Banewreaker

TWENTY

“Lady.” Tanaros caught his breath at the sight of her. In the confines of her chambers, clad in the robes of her ancestors, she shone like a candle-flame. It made his heart ache, and he bowed low. “I come to bid you farewell.”

Cerelinde’s hand rose unbidden to her throat. “You depart?”

“On the morrow.” He straightened. “I will return.”

“You will kill him,” she whispered, eyes wide and fearful. “Aracus.”

For a long time he did not answer, remembering the battle in Lindanen Dale and Aracus Altorus struggling with the Grey Dam of the Were on the end of his blade; remembering another, Roscus. His king, his foster-brother. A ready grin, an extended hand. A babe with red-gold hair, and his wife’s guilt-ridden gaze. At the end, Roscus had looked surprised. It would end, with Aracus. It would be done.

“Yes,” he said. “I am sorry.”

She turned her back to him, her pale hair a shining river. “Go,” she said, her voice taut and shaking. “Go! Go then, and kill, Tanaros Blacksword! It is what you do. It is all you are good for!”

“Lady.” He took a step forward, yearning to comfort her and angry at it. “Do you understand so little, even now? Haomane has declared war upon us. We are fighting for our lives here!”

“I understand only grief.” Turning, she gazed at him. “Must it be so, Tanaros? Must it truly be so? Is there no room for compassion in your understanding of the world? Haomane would forgive, if you relented.”

“Would he?” he asked, taking another step. “Would you?”

Cerelinde shrank from his approach.

“You see.” He felt his lips move in a grim smile. “Limits, always limits. You would forgive us, if we kept to our place. Ah, my Lady. I did keep to my place, once upon a time. I was Tanaros Caveros, Commander of the King’s Guard in Altoria. I honored my liege-lord and served him well; I honored my wife and loved her well.” He opened his arms. “You see, do you not, what it earned me?”

She did not answer, only looked at his spread hands and trembled.

He had throttled his wife with those hands.

“So be it.” Gathering himself, Tanaros executed one last bow, crisp and correct. “Lady, you will be well cared for in my absence. I have sworn it so. I bid you farewell.” Spinning on his heel, he took his leave of her. No matter that her luminous eyes haunted him; it was satisfying, hearing the door slam upon his departure.

She did not know.

She did not understand.

Cerelinde was Haomane’s Child, Shaped of rational thought. She would never understand the passion with which he had loved his wife and his liege-lord alike, and how deeply their betrayal had wounded him. No more could she comprehend Lord Satoris, who had dared defy his Elder Brother in order that his Gift should not be wrested from Men, that thought should not be forever uncoupled from desire.

Things were not always as simple as they seemed.

But Haomane’s Children could not think in shades of grey.

Even now, with the old rage still simmering in his heart, it grieved Tanaros to think upon all he had lost, all he had cast aside. How much more so, he wondered, must it grieve his Lordship? And yet Cerelinde refused to see it.

Though he wished that she would.

With an effort, he thrust the thought away. A door closed; well and good. Nothing left, then, but what lay ahead. It had come down to it. All the variables, the plans within plans; what were they to him? Nothing. There was a war. War, he understood. At every corner, Tanaros passed sentries standing guard. Hulking shadows, armed to the eyetusks. They saluted him, each and every one, acknowledging the Commander General of Darkhaven.

Yes. These were his people.

“Admit no one,” he told the Fjel on guard outside his door. “I will rest.”

In his quarters, everything was immaculate. The lamps had been trimmed, the bed-linens were crisp and clean. There were madlings who never left the laundry, taking a remorseless joy in toiling over boiling vats of suds and water, expunging filth. His armor of carbon-blackened steel was arrayed on its stand, each piece polished to a menacing gleam. Buckles and straps had been oiled and replaced. It waited for him to fill it, an empty suit, a warrior of shadows. In the corner, the black sword rested propped in its scabbard. Not even a madling would touch it without permission.

