Banewreaker

ELEVEN

“Here’s a good spot, lieutenant.”

Crawling on his belly, Carfax made his way to Hunric’s side. Saw-toothed blades of sedge grass caught at him, sweat trickled into his eyes and midges buzzed in his ears. He fought the urge to swat at them.

“Hear that, sir?” The tracker laid his ear flat to the ground. “They’ll be along presently. It’s a small company, I’m thinking.”

Carfax rubbed at the sweat on his brow with the heel of his hand, leaving a grimy streak. “As long as they can’t see us.”

“Not here.” Hunric glanced at him. “Long as we stay quiet. It’s tall grass, and we’ve a clear sight-line to the verge, there. Lay low and you’ll see, Lieutenant.”

Overhead, the sun was relentless. One forgot, in Darkhaven, how bright it could be—and how hot. It had made him squint at first and, despite many days on the road, he had not fully adjusted to it. A moist heat arose from the earth, smelling of roots. Carfax was aware of his own odor, too, rank as a badger, and Hunric no better. A good tracker, though, the best in the company. In Staccia, he could track a snow-fox through a blizzard. Pity there wasn’t a blizzard here. The place could use one. Or a good hard frost, like Vilbar had said. It wouldn’t be so bad, hoar-frost glistening on the sedge grass, every blade frozen …

“Sssst!”

Hoofbeats, and a single voice raised in tuneless song, the words unfamiliar. Plastered to the earth, Carfax squinted through the tall grass and caught himself before he whistled in amazement.

“What the sodding hell?” Hunric whispered.

Seven strangers, traveling in company, led by a bearded old man in scholars’ robes, astride what was clearly the best horse in the lot. An Ellyl, who traveled on foot, stepping lightly, with that annoying air of his kind. A young man sweltering in the armor of a Vedasian knight, ill-fitting and much-mended. Another, older, dun-cloaked and watchful.

“Borderguard,” Carfax muttered. “That one’s from Curonan.”

“Blaise Caveros?” Hunric’s eyes widened. Everyone in Darkhaven knew that General Tanaros’ distant kinsman was second-in-command among the Borderguard.

“Could be.”

“Then that’s—”

“Malthus’ Company.” Carfax studied the remaining three. One, to his surprise, was a woman; clad in leathers, a quiver and an unstrung bow at her back. An Archer of Arduan. And good, too. She would have to be. The carcasses of three ravens dangled from her saddle, tied by their feet, a sad bundle of black feathers. But the others … he frowned.

“Charred Folk,” Hunric murmured. “Heard tell of those, Lieutenant.”

Indeed they were, their skins a scorched shade of brown. It was one of the two who was singing tunelessly, riding astride a pack mule, clad only in a threadbare breechclout. From time to time he patted his brown, swelling gut, punctuating his song. Carfax, listening to the incomprehensible words, found himself thinking of water, flowing the hidden pathways of Urulat, coursing like blood in the veins, racing from the leaping snowmelt of a swollen Staccian river to sink torpid in the Delta, bearing life in all its forms …

“One’s scarce more’n a boy,” Hunric observed.

Last among them, a wide-eyed youth, wiry and dark as sin, perched uneasily atop a pony. Something hung about his throat; a flask of fired clay, strung on corded vine. He was the one the Borderguardsman shadowed, unobtrusively wary in his dun cloak.

Small hairs stirred at the back of Carfax’s neck.

He felt a chill, like a wish granted.

“Hunric,” he whispered, his mouth dry. “They’re not following us, and they didn’t come from the Traders’ Road. Or if they did, it was only long enough to buy mounts. They came from the Unknown. This is the Prophecy at work. And whoever sent the ravens, whether it was the Dreamspinner or Lord Satoris, they failed.”

Side by side in the sedge grass, they stared at one another.

“What do we do, Lieutenant?”

It was a gift, an unlooked-for blessing. Malthus’ Company, crossing their path unaware. Three dead ravens, tied by their feet; it meant no one in Darkhaven knew anything of this. Carfax licked his dry lips. There were only seven of them, and two, surely, were no warriors. What about the Counselor? Malthus had fought at the Battle of Curonan, had nearly slain Lord Satoris himself. If the news of Dergail’s fall had not caused the armies of Men to falter, he might even have prevailed.

But he had borne the Spear of Light, then.

