Banewreaker

by Jacqueline Carey

Not so, here. Oronin’s Bow sang in her hands, uttering its single note, naming its victims one by one. She had smiled at him, and he … he had made a friend of death. Here, at the end, there was a hand extended in friendship, and it was one he could take at last. A traitor, yes. He was that. Carfax of Staccia would die a traitor.

  Still, there was honor of a kind in dying for a woman’s smile. If nothing else, there was that.

  He found himself singing a Staccian paean as he rode, and the Ellyl’s sword was light in his grip as he swung it, forging a path toward the song of Oronin’s Bow. Toward the center, the battle was in progress and it was necessary to fight his way through it. With expertise born of long hours on the drill-field, Carfax wielded the Ellylon blade. Left side, right side! On either side of his mount’s lathered neck, the silver-bright blade dipped and rose dripping. A man’s snarling face appeared at his stirrup and a spearhead gouged a burning path along his right thigh. Carfax bared his teeth in response and made a slashing cut, shearing away a portion of his opponent’s face. Friend or foe? Which was which?

  No matter.

  Peering through the dense smoke, he won through to where the fighting was fiercest. A tight knot of men, hard to see in their dun-grey cloaks. The kneeling line of Ellylon, pausing in their retreat to fire and fire again, the points of their arrows clattering uselessly off their prey. The fine-wrought faces of the Rivenlost were grim. The dragon’s body was vast and gleaming, churning the smoke-filled air. Only portions of it were visible at such close range, too vast for the mortal eye to encompass. Despite the whispered incantations of the Ellylon, the terrible courage of the Borderguardsmen, their weapons clattered harmlessly off its hide. Swords shattered, arrows fell to earth.

  After all, what could penetrate those scales? This was no mere dragonling, but one of the ancient ones, one of the last. Even Elterrion the Bold would have hesitated to engage the Dragon of Beshtanag in the fullness of its wrath. Under cover of the devastation it wreaked, a desperate wedge of Beshtanagi wardsmen fell upon the enemy. Hand to hand, blade to blade, hollow-eyed and starving, ready to claim victory at the price of death. Some of the outnumbered Borderguard were standing, many were down. A charnel reek hung over them all. It didn’t matter. There was only one person for whom Carfax searched. There was only one whose weapon mattered here.

  And amidst all the chaos, she stood, calm and ready.

  A smoke-wreathed statue, limned in pure light. Her quiver was empty. The Archer of Arduan had drawn her last arrow, the arrow, tracking the dragon with it, as calmly as though she were hunting rabbit. Oronin’s Bow was in her left hand, the fingers of her right hand curled about the string, drawing it taut to her ear. A shaft of white fire, tinged with gold, illuminated the soft tendrils of hair that curled on her cheek.

  The Arrow of Fire, Dergail’s lost weapon, was ready to be loosed.

  When, Carfax wondered, did she lose her horse?

  A vaned pinion passed near overhead, a gout of fire was loosed elsewhere, and his mount squealed in terror, halfrearing and bucking. All unwitting, it took him closer to her, shaking him half-loose in the process. Carfax slid down its back, clutching at its mane with his free hand. He saw her shift at the sound, then gather herself, refusing to relinquish her focus. He saw the body she straddled, protecting it. Blood seeped from a wound on Blaise Caveros’ brow, the Borderguardsman’s face pale and drawn. He saw the vast, scaled expanse of the dragon’s flank sliding past him. He saw a determined squadron of Beshtanagi making for the Archer. Before his thrashing, terrified mount threw him, he heard, somewhere, a voice he knew belonged to Aracus Altorus, shouting futile exhortations.

  He saw the stony ground rushing up to meet him and felt it strike him hard.

  “Here, dragon! Here, damn you! I’m waiting!”

  It was Fianna’s voice, rough-edged with despair, strung taut with defiance. Lying on his back, Carfax blinked and lifted his head. He saw tears making clean tracks on Fianna’s soot-smudged cheeks. The bow was steady in her hands and the Arrow of Fire trailed flames of white-gold glory as the scaled underbelly of the dragon passed overhead. He groped for the Ellyl’s sword and found he held it still, though his knuckles were scraped and raw. He felt at his body and found it intact. Completing its pass, the dragon climbed in the air, gaining altitude. Still alive and standing, Fianna tracked its progress, the Arrow’s point blazing like a star. Carfax levered himself to his feet, lurching upright. Wet blood ran down his wounded right thigh, soaking his breeches, squelching in his boot. A reminder of another wound, one that never healed.

