Banewreaker

by Jacqueline Carey

  Lilias? They come, little sister. Darkhaven’s army travels the Ways.

  It was the dragon’s voice. Her head rose as a fierce surge of joy sent new strength through her veins. Hope, blessed and welcome. The plan was intact, and all was not lost. “Calandor?” she asked aloud, too tired to scry the Ways. “Where are they?”

  ETERNITY BEFORE, ETERNITY BEHIND.

  Only the here was real, and with each step it was elsewhere.

  It was a strange thing, to travel the Ways of the Marasoumië without effort, on horseback. Ahead of him, a tunnel of red light pulsed; behind him, the same. Where he had been, he no longer was. Tanaros clamped his thighs hard around the black’s barrel, aware of its solid warmth, its hide damp with sweat. No ordinary mount could have endured the strangeness of this journey. Here, and here, and here it placed its hooves, and there were no echoes in the Ways. There became here, here no longer was. How many leagues passed with the fall of each hoof?

  He dared not think upon it.

  The Way was anchored at either end. In Darkhaven, Vorax held it open; in Jakar, Ushahin Dreamspinner did the same. Lead, Tanaros thought to himself, aware of the press of Fjel at his back, a long, winding horde chary of tunnels they could not delve, of a journey they could not end, of leagues passing between each tramping stride. Of their own accord they would never have attempted such madness. It is enough, he thought. It is your task, General. Lead them, and show no fear.

  So he did, step by step, concentrating on the passage, his hands steady on the reins, reassured by the scents of horseflesh and leather. Somewhere, above ground, the stars continued to reel and time passed. In the Ways, there was no time. Only one step further, leading them onward.

  It had a taste, this journey, a taste of Vorax, holding open the passage. Gluttony and avarice, aye, but oh! There was the pride, the Staccian pride, that had forged its own path in making this fierce alliance. Tanaros felt the strength that poured forth from the Staccian, the courage and costly dedication, amplified by the Helm of Shadows. He could have wept, for undervaluing his cousin Vorax, whose branding echoed his own.

  Staccia has weighed the cost and chosen this.

  Lord Satoris had kept his bargain. For a thousand years Staccia had prospered in peace, while elsewhere the nations of Men struggled beneath the absent auspices of Haomane First-Born.

  A night’s passage, no more. Glancing to his left, Tanaros saw the young Midlander a half pace behind him. In the pulsing red light of the Marasoumië, Speros’ face was set and eager, unaware of the dangers that threatened. He was someone’s son, someone’s brother. Did he even know what he risked?

  The power that held open their Way shifted, growing more complex as Jakar drew nigh. There was the taste of Ushahin Dreamspinner, a subtle flavor of terrible power and remorse, of broken things healed awry. Oh, mother! It grew stronger as Darkhaven faded behind them. Somewhere, on the desert’s edge, the Marasoumië flared into life, the node-points alive and open, rife with regret, loosing it into the open air.

  Somewhere, grey dawn beckoned.

  One more step, Tanaros thought, urging the black horse, conscious of the weight of the world above them. One more, and one more, and we will be done. And beside him was Speros and behind him was stalwart Hyrgolf and the whole of the Fjel army, and ahead of him lay the end, where all the throbbing crimson lines converged, and there amid the rocks they would emerge, assembling in force …

  Something happened.

  It happened fast, so fast.

  There was a flare of scarlet lightning, an impact like a meteor’s blow, and the Way … changed. Another sought to travel them, one with sufficient power to compel the Marasoumië itself. Sundered from its anchors, the Way was strained beyond bearing as the incoming presence sought to occupy the same space as Darkhaven’s army. Reality buckled, the very stone warping around them. Amid disembodied cries of dismay, Tanaros fought for control of his now-terrified mount. With a sound like a taut wire snapping, Ushahin Dreamspinner’s presence vanished and the Way ahead was severed and gone. There was only here, and another inhabited it.

  There, stark in the wash of ruddy light, was Malthus the Counselor, with two figures cast in shadow behind him.

  Tanaros gaped at him, uncomprehending.

  For an instant, the wizard’s astonishment was equal to his own.

