Banewreaker

TEN

Sunlight flooded the great hall of Meronil, streaming through the tall windows. The slender panes of translucent blue flanking the clear expanses of glass laid bars of sapphire light across the polished wood of the long table.

Ingolin the Wise surveyed those assembled.

“There are tidings,” he said to them. “Good and ill.”

“Give us the bad news.” It was Aracus Altorus who spoke. The loss of Cerelinde had struck him hard, etching lines of sorrow and self-blame into his features. No longer did the ageless Ellylon behold the Altorian king-in-exile and reckon him young for one of his kind.

“The Lady Cerelinde’s abductors elude us,” Ingolin said. “Even now, we pursue them across the waters. But hope dwindles.”

“Why?” Aracus’ voice was grim. “Do our allies fail us?”

Duke Bornin of Seahold cleared his throat. “Kinsman, I have bargained with the Council of Harrington Bay on our behalf, and all aid they have given us. This much is known. The miscreants booked passage to Port Calibus aboard the Ilona’s Gull. Witnesses in the harbor attest to the fact that the Lady Cerelinde was with them, and seemingly unharmed. But,” he said somberly, “ships returning from Vedasia report passing no such vessel en route. I fear they changed their course at sea.”

There was silence in the great hall.

“So we have lost them?” A single frown-line knit the perfect brow of the Lady Nerinil, who spoke for the surviving members of the House of Numireth.

“Yes.” Ingolin bowed his head to her. “For now. If they are bound for Port Calibus, we will intercept them there. If not—”

“Lord Ingolin, we know where they are bound. All signs point to Beshtanag.” Aracus Altorus flattened his hands in a patch of blue light atop the table. “The question is whether or not the Rivenlost and our allies dare to challenge the Sorceress of the East.” His face was hard with resolve. “Ingolin, I fear the Sorceress and the Soumanië she wields, that we must face without the aid of Malthus the Counselor. I fear the Dragon of Beshtanag in his ancient lair. But I fear more hearing you say, ‘hope dwindles.” He raised his chin an inch, sunlight making a brightness of his red-gold hair. “Cerelinde lives, Ingolin. The Prophecy lives, and where there is life, there is hope. The Borderguard of Curonan will not despair.”

“Nor do I suggest it,” Ingolin said gently. “Son of Altorus, did I not say there were glad tidings among the sorrowful?” Turning in his chair, the Lord of the Rivenlost beckoned to an attendant, who came forward to set a gilded coffer on the table before him. It was inlaid with gems, worked with the device of the Crown and Souma.

“That is the casket Elterrion the Bold gave to Ardrath, Haomane’s Counselor, is it not?” the Lady Nerinil inquired.”

“Yes.” Ingolin nodded. “And it passed to Malthus, who gave it to me. ‘Ward it well, old friend,’ he told me, ‘for I have attuned the humble stone within it to the Gem I bear. If it kindles, you may know we have succeeded.’”

And so saying, he opened the casket.

It blazed.

It blazed with light, a rough shard of tourmaline, spilling pale blue light across the polished surface of the table like water in the desert. Incontrovertible and undeniable, the signal of Malthus the Counselor shone like a beacon.

“The Unknown,” said Ingolin, “is made Known.”

And he told them of the Water of Life.

Stripped to their breeches and sweating, the riders straggled along the riverbank, each picking his path through sedge grass. Insects rose in buzzing clouds at their passage, and even the horses of Darkhaven shuddered, flicking their tails without cease. Little else lived along the lower reaches of the Verdine River, which flowed torpid and sluggish out of the stagnant heart of the Delta itself.

“Sweet Arahila have mercy! I’d give my left stone for a good, hard frost.”

Snicker, snicker. “Might as well, Vilbar. It’s no use to you.”

“A sodding lot you know! I’ve had girls wouldn’t give you a drink in the desert”

“Wishing don’t make it so.”

“Wish we were in the desert. At least it would be dry.”

