Banewreaker

NINE

They emerged from the tunnels in the outskirts of a ruined city.

Once, there had been walls and towers of white onyx, proud spires rising from the plains. Now, the walls were breached and broken, and plain-hawks nested in the toppled towers. Sturdy heart-grass grew in the empty streets, cracking the marble flagstones, and the wind made a mournful sound in the ruins.

The entrance to the tunnel was partially blocked by great slabs of blue chalcedony, and they picked their way out one by one. Cerelinde, emerging into the cloud-shrouded daylight, reached out from her saddle to touch the cracked walls of the adjacent structure from which slabs of precious stone had slid, revealing the granite beneath. “Ellylon made this.”

“Careful, Lady,” Tanaros muttered. “It is unstable.”

“What is this place?” She shivered. “There is sorrow in its bones.”

Hyrgolf glanced backward, his massive head silhouetted against the lowering sky. “Your people called it the City of Long Grass, Lady of the Ellylon,” he answered in his guttural voice. “A long time ago.”

“Ah, Haomane!” Cerelinde flung herself from her mount’s back, kneeling at the base of one chalcedony slab. “Cuilos Tuillenrad.” Her fingers brushed the moon-blue surface with delicate reverence, revealing lines of Ellylon runes therein engraved. “This city belonged to Numireth the Fleet,” she breathed.

“Yes.” Tanaros caught the reins of her mount, glancing around uneasily. The city, or what remained of it, was a desolate place. It had been conquered long ago, in the Third Age of the Sundered World, when Lord Satoris had led the Fjeltroll out of the fastness of the north and swept westward, driving the Ellylon before him. The plains had reclaimed it since. No one else wanted it. “Lady Cerelinde, we must ride.”

“A moment,” she whispered, tracing the runes with her fingertips. “I beg you.”

He glanced at Hyrgolf, who shrugged. The Fjel were engaged in hauling supplies from the tunnel, assessing what must be ported, what could be left behind. There would be ample grazing now that they were on the open plains. It had been carefully chosen, this site; close enough to Darkhaven to ensure a safe return, far enough to ensure that the Lady of the Ellylon did not guess the extent of the tunnel system that lay beneath Urulat, which led to the door of Darkhaven itself.

And, of course, there was the history, which was supposed to remind her of the folly of opposing Lord Satoris’ will. All of these matters were well considered, which did naught to assuage the prickling sensation at the back of Tanaros’ neck.

Why had the plains gone wind-still?

“Cousin.” Ushahin sidled his mount close to Tanaros. His good eye squinted tight. “I mislike this stillness. Something is wrong.”

The Fjel had paused in their labors, broad nostrils sniffing the air. Vorax’s Staccians were huddled together, crowding their mounts’ flanks. Pressure built all around. At the base of the chalcedony slab, the Lady Cerelinde traced runes, whispering under her breath.

“Dreamspinner!” Tanaros grabbed the half-breed’s wrist. “What is she doing?”

“You do not know?” Ushahin’s smile was sickly. “This is the crypt where the fallen of the House of Numireth were interred. The tunnels lie beneath it. Where she kneels?” He nodded toward Cerelinde, whose bridal skirts lay spread in a pool. “It is where their kin offered prayers for vengeance against the Sunderer. I imagine she does the same.”

Every blade of heart-grass stood motionless, waiting, in the gaps of the walls, the cracked and desolate streets. There was only the whisper of Cerelinde’s voice.

Tanaros swore.

“Put on the helm,” he said, his fingers tightening hard on the half-breed’s wrist. “Dreamspinner! Don the Helm of Shadows!”

Too late.

From everywhere and nowhere they came at once; wraiths, the host of the House of Numireth. Misty riders on misty horses, converging from all quarters of the forsaken city. With hollow eyes filled with white flame, the Ellylon dead heeded Cerelinde’s prayer, and the clamor of ancient battle rose as they rode, a grief-stricken wail riding above it all.

“Tungskulder Fjel!” Somewhere, Hyrgolf was roaring. “Form a square! Kaldjager! To the hunt!”

Tanaros swore again, having lost his grip on the reins of Cerelinde’s mount and on Ushahin. He drew his Pelmaran sword as a ghostly warrior bore down upon him, swinging hard. His blade cleaved only mist, and Ellyl laughter pealed like bells, bright and bitter. Again, and again. The Host of Numireth encircled him, pale mocking in their unsubstantial beauty, riding past to swipe at him with ghostly blades. Filled with unreasoning terror, Tanaros dug his heels into the black’s sides, turning him in a tight circle, lashing out with his sword.