  And then an awful knowledge dawned in Malthus’ eyes, quicker to grasp what was happening. He was Haomane’s weapon, Shaped for the purpose of defeating Satoris himself, and the might he veiled from mortal sight was formidable indeed. In the dark of underearth, there was a brightness upon him it hurt to behold. The wizard’s lips began working, speaking a spell. His beard trailed into his scholar’s robes, and on his breast the Soumanië, drawing on Haomane’s power, the power of the Souma. Even Sundered, it was enough to command the Ways.

  “Turn back!” Tanaros wrenched at the reins left-handed, shouting over his shoulder. “Turn back!”

  It was too late. Even as his black mount squealed in fear and ducked its head, sunfishing violently, the Way was collapsing. Terror erupted on every side. Tanaros swore, lurching in the saddle and fighting the black. Behind him there was only chaos as the Fjel broke ranks, milling in an awful press. Speros of Haimhault was caught in the crush, his mount borne along by terrified Fjel.

  “General!” Hyrgolf’s roar rose above the fray. “Your orders!”

  Somewhere, in Darkhaven, Vorax kept a thin, desperate thread of the Way open to retreat, pitting the Helm of Shadows against the awful might of Malthus. Tanaros could feel it, taste it. The Ways shuddered and strained beneath their struggle, threatening to splinter into an infinity of passages, but there was still a chance, an alley. “Retreat!” he shouted, willing the Fjel to hear him. “Field marshal, retreat!”

  And then the black horse convulsed beneath him, and Tanaros was flung from the saddle. The stony ground rushed up to meet him, striking hard. He covered his head, fearful of stamping hooves. Knowing that the Ways could not destroy him, Tanaros curled around his aching, Soumabranded heart and held himself here, knowing there was naught else he could do. Somewhere, Hyrgolf was roaring, trying to organize his troops, trying to follow the thin thread of hope back to Darkhaven and safety even as the Ways collapsed, flinging them backward in time, sundering their company.

  A good general protects his troops.

  Everything seemed very quiet, the shouting receding into echoless silence as Tanaros climbed to his feet to face the Counselor, and drew the black sword. “Malthus,” he said, testing the weight of his sword, that was quenched in a Shaper’s blood. His circumscribed heart was unexpectedly light. “Your path ends here.”

  “Dani,” Malthus said, ignoring him. “Trust me.”

  It was a boy who stepped forth from the Counselor’s fearsome shadow and nodded; a boy, dark-skinned and unobtrusive, accompanied by a wary protector. There was a clay vial at his throat, tied by a crude thong. With a shock, Tanaros recognized it, knew what it must hold. Here, then, was the true enemy, the one who mattered. Here was the Bearer of prophecy, who carried the Water of Life, who could extinguish the marrow-fire itself. And it was a boy, a mere boy, a pawn in Haomane’s game. Their gazes met, and the boy’s was questioning, uncertain.

  “No” Tanaros whispered. “Listen …”

  Malthus the Counselor lifted his staff, and light shone between his fingers.

  Red light pulsed and the Ways opened.

  Light flexed, coruscating.

  TWENTY-TWO

  IT HAPPENED AS SHE CROSSED the threshold of her reception hall.

  One moment she was walking, grateful for Pietre at her elbow, concentrating on keeping her head proudly erect for the watching servants. Relief at the dragon’s news made it easier. It didn’t matter, now, that the circlet felt too tight around her brow, that the Soumanië lay hot against her flesh, that an unnatural awareness stirred at the base of her skull—those were the harbingers of salvation, signs that the Ways had been opened. Tired
as she was, Lilias bore them with gladness.

  Between one step and the next, everything changed.

  She had been a child, once; a mortal child playing children’s games of hide-and-chase in her father’s estate in Pelmar. Her younger brother had darted from the ice-house, slamming the heavy stone door in her face. A thousand years later she remembered it; the sound like a thunderclap, the unexpected impact and sudden darkness, and how the air was too tight to breathe.

  It was like that, only worse, a hundred times worse. A red light burst behind her eyes as a Way was slammed closed, exploding open elsewhere, splintering into a myriad dwindling passages. By the stinging of her palms, she understood that she had fallen onto the flagstones. Her eyes were open and blind. Somewhere, Pietre was tugging at her arm, begging her to get up. There were tears in his voice. Her brother Tomik had sounded that way, once, when he begged her to abandon the Soumanië after she had descended Beshtanag Mountain to show him. “It’s a dragon’s gift, Lilias! Put it back!”

  Lilias.

  “Calandor,” she whispered.

