“A rider,” Thorun said.
“Aye.
“The earl’s Galainridder?”
“Perhaps.”
Led by the Kaldjager, they followed the tracks to their origin. At the northern tip of Neherinach, a node-point of the Marasoumië had lain buried in a hollow place. Now, a great crater had been gouged from the earth. Splintered rock thrust outward in every direction. Whatever had emerged had done so with great force. The innermost surfaces of the granite were smooth and gleaming, as if the rock itself had become molten. It had not happened all that long ago. There were fresh scratches on the rock, and the remnants of hoofprints were still visible on the churned ground.
“That’s not good,” Thorun said.
“No.” Staring into the hole, Skragdal thought of Osric’s Men gossiping in the tunnels, and of Osric in Gerflod Hall, grinning his dead grin at the ceiling. The ragged hole gaped like a wound in the green field of Neherinach, exposing the ashen remains of the node far below. Earl Coenred’s final words echoed in his memory, making his hide crawl with unease. Dead, and you don’t even know it! “It’s not.”
He thought about changing their course, setting the Kaldjager to track the Galäinridder; but General Tanaros had told them, again and again, the importance of obeying orders. It was important to obey orders, even those Lord Vorax had given. Anyway, it was already too late. Gerflod Keep lay a day behind them, and the Rider had some days’ start. Not even the Gulnagel could catch him now.
But they could warn Darkhaven.
“Rhilmar,” he said decisively. “Morstag. Go back. If General Tanaros has returned, tell him what we have seen here. Tell him what happened in Gerflod. If he is not there, tell Lord Vorax. And if he will not listen, tell Marshal Hyrgolf. No; tell him anyway. He needs to know. This is a matter that concerns the Fjel.”
“Aye, boss.” Rhilmar, the smaller of the two, shivered in the bright sun. In this place of green grass, sparkling rivers, and old bones, fear had caught up to him; the reek of it oozed from him, tainting the air. “Just … just the two of us?”
One of the Kaldjager snorted with contempt. Skragdal ignored it. “Haomane’s Allies didn’t fear to send only two, and smallfolk at that,” he said to Rhilmar. “Go fast, and avoid Men’s keeps.” He turned to the Kaldjager. “Blågen, where is the nearest Fjel den?”
The Kaldjager pointed to the east. “Half a league.” His yellow eyes gleamed. “Are we hunting?”
“Aye.” Skragdal nodded. “We follow orders. We will spread word among the tribes until there is nowhere safe and no place for them to hide. Whoever—whatever—this Galäinridder is, he did well to flee Fjel territories and put himself beyond our reach” Standing beside the desecrated earth, he bared his eyetusks in a grim smile. “Pity the smallfolk he left behind.”
THEY SPENT AN ENTIRE DAY camped beneath the jack pines, reveling in the presence of water and shade. Red squirrels chattered in the trees, providing easy prey for the Gulnagel. Speros, ranging along the course of the creek, discovered a patch of wild onion. Tanaros’ much-dented helmet, having served as bucket and shovel, served now as a makeshift cooking pot for a hearty stew.
By Tanaros’ reckoning, they had emerged to the southeast of Darkhaven. Between them lay the fertile territories of the Midlands, then the sweeping plains of Curonan. It was possible that they could locate an entrance to the tunnels on the outskirts of the Midlands, but there was still a great deal of open ground to cover. It would be an easy journey by the standards of the desert; but there was the problem of the Fjel. Two Men traveling in enemy territory were easily disguised.
Not so, three large Gulnagel.
“We’ll have to travel by night,” Tanaros said ruefully. “At least we’re well used to it.” He eyed Speros. “Do you still remember how to steal horses?”
The Midlander looked uncertain. “Is that a jest, sir?”
Tanaros shook his head. “No.”
They passed a farmstead on the first night and stole close enough to make out the shape of a stable, but at a hundred paces the sound of barking dogs filled the air. When a lamp was kindled in the cottage and silhouetted figures moved before the windows, Tanaros ordered a hasty, ignominious retreat, racing across fields, while the Gulnagel accompanied them at a slow jog.
Not until they had put a good distance between themselves and the farmstead did he order a halt. Back on the dusty road, Speros doubled over, bracing his hands on his thighs and catching his breath. “Why … not just … kill them? Surely … farmers wouldn’t be much trouble.”
Tanaros cocked a brow at him. “And have their deaths discovered? We’ve leagues to go before we’re in the clear, and all of the Midlands standing on alert. You were the one served in the volunteer militia, Speros of Haimhault. Do you want one such on our trail?”
