Banewreaker (27 page)

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 FJEUROLL 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
M�rkhar 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, God-slayer'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 Dream-spinner 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.

DANI SMILED AT HIM IN the twilight. "I'm glad you're staying with us."

Carfax poked at the fire without answering. A knot burst, releasing a crackle of sparks and the fragrance of pine. His muscles ached from the day's hard labor. On the far side of the glade, a dark fissure yawned beneath an overhanging granite shelf, clear at last of the rockfall that had blocked it.

It was there, deep below the earth. A node of the Marasoumië. Alone among Haomane's Allies, Malthus the Counselor knew the secrets of the Ways, and did not fear them.

And he had helped them uncover it.

Wind rustled in the tall pine-tops. Accompanied by the Ellyl, the archer Fianna walked the perimeter of the glade, Oronin's Bow half-drawn. They had seen ravens from afar. At her back, the quiver that held her arrows gleamed with a faint, eldritch light, and one shaft shone a pale silver. It would flame white-gold if she withdrew it.

"Carfax?" Dani prompted him.

"Aye." With an effort, he gathered his thoughts. "Aye, Dani. I'm here."

It had been a near thing. Here, in this glade, their paths would diverge. Malthus the Counselor was leaving them for a time. Alone, he would travel the Ways of the Marasoumië to Beshtanag, where he would confront the Sorceress of the East. Malthus' Company would continue without him, to be reunited in Jakar. Their task—Carfax knew it now—was to shepherd Dani the Bearer and the precious Water of Life to Darkhaven.

To extinguish the marrow-fire and free Godslayer.

There had been quarrels, of course. It had sat ill with the young Vedasian knight Hobard to play nursemaid to a Charred One while his kinsmen gained glory at Beshtanag. Malthus had pointed out the route to the northeast and invited him to depart. In the end, Hobard had elected to stay—but he had argued hard for disposing of Carfax.

The argument had taken hours to resolve.

Dani, soft-hearted Dani, had protested, backed by his uncle. Fat Thulu; not so fat, after their travels. Blaise Caveros stirred, narrowed his eyes, and said nothing. Peldras the Ellyl laced his elegant hands about his knees, thinking abstruse Ellylon thoughts. And Fianna… Fianna spoke in a faltering voice on mercy's behalf, her words uncertain.

In the end, of course, it fell to Malthus.

The wizard had fixed him with that keen gaze that seemed to see right through him, eyes bright beneath his fierce brows. And Carfax, to his shame, had trembled. Once upon a time, he had been willing to die for Lord Satoris, filled with a Staccian warrior's pride. No more. He was afraid.

"Yes," Malthus had said with finality. "Let him stay."

So it had been decided, and when it was done, Carfax wished they had killed him after all. It would, at least, be swift. The itch in Blaise's fingers as they strayed over his sword-hilt promised as much. It would put an end to his
knowing
. Malthus the Counselor traveled the Ways into a trap, that much he knew. Carfax thought upon it with guilt and grim satisfaction as he labored to shift rocks on the wizard's behalf. Oh, Malthus might hope to defeat the Sorceress with her Soumanië—but it would take a mighty effort. When General Tanaros and the Army of Darkhaven fell upon Haomane's Allies, the wizard would have naught left to give in their defense.

And yet… and yet.

The Company would struggle onward. How doomed were their efforts, if Darkhaven prevailed? It would become a game of cat and mouse, with Lord Satoris' paw poised to strike. He would tell them, if he dared. He would spare them. Not all, no; not the surly Vedasian, nor Blaise Caveros—but the others, yes. Dani, at the least. Poor Dani, who was beginning to feel the weight of his burden, and the cost of protecting it. He belonged in the Unknown Desert, he and his uncle, at peace and unaware of the Shapers' War being waged over Urulat.

Better I should die, Carfax thought, than see this through.

Only I am afraid to die.

And so, alone, he tended the fire and dwelled with his tongue-locked thoughts, while their stores were shared out and everyone ate. And then, in the small hours, Peldras the Ellyl stayed awake with him, with his drawn sword over his knees, watching the moon's course. They had become comrades in these small hours. Even the wizard snored. And as before, it was the Ellyl who spoke first, turning his luminous gaze on the Staccian. "You have given thought to Arahila's mercy, have you not?"

"Mayhap." Carfax kept his gaze fixed on the embers. "Does it matter?"

"It does."

"Why?"

There was a long silence.

"Where to begin?" Peldras sighed, a sound like the wind through pine needles. "I am Rivenlost, Carfax of Staccia. I am one of Haomane's Children; Haomane First-Born, who alone knew the will of Uru-Alat. The world as He Shaped it was a bright and shining thing. I am Ellyl, and I remember. I grieve for what was Sundered from me."