He wasn’t carrying it now.

And where was the Soumanië? Mayhap he didn’t bear it, either. It would be foolish, after all, to risk such a treasure on an ill-protected journey. Mayhap, Carfax thought, Malthus had entrusted the Soumanië to the keeping of Ingolin the Wise, who would keep it safe in Meronil. After all, this mission was undertaken in secrecy. And if it were so …

“Regroup!” he hissed to Hunric. “We need to plan an attack!”

Ushahin Dreamspinner gazed about him as he rode.

It was a wondrous place, the Weavers’ Gulch, though few appreciated it. Everywhere he looked, gossamer filaments were strung, filtering the few rays of cloud-muted sunlight that pierced the gulch with its inward-leaning cliff walls.

And the patterns, ah!

Intricate, they were; and vast. Some, incomprehensibly so. He watched the grey spiders shuttle to and fro, the weavers at their loom. How long did it take for a single spider to spin a web that crossed the Defile? One lifetime? Generations? With delicate thread that broke at a hand’s careless wave. But it was strong, too. Given time, Satoris’ weavers could spin a cocoon that would render a strong man immobile. And small though they were, their sting was paralyzing.

It could be done, in time.

No wonder Satoris was interested in them.

It saddened him, that so few people understood this. There was a pattern at work in the Sundering of Urulat, one would take many ages to come to fruition. Ushahin, born unwanted to two races of the Lesser Shapers, raised by a third, understood this in his ill-mended bones. He wished that Tanaros understood it, too. It would have been good if he had. But Tanaros, when all was said and done, was a Man, burdened with the short sight of his race. Even now, after so long.

Among all the Lesser Shapers, only Men had found no way to make provision for the shortness of memory. Oronin’s Children had done so. What the Grey Dam had known, the Grey Dam knew, and it encapsulated all that every predecessor before her had known. So it was among the Fjel, who passed their memory into the bone and bred it among their descendants. It was why they had remained loyal to Lord Satoris after so many generations, remembering that first promise.

A single thread, Ushahin thought, descending through time.

A pity, after all, that they lacked the scope—the wit—to discern the pattern. That was what Haomane had denied them. A single spider, shuttling on the loom of Weavers’ Gulch, had more perspective.

Of course, no one had Shaped them.

Tanaros should have seen it. After so many centuries in Darkhaven, he had learned to see its underlying beauty. Was that not enough? Ah, but he was a Man, and ruled by his heart. Arahila’s Child, in whom love and hatred grew intertwined. Look at him now, solicitous of the Lady of the Rivenlost. Haomane’s Child, whose people had no need of a remembrance born in the flesh, for their flesh was untouched by time. Of their fallen, they told stories, shaping history in their image. And the Children of Men, who emulated them in all things, learned to do the same though their lives were as the passage of shooting stars measured against the span of the Ellylon.

Yet their numbers increased, while the Ellylon dwindled.

The Lady Cerelinde gave a choked cry, beating at her cloak. Ushahin watched with a cynical gaze as Tanaros aided her, brushing hurriedly at the woolen fabric with his gauntleted hands. Small grey figures dropped, scuttling on the rocks. One of the Tungskulder Fjel stamped after them, squashing them beneath the impervious hide of his feet. It wouldn’t do to have their prize arrive in a state of paralysis.

“This land breeds foulness!” The Lady was pale. “It is the taint of the Sunderer!”

Foul is as foul does, Ushahin thought in silence. What harm did the weavers do before you blundered through their webs? If they did not feed, we would have a pestilence of flies in Darkhaven, because yes, Lady, this land is tainted with Lord Satoris’ blood, which has seeped into the very ground, which taints the waters we drink. He bleeds and bleeds anon, for the wound that was dealt him with the Godslayer, the wound that destroyed his Gift, is unhealing.

And why was he wounded?

Smiling to himself, Ushahin gazed at the delicate spans of webbing. Hanging veils, swags of filament, finespun and milk-white. The vast network filled him with delight. What architect could have wrought such a thing? A tendril of thread, flung out into empty space, meets another. Is it chance, or destiny? Will the weavers defend their territory in jealous battle, or will they knit their threads together to span the void?

The Ellylon would dwindle, while Men increased.

Lord Satoris was wounded because he defied Haomane’s will.

