Banewreaker

by Jacqueline Carey

  “No.” Carfax stared aghast at the Ellyl, shaking his head in denial. “No! You don’t understand! Lord Satoris didn’t raise the red star; it was a warning sent by Arahila herself that Haomane First-Born—” Over the Ellyl’s shoulder, he glimpsed movement, half-seen shadows moving in the forest’s verges, and fear strangled his unspoken words.

  Reading his expression, Peldras went motionless. “What is it?”

  “There,” he whispered, pointing. “Oh, Peldras!”

  “The Were are upon us!”

  The Ellyl’s shout rang clarion in the glade. Already he was on his feet, a naked blade in his hand, his bright gaze piercing the shadows. Already Malthus’ Company sprang awake, leaping to the defense. Already it was too late.

  From everywhere and nowhere came the attack, for Oronin’s Hunters had encircled the glade. Seven hunters for the seven Allies, coming low and fast as they surged from the surrounding darkness. Firecast shadows rippled along their pelts. Oronin Last-Born had Shaped them, and Death rode in his train. Grey and dire, they closed in for the kill with lean ferocity, snarling a song of blood-thirst. Seven throats they sought, and the eighth they ignored, leaving him a helpless witness.

  “No,” Carfax said dumbly. “Oh, no.”

  There was Malthus the Counselor in his tattered scholar’s robes, the Soumanië blazing in his hand. It lit the glade in a piercing wash of scarlet light; to no avail, for the eyes of the Were were bound with grey cloth. Oronin’s Children hunted blind. Their muzzles were raised, nostrils twitching, following scent as keen as sight.

  There were the tethered horses, screaming in awful terror. There were the fighters; Peldras, Blaise, Hobard. Back to back to back they fought, forced into a tight knot. They fought better together than Carfax would have guessed, fending off four circling Were. Even the Vedasian proved himself worthy, wielding his father’s sword with a ferocity and skill beyond his years.

  Still, they were not enough to resist the Were.

  Fianna knelt in an archer’s stance at the Counselor’s feet, drawing the Arrow of Fire with trembling fingers, sighting on shadows as it illuminated her vulnerable face. The black horn of Oronin’s Bow seemed to buck in her hands, reluctant to strike against its Shaper’s children.

  And Dani; oh, Dani!

  His eyes were wide, reflecting firelight, his slender fingers closed around the clay flask at his throat. Dani, who had offered him water when he was thirsty. Before him stood Thulu of the Yarru-yami, a bulky figure wielding his digging-stick with grim determination. Already, he was panting and weary, his skin glistening with sweat and the darker sheen of blood where teeth had scored him.

  Two of the Were hunters circled him with cunning, twitching nostrils guiding them. One feinted; the other launched past him, a deadly missile, jaws parting to seek Dani’s throat.

  “No!”

  Carfax was not conscious of moving, not conscious of grasping the butt-end of a sturdy branch from the fire. Sparks arced through the air as he swung it, interposing himself between the Were and its quarry. There was a thud, the impact jarring his shoulders; a keen whine and the smell of scorched wolf-pelt.

  Oh, Brethren, forgive me!

  “Dani!” Malthus’ voice, strident and urgent. “The cavern! Now! Now!”

  And the earth … surged.

  Carfax, choking, was flung to the ground. There, scant feet away, was Dani, his face filled with fear and dawning knowledge. Outside the circle of churning earth, the blind hunters gathered to regroup, muzzles raised to quest the air.

  “Go,” Carfax whispered. “Go!”

  He hauled himself to one knee, dimly aware of Thulu grabbing Dani by the collar and racing toward the cavern of the Marasoumië, their retreat warded by Malthus, who caused the very earth to ripple in surging waves, throwing back the attack of the Were.

  The Yarru vanished into the cavern.

  “Malthus!” Blaise shouted.

  At the cavern’s mouth, the wizard turned to face the pursuing Were and planted his staff with a sound like thunder. His lips were moving, his ancient face illuminated by the Soumanië that blazed crimson at his breast. Earth roiled, stones cracking like bones. Oronin’s Hunters were tossed like jackstraws, howling in anger. Amid the chaos, Malthus shaped words lost in the avalanche of noise, his urgent gaze striving to communicate. “ … protect … Bearer! Beshtanag … Jakar …”

  “What?” Blaise cried. “What?”