His blood, thought Tanaros, my Lord’s blood.

There was a tray laid unasked-for on the table, steam seeping beneath the covered dish-domes. Peering under one, he found a pair of quail in a honey glaze; another held wild rice, and yet another a mess of stewed greens. For dessert, a plate of cheeses and grapes sat uncovered. Candlelight danced over the table, illuminating the soft, misty bloom on the purple grapes.

Drawing up a chair, Tanaros sat and ate, and tried not to think how lonely, how terribly lonely, his quarters were. He missed Fetch, but the raven was gone, the half-frozen fledgling grown into a full-fledged bird, another daring scout in Ushahin Dreamspinner’s strange army. Digging into his pocket, he found Hyrgolf’s rhios and set it on the table. The sight of it soothed him, the river sprite’s face laughing from its rounded curves.

“Is it to your liking, my Lord General?”

Tanaros started at the soft, unfamiliar voice, rising from his chair and half-drawing his dagger. Seeing Meara, he eased. “How did you get in here?”

The madling sidled toward the table, tangled hair hiding her face as she nodded toward his bathing-chamber. “This is Darkhaven. There are ways and ways, Lord General. Is the meal to your liking?”

“Yes,” he said gently, pushing away the plate of picked quail bones. “Meara, you should not be here. Is it not our Lord’s wish that you attend the Lady Cerelinde?”

“The Lady Cerelinde:” Meara sidled closer, her features contorting in a whimper.”It hurts to serve her. She pities us, Lord General. And she grieves, in the manner of the Ellylon. She turns her face to the wall, and orders us away. It was never my wish to leave you, Lord Tanaros. Do you not know it?”

Close, so close! In a paroxysm of courage, she reached him.

Touched him, descended on him.

He could smell the heat of her flesh, of her womanhood. Her hands were on him, beneath the collar of his tunic, sliding against the hard flesh of his chest, the raised ridges of his brand. Tanaros gritted his teeth as her weight straddled him. “Meara …”

“Oh, my lord, my lord!” Her face, so close to his, eyes wide.

“Meara, no.”

“He was the Sower, once.” Wide eyes, pupils fixed. Her breath was warm against his skin, unexpectedly sweet. “Do you not wonder, Tanaros, do you not know? It was his Gift, when he had one!”

Her mouth touched his, her teeth nipping at his underlip, the tip of her tongue probing. Her weight, warm and welcome, encompassing him. Jolted by desire, he stood upright, his hands encircling her waist to dump her unceremoniously onto the floor, her skull jolting at the impact.

“Meara, no!”

She laughed, then. Limbs akimbo, she laughed, bitter and shrill. “General Tanaros Blacksword! Some hero, some man you are, Tanaros Wifeslayer! Did you offer your wife so little satisfaction? No wonder she found cold comfort in your bed! No wonder she turned to the Altorus to quicken her womb!”

“ENOUGH!” Stooping, unthinking, he struck her across the face.

She whimpered.

“Meara, forgive me.” Filled with remorse, Tanaros knelt at her side, dabbing with the hem of his overtunic at a trickle of blood in the corner of her mouth. “Forgive me, I am sorry, I did not mean to hurt you.”

“Poor General.” Her eyes were curiously limpid, as if the blow had cleared her wits. She touched his hand with gentle fingers, cupping it against her bruised cheek, caressing his knuckles. “Poor Tanaros. Does it hurt so much, even still?”

Her skin was warm and soft and the pity in her eyes terrified him. Withdrawing from her, he straightened. “You should go now.”

Gathering her skirts around her, she stood. Not beautiful, no. A woman, not yet old, with tangled hair and skin sallow for lack of sunlight. She would have been pretty, once, in an ordinary, mortal way. Pity in her gaze, and a terrible knowledge. “I warned you, my lord,” she said softly. “You should have heeded me. She will break your heart. She will break all our hearts.”