“Wish I had a girl right now. This heat makes me pricklish.”

“Have a go at Turin, why don’t you? He’s near pretty enough.”

“Sod you all!”

“Quiet!” At the head of their ragged column, Carfax turned to glare at his men. They drew rein and fell into muttering silence. “Right,” he said. “It’s going to get worse before it gets better. If you think this is bad, wait until we get into the Delta. In the meantime, save your breath and keep your flapping jaws shut.”

“Who’s going to hear us out here, lieutenant?” Mantuas gestured, indicating the broad expanse of sedge grass, the open sky. “The local frog-hunters? There’s not a living soul in shouting distance! Vedasian patrols wouldn’t bother getting their gear muddy this close to the stinking Verdine. Look around you, there’s …” He stopped, staring.

To the west, three specks in the sky.

“Ravens,” someone breathed.

“Hey!” Turin dragged the Lady Cerelinde’s cloak from his saddlebag, waving it in the air. “The Dreamspinner must have sent them to find us, lieutenant. Mayhap they carry a message. Here!” he shouted, waving the white cloak. Gilt embroidery and tiny rubies flashed in the sun. “We’re over here!”

High above, a half league to the west, the ravens paused, circling.

“Over here!” Turin shouted. “Here!”

“Idiot!” Carfax jammed his heels into his mount’s sides, plowing through the sedge grass to snatch the cloak away. “They’re not looking for us.”

“Then what” Turin shoved his fist against his teeth. “Ah, no!”

A faint streak, tipped with a spark of sunlit steel; one, two, three. Arrows, shot into the sky, arcing impossibly high, impossibly accurate. A burst of feathers, small bundles of darkness plummeting; one, two, three.

“Haomane’s Allies.” Mantuas swallowed. “You think they found the ship, lieutenant? Are they after us?”

“They couldn’t have found the damned ship.” It had been near dusk on the second day at sea when Carfax had dispatched the captain of the Ilona’s Gull, planting a dagger in the side of his throat. An ignoble death, but a swift one. His men had seen to the crew, and together, under cover of darkness, they’d gotten the ship headed north, making landfall the next day at the fetid, uninhabited mouth of the Verdine. “Why would they look there?”

Turin retrieved the Ellyl cloak and folded it away, not meeting his eyes. “We were seen crossing the Traders’ Road, lieutenant.”

“We were supposed to be seen. Heading north, overland to Pelmar.” Carfax passed a hand over his face, found it oily with sweat. If he looked anything like his men, he looked a mess, the walnut dye darkening his skin to a Pelmaran hue streaking in the humid heat. That had been the last effort of their pretense, crossing the old overland trade route that ran between Seahold and Vedasia. Since then, they’d seen no other travelers and had let their guises fail. “We’ve made good time. They couldn’t have followed that quickly.”

“Well, someone did.”

They watched him, waiting; waiting on him, Carfax of Staccia. His comrades, his countrymen. There was no one else in command in this desolate, humid wasteland. What, Carfax thought, would General Tanaros do if he were here?

“Right,” he said smartly. “Someone did. Let’s find out who.”

They had reached the Defile’s Maw.

It was aptly named, a dark, gaping mouth in the center of the jagged peaks that reared out of the plains, surrounding and protecting the Vale of Gorgantum. They looked to have been forced out of the raw earth by violent hands, those mountains; in a sense, it was true, for Lord Satoris had raised them. It was his last mighty act as a Shaper, drawing on the power of Godslayer before he placed the shard of the Souma in the flames of the marrow-fire. It had nearly taken the last reserves of his strength, but it had made Darkhaven into an unassailable fortress.

Tanaros breathed deep, filling his lungs with the air of home. All around him, he saw the Fjel do the same, hideous faces breaking into smiles. The Staccians relaxed, sitting easier in the saddle. Even Ushahin Dreamspinner gave a crooked smile.