Everywhere he turned, the wraiths surrounded him, riding in a ring, swirling into mist when his steel passed through them, only to coalesce unharmed. White fire filled the hollows of their eyes, and death was written in it. Some yards away through the wraith-mist, Ushahin Dreamspinner had fallen writhing to the ground, clutching his twisted hands over his ears. And then one of the riding wraiths brushed close enough to touch him, and Tanaros heard the voices of the dead whispering in his own mind.

… because of you we were slain whom the Lord-of-Thought made deathless, because of you the world was Sundered, because of you we are bound here …

“No!” Tanaros shouted to silence the rising chorus. “It’s not true!”

… dwelled in peace until the Enemy came from the north and hordes upon hordes of Fjeltroll tore down our walls and slaughtered our armies …

“It’s not true!”

Numireth, Valwe, Nandinor … names out of legend, slain before his birth. Tall lords of the Ellylon with eyes of white fire, and on their breastplates the insignia of their House, the swift plains elbok, picked out in sable shadow. Numireth the Fleet, whose silver helm was crowned with wings. They closed around him, wraith-mist touching his living flesh, the tide of their litany rising in his straining mind.

… plains of Curonan ran red with blood and the screams of the dying, and we were driven from our homes, we who are the Rivenlost …

“No.” Tanaros shut his eyes against them in desperate denial, putting up his sword. Under his right elbow, he felt the lump of Hyrgolf’s rhios in its pouch. A familiar rage rose in his heart. “Dwelled in peace, my arse! You marched against him in Neherinach!”

Elsewhere, the sound of battle raged; but the voices fell silent in his mind.

Without daring open his eyes, Tanaros dismounted, letting the reins fall slack. Crawling, he groped his way across the cracked marble and tufted heart-grass toward the sound of Ushahin’s agonized keening. There, a few paces from the half-breed, his hands found what he sought—the leather case that held the Helm of Shadows.

“Cousin.” He reached out blindly to touch Ushahin. “I’m taking the Helm.”

“Tanaros!” A breath hissed through clenched teeth. “Get them out of my head!”

“I will try.” With fingers stiff from clutching his hilt, Tanaros undid the clasps and withdrew the Helm. It throbbed with pain at his touch and he winced at the ache in his bones. His hands trembled as he removed the Pelmaran helmet and placed the Helm of Shadows on his head, opening his eyes.

Darkness.

Pain.

Darkness like a veil over his vision, casting the plains and the ruined city in shadow; pain, a constant companion. The ghost of a wound throbbed in his groin, deep and searing, pumping a steady trickle of ichor down the inside of his leg. Such was the pain of Satoris, stabbed by Oronin Last-Born before the world was Sundered, and the darkness of the Helm was the darkness in his heart.

Once it had been Haomane’s weapon. No longer.

Tanaros rose. Before him, the wraiths of the House of Numireth arrayed themselves in a line, silent warriors on silent horses. In the Helm’s shadowed vision they had taken on solidity, and he saw bitter sorrow in their eyes instead of flames, and the marks of their death-wounds upon their ageless flesh.

Across the plains and throughout the city, other battles raged. Westward, the surviving Staccian riders fled in full-blown terror, not even the horses of Darkhaven able to outrun the wraiths. In a deserted plaza where once a fountain had played, Hyrgolf’s Fjel fought shadows, their guttural cries hoarse with exhaustion and fear. Here and there in the streets, the stalking Kaldjager waged battle with the dead.

And to the south, a lone rider streaked in flight, unpursued.

“Numireth.” Tanaros gazed steadily through the eyeslits of the Helm of Shadows. “I claim this city in the name of Satoris the Shaper. This quarrel is older than your loss, and your shades have no power in Urulat. Begone.”

The Lord of Cuilos Tuillenrad, the City of Long Grass, grimaced in the face of the Helm’s dark visage; held up one hand, turned away, his figure fading as he rode. One by one, the wraith-host followed, growing insubstantial and vanishing.

“Well done.” Breathing hard, Ushahin struggled to his feet. His mouth was twisted in self-deprecation. “My apologies, Blacksword. I’ve walked in the dreams of the living. I’ve never had the dead enter mine. It was … painful.”

“It doesn’t matter.” Tanaros removed the Helm, blinking at the sudden brightness. The piercing throb in his groin subsided to a vestigial ache. “Can you summon her horse? I’ve not the skill for it.”