  I am sorry.

  With an effort she dragged herself to kneel in a puddle of her velvet robes, running her hands blindly over her face. There were murmurs all around; of anxiety, of sympathy, of mutiny. None of them mattered. Her little brother was centuries in the grave and her choice had been made a long time ago. “Calandor, what happened in the Marasoumië?”

  Malthus.

  Lilias blinked. Her vision was clearing. Sarika’s face swam before her gaze, tear-stained as she knelt before her mistress, fumbling with a goblet of mulled wine as she sought to press it into her mistress’ hands. This was her home, after all. For a thousand years, Beshtanag had been hers. “Calandor.” Lilias swallowed, tasting fear. “Is Satoris’ army coming?”

  No.

  SOMEWHERE IN THE NIGHT IT had ceased to matter that they had not begun their journey as comrades. In the headlong flight through the forest there were neither prisoners nor captors, only allies seeking a common cause: Survival.

  Hobard had given his life for them. For him, Carfax thought, numb and awed. Over and over he saw it; the Vedasian knight going down, the dark wave of fur closing over him. It had bought them time. Not much, but enough. By the time the Were pursued, they were in flight.

  Trees, trees and more trees; an endless labyrinth of forest, dampened by skeins of rain. A storm broke, driving their flight with increasing urgency. It lashed their faces, rendering them water-blind. Trunks loomed out of the darkness and branches reached, slashing at unprotected skin, lashing the horses’ flanks. They shouldn’t have been able to outrun the Were, if not for the Ellyl.

  Peldras drew deep on the ancient lore of Haomane’s Children, using the Shaper’s Gifts to master the horses’ fear, mastering all their fear. Such was the skill of the Rivenlost, first among the Lesser Shapers. It lent courage to their hearts, speed to their mounts’ heels. Onward and onward they followed him, a slender figure on horseback, lit with a faint silvery luminosity, forging a path through the impossible tangle.

  Pursuit came, of course; the Were bounding at their sides, leaping and snapping. Not as many, no; only three. A deadly three. And they came with muzzles red with blood, howling for their slain Brethren, a keening sorrow tinged with the rage of betrayal.

  Carfax, unarmed, could only follow blindly in the Ellyl’s wake, trying to protect Fianna with the simple bulk of his presence, turning his mount broadside and flailing in the saddle in a vain effort to fend off their attackers. It was Blaise who defended them, who brought up the rear, Blaise of the Borderguard. And he fought with a deadly, tireless efficiency, whirling time and time again to face the onslaught, his sodden hair lashing his cheeks. There was bitterness there, and fury; oh, yes! He was the appointed Protector of Malthus’ Company, now shattered. If he had to spend his last breath protecting what remained of it, he would do it Again and again his sword rose and fell, rain-washed and running with dark fluids, until the clouds broke and the grey light of dawn showed it ruddy, and the four of them alive.

  When had Blaise slain the last of the Were?

  Carfax could not say. Only that dawn had found them alone.

  He sat quiet in the saddle, dripping, marveling at the steady throb of blood in his veins, at his hands on the reins, only his knuckles scratched, listening to their quarreling voices mingle with the rising birdsong while his exhausted mount hung its head low, too weary to lip at the undergrowth.

  “But where should we go?” Fianna’s voice, tired and plaintive. “Blaise?”

  “Beshtanag … Jakar …” The Borderguardsman gave a grim smile. “I cannot guess, Lady Archer. You heard him as well as I did, and as poorly. Peldras?”

  Troubled, the Ellyl shook his head. “What I can do, I have done. The ways of the Counselor are the ways of Haomane, cousin, and even I cannot guess at them. It is for you to decide.”

  “So be it.” Blaise drew a harsh breath, laying his sword across his pommel. Red blood dripped from its tip onto the forest floor. “We have lost Malthus—and the Bearer. The Company is broken, and we must go where we will best serve. Staccian?”

  Startled, Carfax lifted his head. “My lord?” The words came unbidden.

  “Where should we go?”

  He averted his face from the Borderguardsman’s steady gaze, which said all his words did not. Hobard had given his life. A debt was owed. On a nearby tree a lone raven sat, cocking its head. Carfax swallowed hard and looked back at Blaise. “Beshtanag is a trap.”