“Right.” Speros straightened. “Shank’s mare it is, General.”
They walked in silence for several hours. After the desert, Tanaros reflected, it was almost pleasant. Their waterskins were full, and the fields provided ample hunting for the Gulnagel. The air was balmy and moist, and the stars overhead provided enough light to make out the rutted road. On such a night, one could imagine walking forever. He thought about the farmstead they had passed and smiled to himself. While his motive for having done so was reasoned, there was a luxuriant pleasure in having spared its inhabitants’ lives. Such choices seldom came his way. He wondered what story they would tell in the morning. They’d pass a sleepless night if they knew the truth. Likely the scent of the Gulnagel had set the dogs to barking; better to send Speros alone, next time. He wondered if Fetch, who had flown ahead, might be able to scout a likely candidate for horse-thievery.
“It’s funny, isn’t it?” Speros remarked. “I never could have imagined this.”
“What’s that?”
“This.” The Midlander waved one hand, indicating the empty road, the quiet fields. “Us, here. Tramping across the country like common beggars. I’d have thought … I don’t know, Lord General.” He shrugged. “I’d have thought there’d be more magic.”
“No.” Tanaros shook his head. “There’s precious little magic in war, Speros.”
“But you’re … one of the Three, sir!” Speros protested. “Tanaros Blacksword, Tanaros …” His voice trailed off.
“Kingslayer,” Tanaros said equably. “Aye. An ordinary man, rendered extraordinary only by the grace of Lord Satoris.” He touched the hilt of his sword. “This blade can- , not be broken by mortal means, Speros, but I wield no power but that which lies in reach of it. Are you disappointed?”
“No.” Speros studied his boots as he walked, scuffing the ruts in the road with cracked heels. “No,” he repeated more strongly, lifting his head. “I’m not.” He grinned, the glint of starlight revealing the gap amid his teeth. “It gives me hope. After all, Lord General, / could be you!”
As Tanaros opened his mouth to reply, one of the Gulnagel raised a hand and grunted. The others froze, listening. Motioning for silence, Tanaros strained his ears. Not the farmsteaders, he hoped. Surely, they had seen nothing. There had been only the warning of the dogs to disturb their sleep. Like as not, they had cast a weary gaze over the empty fields, scolded the dogs, and gone back to sleep. What, then? The Fjel had keener ears than Men, but all three wore perplexed expressions. Speros, by contrast, bore a look of glazed horror.
Tanaros concentrated.
At first he heard nothing; then, distantly, a drumming like thunder. Hoofbeats? It sounded like, and unlike. There were too many, too fast—and another sound, too, a rushing, pulsating wind, like the sound of a thousand wings beating at once. It sounded, he realized, like the Ravensmirror.
“Fetch?” Tanaros called.
“Kaugh!”
The fabric of the night itself seemed to split beneath the onslaught as they emerged from the dreaming pathways into the waking world; ravens, aye, a whole flock, sweeping down the road in a single, vast wing. There, at the head, was Fetch, eyes like obsid
ian pebbles. And behind them, forelegs churning, nostrils flaring …
Horses.
They emerged from darkness as if through a doorway, and starlight gleamed on their sleek hides. All around them, the ravens settled in the fields; save for Fetch, who took up his perch on Tanaros’ shoulder. Their iron-shod hooves rang on the road, solid and real, large bodies milling. There were three of them; one grey as a ghost, one black as pitch, and in the middle, a bay the color of recently spilled blood.
And on its back, a pale, crooked figure with moonspun hair and a face of ruined beauty smiled crookedly and lifted a hand in greeting.
“Well met, cousin,” said Ushahin Dreamspinner. “A little bird told me you were in need of a ride.”
“Dreamspinner!” Tanaros laughed aloud. “Well met, indeed.” He clapped one hand on Speros’ shoulder. “I retract my words, lad. Forgive me for speaking in haste. It seems the night holds more magic than I had suspected.”
Speros, the color draining from his desert-scorched skin, stared without words.
“I have ridden the wings of a nightmare, cousin, and I fear it has brushed your protégé’s thoughts.” Ushahin’s voice was amused. “What plagues you, Midlander? Did you catch a glimpse of your own mortal frailties and failings, the envy to which your kind is prey? A rock, perchance, clutched in a boyish fist? But for an accident of geography, you might have been one of them.” His mismatched eyes glinted, shadows pooling in the hollow of his dented temple. “Are you afraid to meet my gaze, Midlander?”