“We are bound there?”

He studied the Lady Cerelinde, noting the apprehension in her wide-set eyes. They were not grey, exactly. Hidden colors whispered at the edges of her pleated irises; a misty violet, luminous as the inner edge of a rainbow. “It is safe, Lady. Hyrgolf’s Fjel will not let us fall.”

She clutched the neck of her rough-spun cloak and made no answer.

Kaldjager Fjel ran ahead up the narrow path, bodies canted forward and loping on knuckled forelimbs, pausing to raise their heads and sniff the wind with broad nostrils. They climbed the steep path effortlessly, beckoning for their comrades to follow.

“Lady,” Hyrgolf rumbled, gesturing.

One by one, they followed, alternating Fjel and riders. The horses of Darkhaven picked their way with care, untroubled by the sheer drops, the steep precipice that bordered the pathway. Below them, growing more distant at each step, lay the empty bed of the Gorgantus River. Only a trickle of water coursed its bottom, acrid and tainted.

At the top of the first bend, one of the Kaldjager gave a sharp, guttural call.

A pause, and it was answered.

It came from the highest peaks, a wordless roar, deep and deafening. Thunder might make such a sound, or rocks, cascading in avalanche. It rattled bones and thrummed in the pits of bellies, and Tanaros laughed aloud to hear it.

“Tordenstem Fjel,” he shouted in response to the panicked glance Cerelinde threw him over her shoulder. “Have no fear! They are friends!”

She did fear, though; he supposed he couldn’t blame her. It had taken him hard, a thousand and more years gone by. A Man in his prime, with blood on his hands and a heart full of fury and despair, riding in answer to a summons he barely understood.

Bring your hatred and your hurt and serve me …

Then, he had shouted in reply; had faced the Tordenstem as it crouched atop the peak with its barrel chest and mouth like a howling tunnel, and shouted his own defiant reply, filled with the fearless rage of a Man to whom death would be a welcome end. And the Tordenstem, the Thunder Voice Fjel, had laughed, barrel chest heaving, ho! ho! ho! Maybe you are the one his Lordship seeks, scrawny pup!

And it had been so, for he was; one of the Three, and the Tordenstem had led him along the treacherous passage to Darkhaven, where he pledged his life to Lord Satoris, who had withdrawn Godslayer from the marrow-fire and branded him with its hilt, circumscribing his aching heart. A haven, a haven in truth, sanctuary for his wounded soul …

“What?” Echoing words penetrated his reverie; the Tordenstem sentry—kinsman, perhaps, of the long-dead Fjel who had intercepted him, was shouting a message, incomprehensible syllables crashing like boulders. Tanaros shook himself, frowning, and called to his field marshal. “What did he say?”

“General.” Hyrgolf trudged back to his side, stolidly unafraid of the heights. “Ulfreg says they captured a Man in the Defile, two days past. One of your kind, they think. He made it as far as the Weavers’ Gulch. They took him to the dungeons.”

“Aracus!” Cerelinde breathed, her face lighting with hope.

It struck him like a blow; he hadn’t believed, before now, that the Lady of the Ellylon could love a Son of Altorus. “Not likely,” Tanaros said sourly, watching the light die in her lovely face. “He’d have been killed thrice over. Dreamspinner?”

Ushahin, huddled out of the wind with his mount’s flank pressed to the cliff wall, shrugged. “Not one of mine, cousin. I alert the tries when a madling comes. Those with wits to seek shelter have already fled the coming storm.” He touched the case that held the Helm of Shadows with delicate, crooked fingers. “Do you want me to scry his thoughts?”

“No.” Tanaros shook his head. “Time enough in Darkhaven.”

Onward they continued, winding through the Defile. After the first peak, the path widened. The Kaldjager continued to lope ahead, scouting. Periodically, one would depart from the path to scale a crag, jamming sharp talons on fist and foot into sheer rock, scrambling with four-limbed ease. There they would perch, yellow eyes glinting, exchanging calls of greeting with the Tordenstem sentries, who replied in booming tones.