  Forgive me, my Lord …

  “The Arrow! The Arrow of Fire!”

  It was an Ellyl voice that raised the cry, silvery and unmistakable. It was Men’s voices that echoed it, harsh and ragged, forced through throats seared by smoke and fire. They had seen Fianna, seen what she held. With their diminished numbers, the Borderguard of Curonan sought to rally. But no one had expected to find the Archer of Arduan and the lost weapon on the battlefield, and she stood alone, isolated in a tightening circle of Beshtanagi wardsmen, her steady gaze and the Arrow’s blazing point tracking the dragon’s ascent.

  He alone could protect her.

  “Time to die,” Carfax said aloud.

  He took the closest man first. A thrust to the gut, no time wasted. The tip of the Ellyl blade pierced cured leather like butter. His wounded right leg quivered as he withdrew the sword, threatening to give way beneath him. No time for that. He ignored the weakness and made his feet move over the harsh terrain, picking another target, swinging two-handed. Another wardsman fell, and another, clearing a path around Fianna, who hadn’t even registered his presence. No matter. It felt good to have a sword in his hands. Better if he had been wearing armor, good Staccian armor. It might have kept him from enduring the myriad strokes that scored his flesh until he bled from a dozen places or more. It might have turned aside the cold blade that ran him through from behind, penetrating something vital. Blood soaked his clothing, mingling with sweat, running down his skin.

  Panting, Carfax pivoted on his numb leg and cut down his foremost attacker, and another who followed, and two more after, three more. They came and they came, and he struck and he struck, weaving a circle around her, until his blood-slickened arms had no more feeling in them. Again and again, until he could no longer raise his sword and the battlefield seemed to darken in his vision.

  Death is a coin to be spent wisely.

  Falling to his knees, he tried to remember who had spoken those words. It sounded like Lord Vorax. It might have been his mother. Oh, there was brightness in the world, for all that it was slipping from his grasp. He thought about blue lakes under a blue summer sky and goldenrod in bloom, a dusting of pollen. A Beshtanagi wardsman loomed out of the smoke, grimacing, a hand-axe held above his head, prepared to deliver the final blow. On his knees, Carfax blinked and thrust upward with both hands, taking the man under the chin. The point of his borrowed sword stuck in the man’s brain-pan. “Staccians,” he whispered, “die hard.”

  There was shouting, then, and the clashing of steel. Somewhere, the Borderguard of Curonan claimed ground, driving back the Beshtanagi. Horns were blowing an order to stand, and straining above them were the clarion sounds of the horns of the Rivenlost in the encampment, pleading a retreat no one heeded. With an effort, Carfax tried to rise. Instead, the world keeled sideways. He blinked, realizing his cheek was pillowed on the loose scree of rocks, and he could no longer feel his body.

  So must his men have felt, when they died.

  He lay prone, lacking the strength to move. All he could do, he had done, whether she knew it or not. No matter. He had not done it for her, but for her smile, and a memory of what might have been. She was close; so near, so far. The heels of her boots were inches from his open eyes, cracked and downtrodden. How many leagues had they traveled together? He could see every shiny crease worn in the leather. He might have loved her if she had let him. It would have spread balm on the aching wo
und of his betrayal. But it was not to be, and all he could do was die for her sake. It would have to be enough, for there was nothing else left to him. Between them lay the man she loved and protected. Blaise’s calloused hand was outflung, open, as if to reach in friendship. His closed lids fluttered and his fingertips twitched.

  There was another sound. The dragon’s roar.

  It hurt Carfax to move his head, but he did. Enough to see the black horn of Oronin’s Bow silhouetted against the sky and the blazing shaft of the Arrow it held taut. Enough to see the tension in her body as the stooping dragon began its last dive, growing from a dwindling speck of brightness to a massive comet. Fianna’s legs were trembling, though she had her feet firmly planted. He saw the strong muscles of her calves quivering in fear. But she was the Archer of Arduan and her arms held steady. In the midst of chaos and battle, she held. Even in the face of the dragon’s dive, as its wings shadowed the sky and its gleaming talons threatened to gouge the earth.

