dignity.

  Tanaros bowed to Cerelinde.

  Her chin lifted a notch. “It would still be kinder to heal her. Do you deny it?”

  “You have charged my Lord with Sundering the world,” he said. “Will you charge him now with healing it?”

  One of the Mørkhar shifted position, coughing conspicuously into a taloned fist.

  “It’s in his power, Tanaros.” Passion and a light like hope lit Cerelinde’s eyes. “It is, you know! Did he but surrender to Haomane and abide his will—”

  Tanaros laughed aloud. “And Haomane’s Children accuse his Lordship of pride! Be sure to tell him that, Lady.”

  She drew her cloak around her. “I shall.”

  USHAHIN DREAMSPINNER STEPPED AS LIGHTLY as any Ellyl under the canopy of beech leaves, grown thicker and darker with the advent of summer. Setting loose his awareness, he let it float amid the trunks and branches, using the ancient magic the Grey Dam Sorash had taught him so long ago.

  Ah, mother!

  Tiny sparks of mind were caught in his net; feathered thoughts, bright-eyed and darting. One, two, three … five. Folding his legs, Ushahin sat in the beech loam, asking and waiting. What is it, little brothers? What has befallen your kin?

  A raven landed on a nearby branch, wiped its beak twice.

  Another sidled close.

  Three perched on the verge of an abandoned nest.

  Thoughts, passed from mind to mind, flickered through his awareness. Not a thing seen, no; none who had seen lived to show what had happened in the dark shimmering of the Ravensmirror. Only these traces remained, drifting like down in the flock’s awareness. Marshes, an endless plain of sedge grass. A high draft, warm under outspread wings. A target found, a goal attained. One two three four seven, circling lower, a good draft, good to catch, wings tilting, still high, so high, only close enough to see—

  Arrow!

  Arrow!

  Arrow!

  And death, sharp-pointed and shining, arcing from an impossible distance; the thump of death, a sharp blow to the breast, a shaft transfixed, wings failing, a useless plummet, down and down and down, blue sky fading to darkness, down and down and down—

  Earthward.

  Death.

  The memory of the impact made his bones ache. Ushahin opened his eyes. The living ravens watched him, carrying the memories of their fallen brethren, waiting and wondering. I am sorry, little ones. It was dangerous, more dangerous than I reckoned. Malthus was clever to bring an Archer.

  What was the Company of Malthus doing in the Vedasian marshes?

  Ushahin stared at the cloud-heavy sky, seen in glimpses through the beech canopy. It was early yet, too early for the dreams of Men to be abroad. He sighed, flexing his crippled hands. Tonight, then. When the moon rode high over the Vale of Gorgantum, darkness would be encroaching on the marshes.

  Time to walk in their dreams.

  THE DOORS TO THE THRONE Hall stood three times higher than a tall man, wrought of hammered iron. On them was depicted the War of the Shapers.

  The left-hand door bore the Six: Haomane, chiefest of all; Arahila, his gentle sister; Meronin, lord of the seas; Neheris of the north; Yrinna the fruitful; and Oronin, the Glad Hunter. Haomane had raised his hand in wrath, and before him was the Souma—an uncut ruby as big as a sheep’s heart, glinting dully in a rough iron bezel.

  On the right-hand door were Lord Satoris, and dragons. And they were glorious, the dragons depicted in lengths of coiling scales, necks arching, vaned wings outreaching, the mighty jaws parted to issue gouts of sculpted flame. At the center of it all stood the
wounded Satoris, a glittering fragment of ruby representing Godslayer held in both hands like a prayer-offering.

  “General!” The Fjeltroll on guard saluted. “His Lordship awaits.”

  “Krognar. You may admit us.”

  As ever, Tanaros’ heart constricted as the massive doors were opened, parting Torath from Urulat, mimicking the Sundering itself; constricted, then blazed with pride. Beyond was his Lord, who had given him reason to live. The Throne Hall lay open before them, a vast expanse. Unnatural torches burned on the walls—marrow-fire, tamed to the Shaper’s whim, casting long, crisscrossing shadows across the polished floor. A carpet of deepest black ran the length of the Hall, a tongue of shadow stretching from the open maw of the iron doors to the base of the Throne. It was carved of a massive carnelian, that Throne, the blood-red stone muted in the monochromatic light.

  There, enthroned, sat a being Shaped of darkness with glowing eyes.

  “Tanaros.” Cerelinde’s voice, small and dry.

  “Don’t be afraid.” There was more, so much more he wanted to tell her, but words fell short and his heart burned within him, drowning out thought. Settling the Helm of Shadows under his left arm, he offered the right in a gesture half-remembered from the Altorian courts. “Come, Lady. Lord Satoris awaits us.”

  How long? Ten paces, twenty, fifty.

  Thrice a hundred.

  The torches burned brighter as they traversed the hall, gouts of blue-white flame reaching upward. The Mørkhar Fjel paced two by two on either side of them, splendid in their inlaid weapons-harnesses that glittered like quicksilver.

  Always, the Throne, looming larger as they drew near, Darkness seated in it. Fair, once; passing fair. No longer. A smell in the air, the thick coppery reek of blood, only sweeter. The brand that circumscribed Tanaros’ heart blazed; Cerelinde’s fingertips trembled on his forearm, setting his nerves ablaze. Directly beneath the Throne Hall lay the Chamber of the Font, and below it, the Source itself. In the dazzling light, she might have been carved of ivory.