“My heart.” He shook his head, touching his branded chest. “No, Meara. That lesson, I learned too well. My heart is dedicated to Lord Satoris’ service. No other.”

“I know,” she whispered. “I know.”

Haomane’s allies arrived early.

Something had happened. The scouting-packs of Were yearlings who were to report on their movements had failed. If not for Calandor’s warning, Beshtanag would have been caught unready. As it was, Lilias had closed the last breach in the wall in haste, sealing Beshtanag against invasion, and themselves within it.

Her Ward Commander Gergon brought her bits of gossip, gleaned by soldiers shouting back and forth over the granite expanse of the wall. A siege, after all, was a tiresome thing and some few had friends and cousins on the other side.

It seemed that, against all odds, Martinek, the Southeastern Regent of Pelmar, had taken to Aracus Altorus, the would-be King of the West. The last scion of House Altorus had accorded him the utmost of respect, convincing even the Host of the Ellylon to bend their stiff necks to Pelmaran authority. Deep in their cups, they had established a rapport; so much so that Martinek had allowed himself to be swayed by tales of the Borderguard of Curonan, its small, efficient units able to mobilize and maneuver more swiftly than a full-sized army.

Regent Martinek had taken Altorus’ advice, and his fellow Regents had followed suit. Instead of advancing in a united front, they had restructured their troops into winding columns. No need, then, to forge a broad path through the forest Unchallenged, Haomane’s Allies made good time through the dense terrain. The troops of Aracus Altorus were the first to arrive, sizing up the granite wall that surrounded Beshtanag with cool, measuring glances, retreating out of bowshot to set up an encampment that sprawled through the unguarded forest.

Within the space of a day, the others had arrived.

Pelmaran forces from three of the five sitting Regents, a contingent of Vedasian knights, capable Midlanders—and, oh, worst of all was the Host of the Ellylon, the Rivenlost with their piercing beauty and their keen swords. Back and forth they rode, pacing the circumference of the granite wall, needing neither sleep nor nourishment to sustain them in their quest.

Only one thing did they require: The Lady Cerelinde.

“I don’t like this, Gergon.” On her balcony, Lilias regarded the enemy encampment and shivered in the summer’s warmth. “There are so many of them.”

“We can hold.” Her Ward Commander’s face was grim. “As long as you hold the wall, my lady. Our stores will last another seven days, if need be.”

“Seven days,” she echoed. What a paltry amount!

Gergon glanced at her. “The Banewreaker’s army should be here in less. They are coming, my lady, are they not?”

“Yes.” She made her voice firmer. “Yes. They will be here.”

At the base of the mountain, a distant figure stepped forth, clad in shining armor. He was the herald of the Rivenlost and he bore a staff from which flew the standards of both Ingolin the Wise and Elterrion the Bold—the argent scroll and the Crown-and-Souma. As he did three times a day, he lifted an Ellylon horn to his lips and blew, the silvery tone echoing from the sides of Beshtanag Mountain. His voice rang forth, clear and carrying. “Sorceress! Surrender the Lady Cerelinde, and your people will be spared!”

“Ellyl arsehole,” Gergon muttered, adding, “your pardon, my lady.”

Midway down the mountain, a line of kneeling archers loosed their bows, sending a shower of arrows aloft. Sharp shouts came from sentries posted in the trees, and those of Haomane’s Allies in reach crouched low, raising their shields above their heads. Arrows arced above the granite wall and fell, clattered uselessly onto warding shields and the loose scree. The Ellyl herald stood contemptuous, watching them fall, before turning to retreat untouched.

“Too far, too high.” Gergon shook his head. “Sorry, my lady.”

Lilias sighed. “Tell them not to waste their arrows.”

“As you wish.” He paused. “If it came to it, my lady, there is one weapon they could not withstand.”

“No!” Her reply was sharp. “Not Calandor.”