  Even when its jaws gaped wide, revealing the depths of its impossible gullet, and fire spewed from the furnace of its belly. With tears on her face, she held her ground, shoulders braced, a shaft of white-gold fire blazing in the arc of horn and hair circumscribed by her hands. As he watched, her lips shaped a single, desperate prayer and her fingers released the string.

  The Archer of Arduan shot the Arrow of Fire.

  Trailing white-gold glory, it flew true between the dragon’s jaws; flew true and pierced the gullet, pierced the mighty furnace of its belly. There was an explosion, then; a column of fire that seared the skies, while Men and Ellylon flung themselves to earth, and from somewhere, a cry, a terrible descant like the sound of a heart breaking asunder.

  Dying, the dragon fell.

  The impact made the mountain shudder.

  Once the tremors faded there was a great deal of activity. Crushed Men screaming, defeated Men surrendering. Hailing shouts, and orders given crisply. Ellylon voices like a choir, intermingled with the sound of horns. A name uttered in a futile paean. None of it had anything to do with him. Carfax closed his eyes, and did not open them for a long time. It would have been better not to know. Still, he looked. Near him, so near him, a massive jaw lay quiescent on the scree, attached to a sinuous neck. Twin spirals of smoke trickled from bronze nostrils, wisping into nothingness in the empty air. The massive body lay beyond the bounds of his vision, broken-winged. Life was fading from a green-gilt eye. “I’m sorry,” Carfax said; or tried to say, mouthing the words. There was no strength in his lungs to voice them, and his eardrums were broken. “I’m sorry.”

  Distant shouting; victory cries.

  In a green-gilt eye, a dying light flickered, and a faint voice spoke in his mind. This battle is not of your making, Arahila’s Child. You played your part. Be forgiven. And then words, three words, wrested forth in an agonizing wrench, one final throe before the end. Lilias! Forgive me!

  Not for him. No matter. It was enough.

  Carfax sighed, and died.

  TWENTY-SIX

  THE CRASH SHOOK THE VERY foundations of Beshtanag.

  Brightness, fading. All the brightness in the world. Kneeling on the terrace, Lilias bent double and clutched at her belly, feeling Calandor’s death go through her like a spear. Her throat was raw from the cry his fall had torn from her and her heart ached within her, broken shards grinding one another into dust.

  Whatever scant hope remained, his final agonized words destroyed.

  Lilias! Forgive me!

  Calandor! No!

  She clung to the fading contact until his mighty heartbeat slowed and stopped forever. Gone. No more would the sun gleam on his scales, no more would he spread his wings to ride the drafts. Never again would she see a smile in the blink of a green-slitted eye. Her heart was filled with bitter ashes and the Soumanie was a dead ember on her brow, scraping the flagstones as she rocked in her grief, pressing her forehead to the grey stones. For a thousand years he had been her mentor, her friend, her soul’s companion. More than she knew. More than she had ever known. “Calandor,” she whispered. “Oh, Calandor! Please, no!”

  In her mind, only silence answered.

  Huddled over the flagstones, the Sorceress of the East grieved.

  “My lady.” At length a hand touched her shoulder. Lilias raised her tear-streaked face to meet Pietre’s worried gaze. He nodded toward the base of the mountain, the linked chains of silver that bound him to her will gleaming around his throat. “They are coming.”

  They were coming.

  Calandor was dead.

  On stiff limbs she rose, staggering under the weight of her robes. Pietre’s hand beneath her elbow assisted her, nearby, Sarika hovered, her pretty face a study in anguish. At the base of Beshtanag Mountain, her wall lay in ruins. Beyond—no. She could not look beyond the wall, where Calandor’s corpse rose like a hillock. Inside the gap, Haomane’s Allies were accepting the surrender of her Chief Warder. Even as she looked, Gergon lay his sword at Aracus Altorus’ feet and pointed toward the terrace.

  “Our archers—” Pietre hissed.

  “No.” With a weary gesture, Lilias cut him short, touching his cheek. There was courage of a kind in resolve. “Sweetling, it is over. We are defeated. Escort me to my throne room. I will hear their terms there.”