He had refused to withdraw his Gift from Men.

And Ushahin was one of the Three and madness was his moiety, because he had his roots in three worlds and saw too clearly that which none of the Lesser Shapers were meant to know. What sanity he possessed was instilled in a thin strand of pain; the ache of bones ill-set and ill-mended. the sharp pang of light piercing his skull through a pupil unable to contract Walking this fine-spun thread of pain, Ushahin knew himself sane in his madness.

Not even Lord Satoris, who would have healed him, who had kindled in his soul a fierce ache of love and pride, understood that part.

It didn’t matter, though.

Ahead, a narrow aperture, marking the end of the Weavers’ Gulch. The Kaldjager scrambled around it, drawing back the hanging veils of webbing with unexpected care. They, at least, understood that the little weavers were as much a part of the defense of Darkhaven as the strong walls beyond; not for nothing were they called the Cold Hunters. Ushahin, passing through, approved. Of all the Fjel, he understood them best, for they were most like the Were who had raised him.

The thought was accompanied by pain.

Oh, Mother!

She had died well, her jaws snapping at her enemy’s throat, Ushahin reminded himself for the hundredth time. It was what she had chosen. And if he could not inherit her memories, still, he would carry the memory of her in his heart. Of the gentleness she had shown, finding him in the Pelmaran forest where he had crawled in blind agony. Of the touch of her rough-padded hands as she cradled his child’s body, protecting his broken face, his shattered hands. Of her harsh grey pelt warm against his skin as she carried him to safety, grieving for her own lost ones.

The Grey Dam is dead. The Grey Dam lives.

Beyond the aperture, the Defile opened onto the Vale of Gorgantum. Ushahin, who passed this way more often than most, was inured to it. He heard a gasp as the Lady Cerelinde beheld it for the first time: the rearing towers that flanked the Defile Gate, the vast wall winding league upon league up the low mountains, the massive edifice of Darkhaven itself.

Marvel at it, Ellyl bitch, he thought; marvel at it and fear. Your visit here has been paid for in blood, with the life of one I held dear. What do you know of kindness and compassion? Your kinfolk left me to die, for I was a shame to them, a reminder of the dark underbelly of the Gift they were denied; Lord Satoris’ Gift, which Haomane spurned. And yet he seeks it now, on his own terms. Do you truly believe your offspring would be so different from me? I would be otherwise had your people embraced me.

Atop a high peak, one of the Tordenstem Fjel crouched. As the last of the company emerged from the Weavers’ Gorge, he announced them, filling his mighty lungs to bursting and hurling words aloft in his thunderous voice. Boulders shuddered in their stony sockets. Shouts of greeting answered from the sentry-towers, and Tanaros rode forward to salute them and give the password.

The Defile Gate was wrought of black granite, carved with scenes from the Battle of Neherinach. The central panel showed the death of Eldarran and Elduril; the sons of Elterrion the Bold, Cerelinde’s uncles. Once the bar was lifted, it took two teams of four Fjel each to shift the massive doors, and it creaked as it opened.

Darkhaven stood open for their victorious entry.

“Dreamspinner.” It was one of the Kaldjager, yellow-eyed, who pointed to the specks of darkness circling the spires. “The ravens are restless.”

Victorious cries rained down from the sentry-towers and the walls as they entered Darkhaven. The Lady Cerelinde kept her chin aloft, refusing to show the terror that must be coursing her veins. She had courage, Ushahin had to give her that. Tanaros stuck close by her side, clearly torn between reveling in his triumph and protecting his trophy. How not? If he’d had the heart for it, Ushahin would have appreciated the irony. The Lady of the Rivenlost had given her love to a Son of Altorus, even as Tanaros’ wife had done so long ago. It must gall the mighty General.

Poor Tanaros.

They must be something, those Sons of Altorus, to command such passion.

Being a portion of the Prophecy and bespeaking as it did the union of Men and Ellylon, it would have interested Ushahin more had the ravens of Darkhaven not been circling. As the cheers rained down, he clutched the case that held the Helm of Shadows close to him, longing only for a quiet place where he could free his mind to roam the length and breadth of Urulat.

If victory was theirs, why were the ravens restless?

“So this is it.” Lilias held the mirror in both hands. It was small and tamished, reflecting dimly in the low-burning torchlight that augmented the diffuse light of dawn. The dragon did not like any fire save his own to illuminate his lair. “We do it now?”