  Was that his voice that had spoken? The words sounded so flat, lacking emotion, nothing to do with his tongue, thick in his mouth. But Blaise Caveros only nodded, as if hearing confirmation of a long-held suspicion.

  “Do we have time to warn them?”

  “I … don’t know.” Carfax said the words and something in him eased as he met the Borderguardsman’s level gaze. “It may be. I don’t know.”

  Blaise nodded again, surveying the remnants of their Company. Fianna straightened in the saddle, one hand reaching to check for Oronin’s Bow and the Arrow of Fire. “So be it, then,” he said. “To Beshtanag.”

  On a nearby tree, a raven took wing.

  So be it, Carfax thought.

  He felt numb. Better to die with honor than to live without it. It was too late, now. It was done. In the space of a few heartbeats, in a few spoken words, he had irrevocably betrayed his oath of loyalty. The words he had exchanged with Blaise long ago rang in his memory. If he could have smiled, he would have, but the corners of his mouth refused to lift. He wanted to weep instead.

  There was only one end awaiting him.

  Why do you smile, Staccian?

  To make a friend of death.

  IT WAS A COLD DAWN over the plains of Rukhar.

  Ushahin lay curled among the rocks where he had dragged himself, his ill-knit bones aching and his teeth chattering. Behind him, in the cavern of the Marasoumië, the node-lights were as dead and grey as yesterday’s ashes. Unable to raise his head, he stared at the pocked face of a sandstone boulder until the rising light made his head ache beyond bearing and he closed his eyes.

  He had failed to hold the Way open.

  Footsteps sounded, and he squinted through swollen lids. A pair of booted feet came into view; Rukhari work, with soft leather soles and embroidered laces. The toe of one boot prodded his ribs. Childhood memories, half-forgotten, returned in a flood and filled his mouth with a bitter taste.

  “Dream-stalker.” Above him was Makneen, the Rukhari commander. The rising sun silhouetted his head. “Where is your army?”

  “Gone,” Ushahin croaked, squinting upward and wincing at the brightness.

  The Rukhari nodded in understanding. Somewhere, near, horses stamped and men muttered in their own tongue. Yesterday, they had feared him. Today, they wanted to see him dead. Makneen’s hand shifted to the hilt of his curved sword, wrapped in bright copper wire. “So our bargain is broken.”

  “No.” He spat, clear
ing his mouth of bile. “Wait …”

  “It is broken.” Watching him like a wary hawk, the Rukhari raised one hand, then turned away, speaking over his shoulder with careless aplomb. “Tell the Glutton we kept faith. It is you who failed. Now, we go.”

  They did, even as he struggled to sit upright, lifting the aching burden of his head. Horseflesh surged on either side of him, urged on with jeering cries. Hooves pounded, sending chips of sandstone flying. Ushahin lifted a hand to shield his face from laceration. Whatever Vorax had promised them, it was all gone, all lost. And there was no satisfaction, none at all, in knowing he had been right.

  This was Malthus’ doing.

  He had felt it, had known the instant the Counselor had entered the Ways, seizing control of the Marasoumië and wresting it to his own ends, severing all of Ushahin’s influence in one surge of the Soumanië. And he had known, in that instant, utter helplessness.

  It should not have happened.

  Something had gone terribly wrong.

  Weary and defeated, Ushahin buried his face in his hands, taking solace in the familiar darkness, the misshapen bones beneath his fingertips. My Lord, he thought, I have failed you! In a moment, in a few moments, he would make the effort that was needful, freeing his mind from the bonds of what Men called sanity to sift through their dreams. Now—

  Now was the sound of claws on sandstone.

  Seated on barren rock, Ushahin lifted his weary head from his sheltering hands. A grey shadow shifted on the rocks, poking his head into view, muzzle twitching. He was young, this one, sent to bear an unwelcome message. Aching and bone-weary as he was, Ushahin observed the old courtesies, asking in his visitor’s tongue, “How fares Oronin’s Hunt?”

  The young Were howled.

  It bounded, clearing the ridge with a single leap to land before him. There was pain in its amber eyes, luminous in the sunlight. One forelimb lashed out, and Ushahin reeled backward as taloned claws raked his misshapen cheek. Groping blindly for power, he drew on the brand that circumscribed his heart, remembering Godslayer and the marrow-fire, and his Lord’s long torment. “Enough!” he cried harshly, feeling Lord Satoris’ strength in his bones. “What of your quest?”