  They did, one on either side of her, and she was grateful for their assistance, for the necessity their presence imposed. Without it, she could gladly have laid down and died. Step by step, they led her into the grey halls of Beshtanag, past the silent censure of her people, hollow-eyed and hungry. They had trusted her, and she had failed them. Now they awaited salvation from another quarter. Her liveried servants, who wore no collars of servitude, had vanished. Her throne room seemed empty and echoing, and the summer sunlight that slanted through the high, narrow windows felt a mockery.

  “How is it, my lady?” Sarika asked anxiously, helping her settle into the throne. It was wrought of a single block of Beshtanagi granite, the curve of the high back set with emeralds from Calandor’s hoard. “Are you comfortable? Do you wish water? Wine? There is a keg set aside for your usage. We saw to it, Pietre and I.”

  “It’s fine, sweetling.” The effort it took to raise the corners of her mouth in something resembling a smile was considerable. Closing her eyes, Lilias gathered the remnants of her inner resources, the thin trickle of strength restored since Radovan’s death. A faint spark lit the Soumanië. It was not much, but enough for what was necessary. She opened her eyes. “Do me a favor, will you? Summon my attendants. All of them, all my pretty ones.”

  Pietre frowned; Sarika fluttered. In the end, they did her bidding. Marija, Stepan, Anna—all of them stood arrayed before her, their silver collars gleaming. All save Radovan, whose lifeless body lay unmoving on the terrace. So young, all of them! How many had she bent to her will in the course of a thousand years? They were countless.

  And now it was over. All over.

  “Come here.” Lilias beckoned. “I mean to set you free”

  “No!” Sarika gasped, both hands rising to clutch her collar.

  Sullen Marija ignored her, stepping promptly to the base of the throne. A pretty girl, with the high, broad cheekbones of a Beshtanagi peasant. She should have been freed long ago; Radovan had been a friend of hers. Lilias gazed at her with rue and leaned forward, touching the silver collar with two fingers. Holding a pattern in her mind, she whispered three words that Calandor had taught her and undid the pattern the way the dragon had shown her, so many centuries ago.

  Silver links parted and slithered to the floor. Eyeing the fallen collar warily, Marija touched her bare throat. With a harsh laugh she turned and fled, her footsteps echoing in the empty hall. Lilias sighed, pressing her temples. “Come,” she said wearily. “Who is next?”

  No one moved.

  “Why?” Pietre whispered. “Why, my lady? Have we not served you well?”

  She was a thousand years old, and she wanted to weep. Oh, Uru-Alat, the time h
ad gone quickly! “Yes, sweetling,” Lilias said, as gently as she could. “You have. But you see, we are defeated here. And as you are innocent, Haomane’s Allies will show mercy, do you submit to it. It is their way.”

  They protested, of course. It was in their nature, the best of her pretty ones. In the end, she freed them all. Pietre was the hardest. There were tears in his eyes as he knelt before her, blinking. He cried aloud when the collar slipped from his neck.

  “Be free of it.” Lilias finished the gesture, the unbinding, resting the back of her head against her throne. The last connection slid from her grasp, the final severing complete. It was done. On her brow, the Soumanië guttered, and failed for the last time.

  She was done.

  “Lady.” Though his throat was bare, Pietre’s hands grasped hers, hard. His throat was bare, and nothing had changed in his steadfast gaze. “A delegation is at the door. Shall I admit them?”

  “Yes.” Relying on the unyielding granite to keep her upright, Lilias swallowed against the aching lump in her throat. “Thank you, Pietre,” she said, her voice hoarse. “I am done here. If you would do me one final service, let them in.”

  THEY WERE FIVE WHO ENTERED the hall.

  The foremost, she knew. She had seen him from afar for too long not to recognize him. His dun-grey cloak swirled about him as he strode and sunlight glinted on his red-gold hair. Mortal, yes; Arahila’s Child, with the breath of Oronin’s Horn blowing hot on his neck. Still, there was something more in his fierce, wide-set gaze, an awareness vouchsafed few of his kind.

  Of their kind.

  Lilias sat unmoving and watched them come. Over her head, emeralds winked against the back of her granite throne, ordinary gems sunk into the very stone. She had wrought it herself when Calandor first taught her to use the Soumanië to Shape elements, almost a thousand years ago. For that long, for ill or for good, had she ruled Beshtanag from this seat.

  The delegation halted before her.