“It is time, Liliasss.” Calandor’s claws flexed, sifting through gold coins, jeweled goblets. High above her, his eyes winked like emeralds in the torchlight. “Elterrion’s granddaughter has arrived in Darkhaven.”

“How can you be sure?”

The emerald eyes stared unwinking. “I am sure.”

Outside the mouth of the cavern, a troop of Gergon’s wardsmen and her personal attendants huddled, waiting. What Lilias attempted this morning would draw strength from her, even with the aid of the Soumanië. It was Ellylon magic, and not meant to be undertaken by a Daughter of Men. “If we used only the eyes, if we watched them longer, we might learn more of their plans.”

Calandor snorted smoke in a laugh. “Can you read the speech of their lipsss, little ssissster? Neither can I.”

“I know.” Lilias flicked the mirror with a fingernail in annoyance. “Haergan the Craftsman should have crafted ears onto his creation, instead of eyes and a mouth. It would have been more useful.”

“Indeed.” A nictitating membrane blinked over the dragon’s eyes. “I might not have eaten him if he had been more ussseful.”

“I would feel better if Lord Satoris’ decoy had arrived in Beshtanag.”

“Sso would I, little ssissster.” Calandor sounded regretful. “But there is risssk in waiting. I would have gone, if you wished, to ssseek them.”

“No.” Lilias covered the mirror with her palm. On that point she had been adamant. Calandor was one of the last of his kind, the last known to the Lesser Shapers. In the Shapers’ War, scores of dragons had died defending Satoris from his kin; after the Sundering, the Ellylon had hunted them mercilessly, slaying the weak and wounded. She would not allow Calandor to risk himself for a Shaper’s machinations. “My spies have laid a trail of rumor from Pelmar to Vedasia, swearing the Dragon of Beshtanag was seen aloft and heading south. It is enough.”

“Then it is enough,” the dragon said gently. “Haomane’s Allies will believe I ferried the Lady here on dragonback. If you ssspeak now, they will be ssertain of it. If you delay, it may be proved a lie.”

“All right.” Lilias sighed again. “It’s time, it’s time. I understand. I’ll do it.”

“You know the way … ?”

“Yes,” she said shortly. “I know it.”

She knew it because Calandor had showed her, as he had done so many times before. What the dragon consumed, he consumed wholly, knowledge and all. And long ago, in the First Age of the Sundered World, he had consumed Haergan the Craftsman, who had built a folly into the great hall of Meronil.

It was a head, the head of Meronin Fifth-Born, Lord of the Seas; Haomane’s brother and chiefest ally, patron of Meronil. And it adorned a marble pediment atop the doorway into the great hall, his hair wrought into white-capped waves. When the world was Sundered, Meronin had brought the seas to divide the body of Urulat from Torath, the Souma-crowned head of the world.

But truth be told, there was precious little to be seen in the great hall of Meronil. Lilias knew, having looked into the mirror, Haergan’s mirror, through the sculpture’s eyes. Ingolin the Wise convened his assembly, day in and day out. One day, he brought forth a stone in a casket. It blazed with a pale blue light, which seemed to impress those assembled. Well and good; what did it mean?

“I know not,” Calandor had said, though he sounded uneasy, for a dragon. “But it is nothing to do with Beshtanag. This I ssswear, Liliasss.”

She believed him, because she had no choice. If Calandor was false … ah, no. Best not to think of such things, for she would sooner die than believe it. Lilias gripped the mirror, letting her vision diffuse, sinking into its tarnished surface, sensing the marble eyes wrought by Haergan the Craftsman open.

There.

There.

A skewed view, seen from the pediment, Ingolin the Wise, Lord of the Rivenlost, presiding over the argumentative assembly. Had it ever been otherwise? There, Bornin of Seahold, stout in his blue livery. There, Lord Cynifrid of Port Calibus, pounding the table with his gauntleted fist There, two representatives of the Free Fishers of Harrington Bay, clad in homespun. And there, Aracus Altorus, taut with energy, willing the Council of War onward.

So few women, Lilias thought, gazing through the marbled eyes. So few!

“Liliassss.”