  Taking a step backward, Malthus the Counselor raised his hand. On his breast, the Soumanië surged with brilliance and deep in the cavern, the node-light of the Marasoumië blazed in answer, washing the glade in crimson light and momentarily blinding the onlookers.

  When it faded, they were gone.

  Unguarded, unprotected, Carfax stood with a smoldering branch in his hand and fought back an awful laugh as he watched his dumbstruck companions stare at the cavern’s empty mouth.

  Again, yet again, the Were regrouped. One rose onto his rear legs, clawed hands snatching away his blindfold to reveal amber eyes glowing with all the rage of a thwarted hunt. “You rest,” the Were leader growled, “die.”

  A bow spoke in answer; not Oronin’s, but an Arduan longbow made of ashwood and sinew, its string singing as shafts buzzed like hornets in the air. Three of the Were fell, silent and stricken, before their Brethren raced for the shadows, howling in wounded anger. “Not yet,” Fianna vowed, tears staining her cheeks. “Not yet!”

  Then it was Hobard defending her as the surviving Were renewed their attack with doubled stealth and speed, scattering the fire and spoiling the Archer’s aim. The young Vedasian fought with all the pride and skill of his knight’s upbringing. He swung his sword with a valiant effort, grimacing as one of the Were passed close, fierce teeth scoring his side.

  “Blaise!” A silver shout in the smoke-streaked darkness; Peldras had reached the horses. With an Ellyl charm he bound them, horseflesh shivering in fearful obedience, four sets of equine eyes rolling in terror, four sets of reins tangled in his hands. “’Tis our only chance!”

  Blaise of the Borderguard swore, forging a path toward the Ellyl.

  Why is it, Carfax wondered, that I am so alone here? What am I doing here? He took a step forward, interposing himself between Fianna and one of the Were, raising his smoldering branch in foolish opposition. A stick, a silly weapon; a few embers and a length of wood. Still, he had done damage with it. The Were halted, dropping to all fours and showing its teeth in uncertainty.

  “You were not shown us,” it said in guttural common. “You are not prey.”

  “Yes.” Gritting his teeth, Carfax swung the branch at the Were’s head. “I am.”

  The branch connected with a horrible crunch.

  There was confusion, then, in the milling darkness; shouts and curses, the high-pitched keen of injured Were. Sparks emblazoned the night and steel flashed, four-legged death dodged and darted with impossible speed, while sharp teeth tore and muzzles were stained with blood. This was battle, and did not need to be understood. Somewhere, Blaise was shouting commands, and Fianna was no longer there. Instead, there were the Were, howling with the fury of betrayal and lunging for his blood, maddened and forgetful of their greater quest. Without thinking, Carfax set his back to Hobard’s as to a battle-comrade’s and fought, heedless of aught else, until the branch he wielded snapped in two, and he knew his death was upon him.

  “Staccian!” The Vedasian gripped his arm. “Go.”

  Carfax gaped at him.

  “Go!” With a curse, Hobard pointed across the glade at the dim figures of mounted riders, horses pitching in barely contained terror. “Go now, and you have a chance! The horses are fresh and the Ellyl can see in the dark.”

  “Give me your sword!” Carfax thrust out his hand. “Don’t be a fool, Vedasian. I’ve betrayed my loyalties. Either way, I’m a dead man. Let me buy you time. Give me your sword.”

  “Staccian, if I hadn’t argued for killing you, we would not have wasted a day in this pl
ace.” Hobard jabbed at one of the circling Were. “This is my sword, and my father’s before me. I’ll not surrender it to the likes of you.” In the faint ember-light he gave a grim smile. One cheek was streaming with blood and he no longer looked young. “This is my death. Go.”

  Carfax hesitated.

  “Go!”

  He went, racing at full pelt across the darkened glade. Behind him, the three surviving members of Oronin’s Hunters gathered, flinging themselves after him like a cast spear. They were swift and deadly, armed with fang and claw, and they could have dropped him like a yearling deer.

  But Hobard the Vedasian stood between them.