“It seems a folly—”

“Hear me, Ward Commander.” Lilias fixed him with a steely stare. “This is Shapers’ business, and dragonkind is all but vanished because of it. Calandor will not give battle. Put it out of your thoughts.”

“My lady.” Gergon bowed, unhappy with her answer. “As you order. I will report again at sundown.”

It was a relief to have him gone. Lilias watched a pair of ravens circling in the drafts, hoping they made ready to bear word to Darkhaven on urgent wings. While the wall stood, Beshtanag was safe; but there were so many arrayed against them. She touched the Soumanië at her brow, feeling the Shaping force of it pulsing faintly in her veins, in the stone beneath her feet. Faint, so faint! She was spread too thin. It had taken a great effort to raise the wall, and more to sustain it. Always, it took more effort to create than to destroy. The old linkages were stretched and weak—those incorporating the collars of her pretty ones, binding them to her service; those that bound Beshtanag itself, binding the blood and flesh of her people to loyalty. Even the binding that stretched the great Chain of Being to its limits felt thin and tenuous, and Lilias felt old.

She was old, a thousand years old. Today, she felt it.

Oh, Calandor! she asked silently. What have we done?

There was a long pause before the dragon replied, longer than she remembered.

Wait, little sister, and be strong. You must be strong.

There was sorrow in the thought, deeper than she’d known the dragon to evince. Lilias gripped the balustrade with both hands, staring at the mountain’s base. There, in the shadow of the forest, a flash of red-gold hair. Aracus Altorus, bare-headed and arrogant, the would-be King of the West Even at a distance, she saw him pause, his gaze measuring her will and searching the sky for dragon-sign.

And then he turned his back on her, cool and purposeful, ordering his troops as they set about the construction of the implements of war. Ladders of branches, lashed with rope. Siege-towers, capable of holding a dozen men. Entire trunks hewn into battering rams. All of Pelmar’s forests provided fodder for his efforts, as if in league with him. Already Haomane’s Allies had essayed her wall in a score of places. She could hold it, for now, with the aid of Gergon’s wardsmen. What would happen when their stores ran low? What would happen if Malthus arrived to pit himself against her, armed with a Soumanië like her own?

In her deepest self, Lilias knew the answer.

Hurry, she prayed in the direction of Darkhaven; oh, hurry!

Tens of thousands of Fjeltroll were packed into the Chamber of the Marasoumië and the tunnels that underlay Darkhaven. Armor creaked, rough hide jostled hide, horn-calloused feet trod the stony floors. Despite the fact that the ventilation shafts had all been uncovered, the air was stifling with the musky, slightly rank odor of the Fjel. The red node-light was reflected in thousands of eyes, all of them fixed on Tanaros.

Despite it all, they stood patient, adhering to the formations he’d drilled into them and trusting to his leadership. The swift Gulnagel, the ferocious Nåltannen, the dark Mørkhar and the mighty Tungskulder—all his to command, a vast army, divided into dozens of small units, mobile and skilled.

And at his side was Speros of Haimhault, grinning a gap-toothed grin, holding the reins of a pair of the horses of Darkhaven; Tanaros’ own black, and a second like enough to be its twin. After much debate, Tanaros had decided to leave the mounted Staccian forces behind. Under Vorax’s command, they and the Havenguard would serve to defend Darkhaven. He had made a promise to the young Midlander, let him serve as his equerry.

As for the battle itself; ah! For that, he had his field marshal, and there was no one, Man or Fjel, he trusted more than Hyrgolf. In the suffocating press, their gazes met quietly and Hyrgolf gave a nod, showing his eyetusks in a faint smile.

The Army of Darkhaven was ready.

“My friends.” Tanaros raised a hand, and the rustling cavern fell into silence. “Tonight, we go forth to achieve a great good. Tonight, we will travel the ancient Ways of the Marasoumië, that traverse the length and breadth of the Sundered World itself.”

There was a murmur; of eagerness, of anxiety.