“Aye.” Donning the Helm of Shadows, Ushahin faced south, sending out a whip-crack of thought. In the distance, the small, fleeting figure of a horse balked. There was a struggle between horse and rider; a brief one. The horses of Darkhaven had strong wills and hard mouths. This one turned in a sweeping loop, heading back for the ruined city at a steady canter, bearing its rider with it.

Tanaros watched long enough to be certain Cerelinde would not throw herself from the saddle, then turned his attention to his company. To the west, the Staccians had regrouped, returning shame-faced at their flight. Singly and in pairs, the Kaldjager loped through the streets, irritable at the false hunt. But Hyrgolf’s Fjel … ah, no!

They came slowly, carrying one of their number with uncommon care.

“General Tanaros.” Hyrgolf’s salute was sombre. “I am sorry to report—”

“Jei morderran!” It was a young Tungskulder Fjel, one of the new recruits, who interrupted, hurling himself prone on the cracked marble, offering his bloodstained axe with both hands. “Gojdta mahk åxrekke—”

“Field marshal!” Tanaros cut the lad short. “Report.”

“Aye, General.” Hyrgolf met his gaze. “Bogvar is wounded. I do not think he will live. Thorun asks you to take his axe-hand in penance.”

“He asks what? No, never mind.” Tanaros turned his attention to the injured Fjeltroll, laid gently on the ground by the four comrades who carried him. “Bogvar, can you hear me?”

“Lord … General.” Bogvar’s leathery lips parted, flecked with blood. One of his eyetusks was chipped. A dreadful gash opened his massive chest, and air whistled in it as he struggled for breath, blood bubbling in the opening, gurgling as he spoke. “You … were … right.” The claws on his left hand flexed, and he forced his lips into a horrible smile. “Should have held … my shield higher.”

“Ah, curse it, Bogvar!” Kneeling beside him, Tanaros pressed both hands hard over the gash. “Someone bring a—ah, no!” A rush of blood welled in the Fjel’s open mouth, dribbled from one comer. Bogvar of the Tungskulder Fjel lay still, and bled no more. Tanaros sighed and ran a hand through his hair, forgetful of the blood. “You should have held your shield higher,” he muttered, clambering wearily to his feet. “The lad Thorun did this?”

“Aye.” Hyrgolf’s voice came from deep in his chest. “An accident. The dead came among us, and some broke ranks. Thorun was one. He thought he struck a blow at an Ellyl wraith. My fault, General. I reckoned him ready.”

“Gojdta mahk åxrekke …” The young Fjel struggled to his knees, holding his right arm extended and trembling, clawed fist clenched. “Take my axe-hand,” he said thickly in the common tongue. “I kill him. I pay.”

“No.” Tanaros glanced round at the watchful Fjeltroll, the chagrined Staccians straggling back on their wind-blown mounts. “The first fault was mine. I chose this place without knowing its dangers. Let it be a lesson learned, a bitter one. We are at war. There are no safe places left in the world, and our survival depends on discipline.” He bent and retrieved Thorun’s axe, proffering it haft-first “Hold ranks,” he said grimly. “Follow orders. And keep your shields up. Is this understood?”

“General!” Hyrgolf saluted, the others following suit.

The young Fjel Thorun accepted his axe.

The taste of freedom was sweet; as sweet as the Long Grass in blossom, and as fleeting. She felt the Host of Numireth disperse, its bright presence fading. She felt the Misbegotten’s thought flung out across the plains, a thread of will spun by an unwholesome spider of a mind.

If he had reached for her, Cerelinde might have resisted. Even with the Helm of Shadows, he was weak from the ordeal and here, on the threshold of Cuilos Tuillenrad, she was strong. The old Ellylon magics had not vanished altogether.

But no, he was cunning. He turned her mount instead.

She had dared to hope when it had raced willingly at her urging; another of Haomane’s Children’s ancient charms, the ability to sooth the minds of lesser beasts. But the horses of Darkhaven were willful and warped by the Sunderer’s Shaping, with great strength in their limbs and malice in their hearts. It fought against her charm and the bit alike, its eyes roiling with vile amusement as it turned in a vast circle to answer the Misbegotten’s call.

She let it carry her back to the ruined city, its path carving a wake through the long grass. There Tanaros stood, watching and awaiting her return. Her dark-dappled mount bore her unerringly to him then stopped, motionless and quiescent.

“Lady,” Tanaros said, bowing to her. “A noble effort. Bravely done.”