“Cousin—” Tanaros began.
“No.” With an effort of will, Speros raised his chin and met the half-breed’s glittering gaze. Clenching one hand and pressing it to his heart, he extended it open in the ancient salute. His starlit face was earnest and stubborn. “No, Lord Dreamspinner. I am not afraid.”
Ushahin smiled his crooked smile. “It is a lie, but it is one I will honor for the sake of what you have endured.” He nodded to his left. “Take the grey. Do you follow in my footprints, within the swath the ravens forge, she will bear you in my wake, Tanaros.” He pointed to the black horse. “You rode such a one, once. Here is another. Can your Gulnagel keep pace?”
“Aye,” Tanaros murmured, his assent echoed by the grinning Fjel. He approached the black horse, running one hand along the arch of its neck. Its black mane spilled like water over his hand, and it turned its head, baring sharp teeth, a preternaturally intelligent eye glimmering. Clutching a hank of mane low on the withers, he swung himself astride. Equine muscle surged beneath his thighs; Fetch squawked with displeasure and took wing. Using the pressure of his knees, Tanaros turned the black. He thought of his own stallion, his faithful black, lost in the Ways of the Marasoumië. and wondered what had become of it. “These are Darkhaven’s horses, cousin, born and bred. Where did you come by them?”
“On the southern edge of the Delta.”
Tanaros paused. “My Staccians. The trackers?”
“I fear it is so.” There was an unnerving sympathy in Ushahin’s expression. “They met a … a worthy end, cousin. I will tell you of it, later, but we must be off before Haomane’s dawn fingers the sky, else I cannot keep this pathway open. Night is short, and there are … other considerations afoot Will you ride?”
“Aye.” Tanaros squeezed the black’s barrel, feeling its readiness to run, to feel the twilit road unfurling like a ribbon once more beneath its hooves. He glanced at Speros and saw the Midlander, too, was astride, eyes wide with excitement. He glanced at the Gulnagel and saw them readying themselves to run, muscles bunching in their powerful haunches. “Let us make haste.”
“Boss?” One held up Tanaros’ helmet. “You want this?”
“No.” Thinking of water holes, of shallow graves and squirrel stew, Tanaros shook his head. “Leave it. It has served its purpose, and more. Let the Midlanders find it and wonder. I do not need it:”
“Okay.” The Fjel laid it gently alongside the road.
Tanaros took a deep breath, touching the sword that hung at his side. His branded heart throbbed, answering to the touch, to the echo of Godslayer’s fire and his Lordship’s blood. He thought, with deep longing, of Darkhaven’s encompassing walls. He tried not to think about the fact that she was there. A small voice whispered a name in his thoughts, insinuating a tendril into his heart, as delicate and fragile as the shudder of a mortexigus flower. With an effort, he squelched it. “We are ready, cousin.”
“Good,” Ushahin said simply. He lifted one hand, and a cloud of ravens rose swirling from the fields, gathering and grouping. The blood-bay stallion shifted beneath his weight, hide shivering, gathering. The road, which was at once like and unlike the road upon which they stood, beckoned in a silvery path. “Then let us ride.”
Home!
The blood-bay leapt and the ravens swept forward. Behind them ran the grey and the black. The world lurched and the stars blurred; all save one, the blood-red star that sat on the western horizon. Now three rode astride, and two were of the Three. The beating of the ravens’ wings melted into the drumming sound of hoofbeats and the swift, steady pad of the Gulnagel’s taloned feet.
And somewhere to the north, a lone Rider veered into the Unknown Desert.
In the farmsteads and villages, Midlanders tossed in their sleep, plagued by nightmares. The color of their dreams changed. Where they had seen a horse as white as foam, they saw three; smoke and pitch and blood.
Where they had seen a venerable figure—a Man, or something like one—with a gem as clear as water on his breast, they saw a shadowy face, averted, and a rough stone clenched in a child’s fist, the crunch of bone and a splash of blood.
Over and over, it rose and fell.
Onward, they rode.
This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
BANEWREAKER: VOLUME ONE OF THE SUNDERING
Copyright © 2004 by Jacqueline Carey
All rights reserved.
A Tor Book
Published by Tom Doherty Associates, LLC
175 Fifth Avenue
New York, NY 10010
www.tor-forge.com
Tor® is a registered trademark of Tom Doherty Associates, LLC.
eISBN 9781429910941
First eBook Edition : March 2011
First Edition: November 2004
First Mass Market Edition: August 2005
Banewreaker Page 50