“I know. I know.” Drawing on the power of the Soumanië, feeling the fillet tighten on her brow, and speaking the words of invocation set forth by Haergon the Craftsman, who had left his knowledge in a dragon’s belly.

In Meronil, Haomane’s Allies gaped.

It was hard, at such a distance. Her flesh was mortal, and not meant to wield a Shaper’s power nor Ellylon magics. Lilias closed her eyes and willed the marble lips to speak, stiff as stone, forming words that boomed in the distant hall.

“GREETINGS … TO … HAOMANE’S … ALLIES!”

Her face felt rigid and unfamiliar, inhabiting the sculpted relief more thoroughly than ever she had dared. She forced open the dense marble lids of her eyes, gazing down at the assembly. They were all on their feet, staring upward at the pediment, giving her a sense of vertigo.

“YOU SEEK … THE LADY … CERELINDE. SHE IS … SAFE … IN BESHTANAG.” The words made a knot in her belly. It was the end of deniability, the beginning of blame. “SHE WILL BE RESTORED TO YOU … FOR A PRICE.”

There was squabbling, then, in the great hall of Meronil. Lilias watched them through marble eyes, dimly aware that in a Beshtanagi cavern, the edges of a small mirror bit into her clutching palms. Some were shouting as if she could hear them. She watched and waited, and wished again that Haergan the Craftsman had given ears to his creation.

One knew better.

Ingolin the Wise, Lord of the Rivenlost. Ignoring the chaos, he approached to stand beneath the pediment, his ageless face tilted upward.

Among the Ellylon, the best and brightest had stood nearest to the Souma. When the world was Sundered and the seas rushed in to fill the divide, they remained upon the isle Torath, and there they dwelt, singing the praises of Haomane and the Six Shapers. It was only those who dwelt upon the body of Urulat who were stranded, separated forever from Haomane First-Born who Shaped them.

They were the Rivenlost.

And Elterrion the Bold had been their Lord, once; but he was dead, and with him Cerion the Navigator and Numireth the Fleet, who were also Lords of the Rivenlost. Only Ingolin was left, who was called the Wise.

Lilias gazed down upon him and felt pity, which she had not expected. A simple fillet of gold bound his shining hair and his brow was marked with worry. His eyes were grey as a storm, and deep with sorrow. How not, when they bore the shadows of centuries unnumbered? Urulat had not been Sundered when Ingolin first walked the earth. Perhaps, if he had been Lord of the Rivenlost in the First Age of the Sundered World and not Elterrion the Bold, it might have been different. Ingolin the Wise spread his arms, his lips shaping words clear enough for her to read: What do you want?

Her marble lips moved, forming the answer.

“I WANT MALTHUS … AND HIS SOUMANIË. BRING THEM TO BESHTANAG.” Chaos followed on the heels of her words. How they quarreled, the Sons of Men! Lilias kept her stone eyes fixed on the Lord of the Rivenlost. “THE LADY IS YOURS IN TRADE.”

A flash of red-gold, caught in periphery. Aracus Altorus had leapt upon the table, his boot-heels scarring the polished wood, his sword-arm cocked. His face was lit with fury and in his hand he held the haft of a standard, snatched from a wall. With a soundless cry, he hurled it at her like a javelin.

A pennant fluttered in midflight. An argent scroll, half open upon a field of sage; the device of the House of Ingolin.

So much and no more did Lilias see before the pointed iron finial that tipped the standard struck, marble shattering at the force of the blow. She cried out loud, feeling her brow-bone splinter at the bridge of her nose, clapping both hands over her face.

“Aaahhhh!”

The pain was unspeakable. Dimly, Lilias was aware that in the great hall of Meronil, blow after blow was struck at the pediment, gouging chunks of marble, destroying forever the head of Meronin, Haergan’s creation. For the most part, she was aware only of agony, of splintered bones piercing her flesh as she writhed on the floor of the dragon’s cavern, the bronze mirror forgotten beside her.

“My lady, my lady!” It was Gergon’s voice, uncharacteristically terrified. Her Ward Commander’s strong hands covered hers, trying to draw them away from her face. “Are you injured? Lady, let me see!”

“Hurts,” Lilias managed to whisper. “Oh blessed Haomane, it hurts!”

Lilias. Lilias, it is only an illusion.

“Calandor, help me!”