  Once, only once, Carfax glanced behind him, as a terrified Fianna helped him scramble onto horseback. He could scarce make out the figure of Hobard, still on his feet, staggering under the onslaught. Even as Carfax watched, the Vedasian dropped to one knee and the Were closed upon him, a roiling wave of coarse pelts.

  It was the last thing he saw as they fled.

  He did not know for whom to weep.

  SARIKA WAS CARELESS BRAIDING HER hair.

  “Let it be!” Lilias slapped the girl’s hand in irritation, then sighed as the grey-blue eyes welled with tears, relenting. “Never mind, sweetling. Just don’t pull so.”

  “My lady!” she breathed in gratitude. “I will be careful.”

  After that the girl was careful, her fingers deft and skilled. Lilias watched her in the mirror, winding her braids into an elegant coronet. Her pretty face was a study in concentration. What must it be like to have no greater concern? Even here, in the privacy of her dressing-chamber, the sounds of the siege penetrated, a distant clamor of men and arms, challenges uttered, refuted in jeers. Lilias held the fillet in which the Soumanië was set in both hands. “Sarika?”

  “My lady?” The girl met her gaze in the mirror.

  “Are you not frightened?”

  “No, my lady.” Sarika gave her a small, private smile. Around her neck, the silver links of her collar of servitude shone. “You will protect Beshtanag.”

  Who of us is bound here, Lilias wondered? I thought my pretty ones were bound to my service; now, it seems, I am bound to their protection. She regarded the Soumanië held in her lap. For a thousand years, waking or sleeping, it had never left her touch. Light flickered in its ruby depths, seemingly inexhaustible and endless. Her own energies, like Beshtanag’s stores, were nearing their limits. It would be so simple, she thought, to put it down and walk away.

  “There!” Sarika tucked a final braid into its coil and beamed.

  So simple, so easy.

  Instead, Lilias raised the fillet, settling it on her brow. The gold circle gleamed against her dark hair and the Soumanië was crimson against her pale skin. She looked majestic and beautiful. That had seemed important, once.

  “My lady.” Pietre paused in the doorway, his face frank with adoration above his collar of servitude. “My lady, the Ward Commander is asking for your aid.”

  A pang of alarm shot through her. “What is it, Pietre?”

  He shook his head. “I do not know, my lady.”

  With their assistance, Lilias robed herself and hurried through the halls, passing servants and wardsmen half-awake in the grey hour that preceded dawn. Everywhere, Beshtanag was feeling the pinch of the siege. Rations had been halved and working shifts had been doubled. An unseasonal chill had caught them unprepared, with a shortage of firewood laid in against the siege and a hard rainfall rendering the fortress dank and cold. The folk of Beshtanag gazed at her with banked resentment as she made her way to her reception hall.

  “My lady.” Gergon bowed at her arrival.

  “Is there a problem, Gergon?” Lilias asked him.

  “It’s the rain.” He looked bleary-eyed and tired, and there were droplets of rain dampening the grey hairs of his brows and beard. “Haomane’s Allies have built siege-towers to assail the wall, and moved them into position overnight. We’ve been firing pots of pitch to keep them at bay, but now the rain aids their cause and the wood will not ignite. They’re clearing the wall by the score, and I’m losing men. If it keeps up, they’ll wear us down in a day. Can you help?”

  “Show me,” she said.

  Outside, it was hard to see in the dim light, and rain fell in cold, miserable sheets, soaking her hooded woolen cloak in a matter of minutes. Clinging to Gergon’s arm, Lilias picked her way down the cobbled mountainside road. Her wall stood, a smooth, rain-darkened expanse of granite, but here and there the framework of siege-towers scaled it. There were four all told, and Men and Ellylon stood atop the rain-slick platforms, archers armed with shortbows defending ladders thrust downward into Beshtanag’s fasthold. On the ground, Gergon’s archers shot at them, making a poor job of it firing upward in the pouring rain.

  One by one, the ladders descended, and Haomane’s Allies trickled into Beshtanag. All along the wall there were skirmishes fought in the gloaming.

  There, a lone Borderguardsman challenged Gergon’s wardsmen.

  There, a trio of Midlanders put up a stout defense.