Hyrgolf explained it to Cerelinde with Fjel patience.

“ … worked together, you see, Lady. Used to be the Tordenstem—Thunder Voices, you call them—would herd game for the Cold Hunters, driving them to the kill. They’d flee the sound, you see, and there would be plenty for all. When your folk invaded the Midlands, they did the same. It worked, too.”

Her face was pinched. “You herded my people to slaughter.”

“Well.” Hyrgolf scratched the thick hide on his neck, nonplussed. “Aye, Lady. You could see it as such. The Battle of Neherinach. But your folk, your grandsire’s sons and the like, were the ones brought the swords.”

“You sheltered the Sunderer!”

Cerelinde’s voice, raised, bounced off the walls of the Defile, clear and anguished. A sound like bells chiming, an Ellylon voice, such as had not been heard within a league of Darkhaven for ten centuries and more. The Kaldjager crouched yellow-eyed in the heights, and the Tordenstem were silent.

“Aye, Lady,” Hyrgolf said simply, nodding. “We did. We gave shelter to Lord Satoris. He was a Shaper, and he asked our aid. We made a promise and kept it.”

He left her, then, trudging to the head of the line, a broad figure moving on a narrow path, pausing here and there to exchange a word with his Fjel. Tanaros, who had listened, waited until they rounded a bend, bringing his mount alongside hers when there was room enough for two to ride abreast. Side by side they rode, bits and stirrups jangling faintly. The horses of Darkhaven exchanged wary glances, snuffled nostrils, and continued. The Lady Cerelinde sat upright in the saddle and stared straight ahead, her profile like a cut gem.

“I do not understand,” she said at length, stiffly.

“Cerelinde.” Tanaros tasted her name. “Every story has two sides. Yours the world knows, for the Ellylon are poets and singers unsurpassed, and their story endures. Who in Urulat has ever listened to the Fjeltroll’s side of the tale?”

“You blame us.” Cerelinde glanced at him, incredulous. “You blame us! Look at them, Tanaros. Look at him.” She pointed at the Fjel Thorun, marching in front of them in stoic silence. He had spoken seldom since Bogvar’s death. His broad, horny feet spread with each step, talons digging into the stony pathway. The pack he bore on his wide shoulders, battle-axe lashed across it, would have foundered an ox. “Look.” She opened her delicate hands, palm-upward. “How were we to stand against that?”

Ahead, the path veered left, an outcropping of rock jutting into the Defile. Thorun lingered, pausing to lead first Cerelinde’s mount, then Tanaros’, around the bend. Though he kept his eyes lowered, watching the horses’ hooves, unsuited for the mountainous terrain, his hand was gentle on the bridle.

“He speaks Common, you know,” Tanaros said.

The Lady of the Ellylon had the grace to blush. “You know what I mean!”

“Aye.” Tanaros touched the rhios in its pouch. “Neheris-of-the-Leaping-Waters Shaped the Fjel, Lady. Fourth-Born among Shapers, she Shaped them to match the place of her birth; with talons to scale mountains, strong enough …” he smiled wryly, “ … to carry sheep across their shoulders, enough to lay up meat to stock a larder against a long winter.”

“Strong enough,” she retorted, “to tear down walls, General. You saw Cuilos Tuillenrad! Do you deny the dead their due?”

“No.” He shook his head. “Only their version of truth, Lady.” He nodded at the axe that jounced against Thorun’s pack. “You see that weapon? Until the Battle of Neherinach, it was unknown among the Fjel. We taught them that, Cerelinde. Your people, and mine.”

Her face was pale. “Satoris Banewreaker armed the Fuel.”