The dragon’s bulk shifted, rasping on the stony floor. One mighty claw reached, talons closing delicately on the round mirror. “Ssstand back, Ssson of Man!”

Gergon scrambled backward, holding her against his chest with one strong arm. With pain-stilted eyes, Lilias peered through her fingers as the dragon bent his sinuous neck. Scales glinted dully as he lowered his head to the object he held in the talons of one uplifted claw. The pale armor of his underbelly expanded as he drew breath.

The dragon roared.

Fire shot from Calandor’s gaping jaws; blue-hot at its core, the flames a fierce orange shading to yellow. Gripped in his talons, Haergan’s mirror melted, droplets of bronze falling molten and sizzling to the cavern floor.

The connection was broken.

The pain stopped.

Cautiously, Lilias felt at her face. It was whole and intact, no bone-splinters piercing her smooth skin. No pain, only the ghost of its memory. There, on her brow, was the Soumanië, nearly lifeless. “Calandor?”

“Forgive me, Liliasss.” The dragon sounded contrite. “I did not … antissssipate … such violence.”

“You’re all right then, my lady?” Gergon asked with gruff solicitude.

“My lady!” Pietre burst into the cavern, flinging himself to his knees. There were tears in his eyes. “I thought you were killed!”

“Not yet, sweetling.” She smiled at him through deep-rooted exhaustion. They were there, they were all there, her pretty ones, crowding behind Pietre. Not wholly willing, not all of them, no, she had not always chosen wisely—there was Radovan, scowling, near time to release him, and sullen Manja—but there was worried Stepan, dusky-eyed Anna, and dear Sarika biting her trembling lip. “Only tired, now.”

“I’ll take you to your quarters, my lady.” Without waiting for permission, Pietre scooped her into his arms and stood. To his credit, he only shivered a little at the dragon’s amused regard.

Too weary to object, Lilias allowed it. Gergon snapped orders, his wardsmen falling in around them. It was a frightening thing, to be this weak, even with a Soumanië in her possession. Now, more than ever, Beshtanag needed her.

Rest, Lilias. Recover.

She nodded in silent answer, knowing the dragon understood. Beneath her cheek, the bare skin of Pietre’s chest was warm and resilient. Such a heady elixir, youth! Lilias felt her thousand years of age. It came at a price, cheating death. If her flesh did not show it, still, she felt it in her bones, now as never before. Had she invoked Haomane’s name in her agony? Yes, and there was something fearful in it. Pietre murmured endearments under his breath, walking as though he held something precious in his arms. I should let him go, Lilias thought. I should let them all go, before danger comes. But I am old, and I am afraid of being alone.

Calandor?

I am here, Lilias.

It was enough. It had to be enough. It was the bargain she had made, a thousand years ago. And it had always, always endured. As long as it did, nothing else mattered. The thing was done, the die cast. Why, then, this foreboding?

Calandor?

Lilias, you must rest.

Calandor, where are Lord Satoris’ men?

“Right.” Carfax surveyed his men with a sharp eye. “Vilbar, scrub your face again. Use marsh-root if you have to. You’re still spatch-cocked with dye.”

“That river water stinks, Lieutenant!”

“I don’t care,” he said ruthlessly. “Scrub it! Turin, Mantuas, Hunric—you understand your mission?” There was silence in answer. Mantuas, holding his mount’s reins, kicked stubbornly at a clump of sedge grass. “You understand?”

“Don’t worry, sir.” Hunric leaned on his pommel. “I’ll see ’em through the Delta and on to Beshtanag.”

“Good. With luck, we’ll be no more than a day behind you. But whatever happens here, you need to report what we’ve seen to the Sorceress of the East. Nowt,”—Carfax drew a deep breath—“are the rest of you ready?”

They shouted a resounding yes. With the last remnants of dye washed from their skin, and beards beginning to grow, they looked more like Staccians, members of the boldest nation on earth; Fjel-friends, frost-warriors, allies of the Banewreaker himself. Had they not slain scores of the enemy at Lindanen Dale? And if they could do this thing, if they could capture Malthus’ Company and prevent the Prophecy from being fulfilled …

A grin stretched Carfax’s face. Lord Satoris would be pleased, mightily pleased. Mayhap pleased enough to consider making the Three into Four. Immortality would be a fine thing, indeed.

He drew his sword. “For the honor of Darkhaven!”