Cerelinde searched his face for mockery, finding none. “Would you have done otherwise?” she asked.

“No,” he said simply. “I would not.”

Behind him, grunting Fjel wielded their maces with mighty blows, breaking the chalcedony slabs into rubble, demolishing forever the inscriptions upon them. They were porting massive chunks of moon-blue stone and heaping them atop a fallen comrade to form a cairn. Cerelinde felt herself turn pale at the sight. “They are destroying the resting-place of my ancestors!” Her voice shook. “Ah, Haomane! Is it not enough the city was destroyed long ago? Must you permit this desecration?”

Tanaros’ expression hardened. “Lady,” he said, “Your ancestors marched against theirs long before the City of Long Grass fell. Marched into Neherinach, and took arms against Neheris’ Children in the high mountains. Do you blame them?”

Two spots of color rose on her cheeks. “They chose to shelter the Sunderer!”

“Yes.” He held her gaze. “They did.”

Cerelinde shook her head. “I do not understand you,” she said in a low tone. “I will never understand. Why do you serve one such as Satoris Banewreaker, who exists only to destroy such beauty?”

Tanaros sighed. “Lady, these ruins have stood untouched for centuries. It was you who sought to make a weapon of them,” he reminded her. “For that, I do not blame you. Do me the courtesy of understanding that I must now destroy them in turn.”

Though his words were just, her heart ached within her breast. The Fjel maces swung onward, breaking and smashing, each blow further diminishing the presence of the Rivenlost in the Sundered World. Never again would the wraiths of the valiant dead of the House of Numireth ride the plains of Curonan. “You did not have to choose this,” Cerelinde whispered. “My paltry effort caused you no harm.”

“No harm?” Tanaros stared at her. “Lady Cerelinde, I do not begrudge you either your valor or your vengeance, but I pray you, spare me your hypocrisy. One of my lads lies dead, and that is harm aplenty.” Contempt laced his voice. “Unless that is not what such a word means to your people.”

Without another word, he walked away.

Cerelinde bowed her head, weary and defeated. It was true, she had forgotten about the slain Fjeltroll. Until this moment, she had not known it was possible for a Man to mourn the passing of such a creature.

It seemed it was.

She did not understand.

Ushahin Dreamspinner slept, and dreamed.

On the plains of Curonan, the wind blew low and steady, soughing through the heart-grass. The city of Cuilos Tuillenrad lay three leagues to the south, and the dead lay quiet in it, including Bogvar of the Tungskulder Fjel, who slept the sleep of the dead beneath a cairn of Ellylon rubble.

On the plains, the Cold Hunters stood sentry, watching the grass bow in the wind through yellow eyes that could see in the dark. Even so, Field Marshal Hyrgolf walked the perimeter with heavy steps, peering into the night. No Fjel were to have died on this mission, and his heart was uneasy.

General Tanaros slept, fitful in his bedroll.

In a simple hide tent, Cerelinde of the Ellylon did not sleep, and her eyes were open and wakeful onto the world.

These, the Dreamspinner passed over.

Over and over, ranging far afield. Outside the warded valley of Meronil, he sifted through the sleeping thoughts of Altorian warriors, flinching at their violence as they dreamed of a council of war in the halls of the Rivenlost. On the rocking waters of Harrington Bay, he brushed the mind of a dozing Staccian lieutenant, filled with reef-knots and mainsails and a dagger stuck in a Free Fisherman’s throat.

Further.

Further.

A dry land, so dry the ravens feared it.

There, he found seven minds sheltered, warded against incursions in one manner or another. One, that shone like a red star, he avoided like plague. One was Ellyl, and made him shudder. One was wary, bound with suspicion. One dreamed only of the bow’s tension, the drawn string quivering, the arrow’s quick release.

One dreamed of water, following the veins of the earth, carrying a digging-stick.

One dreamed of marrow-fire and clutched his throat.

But one; ah! One seethed with resentment and dreamed of what displeased him, and his envy made brittle the wardings that protected him until his thoughts trickled through the cracks and he might be known, his place located and found upon the face of Urulat, his destination discerned. Hobard of Malumdoorn was his name, and he was Vedasian. A young knight, given his spurs only because of his family’s long association with the Dwarfs and the secret they guarded. Were it not for that, he would never have been knighted, never sent to Meronil to confer with the wise.

Never chosen for the Company of Malthus.

In the darkness, Ushahin smiled, and woke.

Sitting cross-legged, he summoned the ravens of Darkhaven.