“Be at ease.” He pointed at Vorax, who stood beside the flickering node. “There stands Lord Vorax of Staccia, who will open the entrance. At the other end awaits Ushahin Dreamspinner, who will open the egress. Between them, they will hold open the Way, until the last of us has passed. And I, Tanaros Caveros, the Commander General of Darkhaven, will guide you through it.”

They were afraid, these mighty warriors, the feared Fjel. It made him fond, and he smiled upon them. “Do not fear, my brothers. We are the Three, branded by Godslayer itself. We are the chosen of Lord Satoris. We will not fail you.”

It braced them like svartblod. Tanaros saw it, felt it in his veins. His spirits soared, running high. Within the scarred circle on his chest, his heart beat, strong and steady. This was what he had been born to do. Lord Satoris himself had said it, summoning him to the Chamber of the Font. There, amid the blue-white coruscation of the marrow-fire, Godslayer’s pulsing and the sweet reek of ichor, he had spoken words that filled his general’s heart to bursting with pride and nameless emotion.

I trust you, Tanaros Blacksword. You will not fail me.

“Brothers!” Tanaros ripped his sword from its sheath, holding it aloft. “Though Haomane First-Born cowers on Torath, for too long his tyranny has held sway over Urulat! In his pride and refusal to relent, he rouses his Children against us, he sends his Counselors to wage war, and looses his Prophecy on us like a hunting dog. Lord Satoris grows weary of being brought to bay like an animal, and I grow weary with him. Have the Fjel not been persecuted by his Wrath, threatened with extinction? I tell you, it need not be so. Our destiny lies within our grasp. Haomane’s Allies await us! Shall we make an end to it?”

They roared, then; roared acclaim and battle-readiness, and the sound within the cavern was deafening. Speros dropped the reins he held and clapped his hands over his ears in dismay while the restless horses tossed their heads. Tanaros smiled, letting the sound wash over him in waves, beating against his skin. It was good, this sound. It was a fitting sound to accompany the end of a world; or the beginning of one.

“So be it!” he cried when they had subsided. “By this sword, quenched in the blood of Lord Satoris himself, I do swear it. We will prevail in his name.” In a single motion, he sheathed the black sword. “The next blood it tastes will be that of Haomane’s Allies, or I am foresworn. We will assemble on the plains of Rukhar. Is all in readiness?”

Hyrgolf turned, repeating the question in the Fjel tongue. Here and there standards rose and dipped, their colors dim in the cavernous light as subcommanders in a sea of Fjel gave answer, yes and yes and yes. The ranks held, the companies were ready. Hyrgolf was smiling broadly as he turned back to his leader, his upper and lower eyetusks gleaming. “They’re ready, General,” he said in his deep rumble. “For our children and our children’s children, shall we make an end to this battle for once and for all?”

“Let’s.” Tanaros reached out, clasping his field marshal’s taloned hand, feeling the stone-roughened hide against his skin. “Let us do that, my brother.”

Clearing his throat beside the node-light, Vorax lifted the case that held the Helm of Shadows. “Blacksword,” he said softly, red light flickering on the gold inlay of his armor as he summoned Tanaros’ attention. “The night is waxing. Are you prepared to depart?”

It was harder than he had reckoned. “You’ll keep Darkhaven safe?”

“As immortal fiber can make it.” The Staccian smiled into his beard and opened the case, removing the Helm of Shadows. An agony of darkness pulsed between his hands. “Ride forth, cousin. The Dreamspinner is waiting on the other end. Go now, and Lord Satoris’ blessings upon you.”

So saying, Vorax placed the Helm upon his head and opened the Way. A wash of ruby brilliance filled the Chamber. Squinting against it, Tanaros groped for the reins of his mount, fumbled as Speros handed them to him with tardy alacrity. Swinging himself into the saddle, he set his face toward the open Way and took the first step.

The Army of Darkhaven was on the march.