  And they fell, fell and died, but for every one that died, two more waited to follow. There were so many of them, and so few Beshtanagi. If it became a war of attrition, Beshtanag would lose.

  “Short work for a dragon,” Gergon said quietly, surveying the siege-towers.

  “No.” Lilias drew back her hood, blinking against the rain. “Ready the catapults with their pitch-pots,” she said grimly, watching the wall. “And your archers, Ward Commander. We do not need a dragon to set fire to these vile towers.”

  He regarded her for a moment before bowing. “As you order.”

  Lilias watched him stride away and vanish in the dimness, shouting orders to his wardsmen as he descended the steep incline. Around the base of the wall they obeyed, falling back to regroup around the roofed huts where the warming-fires burned and pitch was kept bubbling in cauldrons. From the fortress, Pietre picked his way out to join her, carrying a waxed parasol, which he raised over her head. Rain dripped off it like silver beads on a string.

  “Are you well, my lady?” he asked anxiously. “You will take a chill in this rain!”

  “Well enough.” Lilias smiled humorlessly. “Let us pray a chill is the worst of it.” And so saying, she pressed her fingertips to her temples, concentrating on the siege-towers and drawing on the power of the Soumanië, exerting its influence in an effort to know the towers and command their substance.

  Wood.

  Pinewood.

  It was fresh-cut, hewn by the axes of Haomane’s Allies. Stout trunks formed the supports and slender ones the platforms. Sap oozed from the shorn, splintered ends. At its heart, where new growth was generated, the wood was pink. Pale wood encircled it, layer upon layer, still springy with moisture. Outside was the encompassing bark, dark and tough, shaggy with flakes and boles. Rain, that should have fallen on rich mast to nurture its roots, fell instead on dead bark, rendering it sodden and slippery, penetrating layer upon layer into the green wood.

  Water.

  Too much water.

  Drawing on the Soumanië, Lilias gathered it.

  It was an intricate thing Haomane’s Allies had wrought; four intricate things. Branch by branch, trunk by trunk, she desiccated the siege-towers. Heartwood died, its pink core turning grey. Outward and outward, pale layers growing ashen. A cloud of fog surrounded the towers as the bark weathered and dried, wrapping their assailants in a veiling mist. The soldiers of Aracus Altorus’ army scrambled, disoriented and disorganized. Where booted feet had struggled for purchase on rain-slick wood, brittle bits of bark flaked and fell.

  Holding the thought of water in her mind, Lilias moved it, until the air roiled with mist and there was none left in the wooden structures. Sharp, cracking sounds emanated beneath enemy boots as branches cracked and splintered under their weight.

  The siege-towers had become tinderboxes.

  “Now!” Gergon shouted, waving his arm.

&nb
sp; Pitch-pots were ignited and catapults thumped, loosing volley after volley. Some missed; most found their targets. Gergon’s archers followed with a volley of arrows, trailing fire from oil-soaked rags. Where it struck, the pitch spread its flames, igniting dead-dry wood. Heedless of the pouring rain, the towers burned fiercely, wooden skeletons alight. Here and there, cries of agony arose from those too slow to escape. Gouts of fire towered into the sky as Haomane’s Allies retreated, abandoning their siege-engines for the forest’s safety. The Beshtanagi defenders shouted at the victory.

  Drained, Lilias swayed on her feet.

  “This way,” Pietre whispered, taking her elbow. “My lady.”

  Step by stumbling step, she let him lead her back up the mountainside. In the entryway of Beshtanag fortress, another of her pretty ones was on hand to remove her sodden cloak. Radovan, who had pleased her once with his smouldering eyes, rebelling now against the force of her binding, eroding her sapped will. He was one she should have released. Too late, now, to contemplate such niceties.

  “Lady.” His hands were solicitous, his voice skirted courtesy. There was contempt in his hot gaze. “Yet again, you protect us.”

  Pietre stepped forward, bristling. “leave her alone, Radovan!”

  “No.” She laid a hand on Pietre’s chest, wearied by their antagonism. The Soumanië was like an iron weight on her brow. Her neck ached at it, and she wanted only to rest, though dawn was scarce breaking. “Let it be, Pietre.”