“It is what your people claim,” Tanaros said. “Mine too, come to it. But I have learned better in a thousand years, Lady. My Lord armed them, yes; after the Battle of Neherinach, after hundreds of their number fell defending him with tusk and talon. Yes, he taught them to smelt ore, and gave them weapons of steel. And I, I have done my part, Cerelinde. I taught them to use those weapons and such gifts as Neheris gave them in the service of war. Why?” He touched one forefinger to his temple. “Because I have the gift of intellect. Haomane’s Gift, that he gave only to his children, and Arahila’s. And that, Lady, is the Gift the Fjel were denied.”

Cerelinde raised her chin. “Was their lot so terrible? You said it yourself, General. The Fjel were content, in their mountains, until Satoris Banewreaker convinced them otherwise.”

“So they should have remained content with their lot?”

“They were content.” Her gaze was unwavering. “Haomane First-Born is Chief among Shapers, Lord of the Souma. Satoris defied him, and Sundered the world with his betrayal. He fled to Neherinach in fear of Haomane’s wrath, and there he enlisted the Fjel, swaying them to his cause, that he might avoid the cost of his betrayal. Did he reckon the cost to them?”

Beneath her horse’s hooves, the edge of the path crumbled, sending stones tumbling into the Defile. Tanaros checked his black violently, and it shied against the cliff wall. Ahead of them, Thorun whirled into action, spinning to grab at Cerelinde’s bridle, wedging his bulk between her and the sheer drop. Pebbles gave way as his taloned toes gripped the verge of the path and his eyetusks showed in a grimace as he urged her mount to solid ground by main force, shoving his shoulder against its flank, hauling himself after it

“My thanks,” Cerelinde gasped.

Thorun grunted, nodding, and resumed his plodding pace.

For a time, then, Tanaros rode behind her, watching the shine of her hair, that hung like an Ellyl banner down her spine. Downward wound the path, then upward, winding around another peak. And down again, where the river-basin broadened. Soon they would enter the Weavers’ Gulch. He dug his heels into the black’s sides, jogged his mount alongside hers.

“How does it feel, then, to owe your life to a Fjeltroll?” he asked her.

Cerelinde did not spare him a glance. “You brought me here, Tanaros.”

“Of course.” He bowed from the saddle, mocking. “Proud Haomane will suffer no rivals. Like the Fjel, my Lord Satoris should have remained content with his lot.”

Ahead, the low river-bottom opened onto a narrow gorge. It was flat, as flat as anything might be in the Defile. The dank trickle of water intensified. This was water tainted by the ichor of Satoris the Shaper, seeping slow and dark. It reeked of blood, only sweeter. The walls of the gorge loomed high on either side, strung across with webs like sticky veils,

One by one, the Kaldjager Fjel parted the veils and entered. Ushahin Dreamspinner passed into the gorge, seemingly unperturbed. At the rear of the company, the Staccians mingled with Hyrgolf’s Tungskulder Fjel and made uneasy jests in their own tongue, awaiting their turn.

“What is this place?” Cerelinde asked, her voice low.

“It is the Weavers’ Gulch.” Tanaros shrugged. “There are creatures in Urulat upon whom the Shapers have not laid hands, Lady. In these, my Lord is interested. Do you fear them? They will do us no harm if we leave them undisturbed.”

At the entrance, Thorun waited for them, holding back the skeins of sticky filament so they might pass untouched. A small grey spider scuttled over the gnarled knuckles of his hand. Another descended on a single thread, hovering inches above his head, minute legs wriggling.

Cerelinde looked at what lay beyond and closed her eyes. “I cannot do this.”

“I’m sorry, Lady.” It had turned his stomach, too, the first time. Tanaros touched his sword-hilt. “But willing or unwilling, you will go.”

At the threat, she opened her eyes to regard him. She was Ellylon, and the fineness of her features, the clear luminosity of her skin, were a silent reproach, a reminder that he aspired to that which was beyond him.

Tanaros clenched his teeth. “Go!”

Drawing her hood, the Lady Cerelinde entered the Weavers’Gulch.