Carfax lifted his head. "Lord Satoris did not—"

"Satoris Banewreaker would cover the world in darkness!" The Ellyl cut him off, his tone grim. "A tide is rising, Staccian. In Darkhaven, it rises. The Fjeltroll are seen in numbers, and the Helm of Shadows has been worn once more. What passes in Beshtanag is merely an opening gambit. Look, there." He pointed to the red star, riding high above the horizon. "There is Dergail's Soumanië, that the Sunderer wrested from him. It is a sign, a challenge. And it is one the Six Shapers cannot answer, for they are trapped beyond the shores of the Sundered World, islanded in their might. It falls to us, Son of Man. We are the last, best hope; each one of us. Do you matter?" He softened his voice. "Yes, Staccian. You matter. You are the twig that may turn a flood. If you choose a path of redemption, who is to say how many will follow?"

"No." Carfax stared aghast at the Ellyl, shaking his head in denial. "No! You don't understand! Lord Satoris didn't raise the red star; it was a warning sent by Arahila herself that Haomane First-Born—" Over the Ellyl's shoulder, he glimpsed movement, half-seen shadows moving in the forest's verges, and fear strangled his unspoken words.

Reading his expression, Peldras went motionless. "What is it?"

"There," he whispered, pointing. "Oh, Peldras!"

"The Were are upon us!"

The Ellyl's shout rang clarion in the glade. Already he was on his feet, a naked blade in his hand, his bright gaze piercing the shadows. Already Malthus' Company sprang awake, leaping to the defense. Already it was too late.

From everywhere and nowhere came the attack, for Oronin's Hunters had encircled the glade. Seven hunters for the seven Allies, coming low and fast as they surged from the surrounding darkness. Firecast shadows rippled along their pelts. Oronin Last-Born had Shaped them, and Death rode in his train. Grey and dire, they closed in for the kill with lean ferocity, snarling a song of blood-thirst. Seven throats they sought, and the eighth they ignored, leaving him a helpless witness.

"No," Carfax said dumbly. "Oh, no."

There was Malthus the Counselor in his tattered scholar's robes, the Soumanië blazing in his hand. It lit the glade in a piercing wash of scarlet light; to no avail, for the eyes of the Were were bound with grey cloth. Oronin's Children hunted blind. Their muzzles were raised, nostrils twitching, following scent as keen as sight.

There were the tethered horses, screaming in awful terror. There were the fighters; Peldras, Blaise, Hobard. Back to back to back they fought, forced into a tight knot. They fought better together than Carfax would have guessed, fending off four circling Were. Even the Vedasian proved himself worthy, wielding his father's sword with a ferocity and skill beyond his years.

Still, they were not enough to resist the Were.

Fianna knelt in an archer's stance at the Counselor's feet, drawing the Arrow of Fire with trembling fingers, sighting on shadows as it illuminated her vulnerable face. The black horn of Oronin's Bow seemed to buck in her hands, reluctant to strike against its Shaper's children.

And Dani; oh, Dani!

His eyes were wide, reflecting firelight, his slender fingers closed around the clay flask at his throat. Dani, who had offered him water when he was thirsty. Before him stood Thulu of the Yarru-yami, a bulky figure wielding his digging-stick with grim determination. Already, he was panting and weary, his skin glistening with sweat and the darker sheen of blood where teeth had scored him.

Two of the Were hunters circled him with cunning, twitching nostrils guiding them. One feinted; the other launched past him, a deadly missile, jaws parting to seek Dani's throat.

"No!"

Carfax was not conscious of moving, not conscious of grasping the butt-end of a sturdy branch from the fire. Sparks arced through the air as he swung it, interposing himself between the Were and its quarry. There was a thud, the impact jarring his shoulders; a keen whine and the smell of scorched wolf-pelt.

Oh, Brethren, forgive me!

"Dani!" Malthus' voice, strident and urgent. "The cavern! Now!
Now
!"

And the earth…
surged
.

Carfax, choking, was flung to the ground. There, scant feet away, was Dani, his face filled with fear and dawning knowledge. Outside the circle of churning earth, the blind hunters gathered to regroup, muzzles raised to quest the air.

"Go," Carfax whispered. "Go!"

He hauled himself to one knee, dimly aware of Thulu grabbing Dani by the collar and racing toward the cavern of the Marasoumië, their retreat warded by Malthus, who caused the very earth to ripple in surging waves, throwing back the attack of the Were.

The Yarru vanished into the cavern.

"Malthus!" Blaise shouted.

At the cavern's mouth, the wizard turned to face the pursuing Were and planted his staff with a sound like thunder. His lips were moving, his ancient face illuminated by the Soumanië that blazed crimson at his breast. Earth roiled, stones cracking like bones. Oronin's Hunters were tossed like jackstraws, howling in anger. Amid the chaos, Malthus shaped words lost in the avalanche of noise, his urgent gaze striving to communicate. "… protect… Bearer! Beshtanag… Jakar…"

"What?" Blaise cried. "
What
?"

Taking a step backward, Malthus the Counselor raised his hand. On his breast, the Soumanië surged with brilliance and deep in the cavern, the node-light of the Marasoumië blazed in answer, washing the glade in crimson light and momentarily blinding the onlookers.

When it faded, they were gone.

Unguarded, unprotected, Carfax stood with a smoldering branch in his hand and fought back an awful laugh as he watched his dumbstruck companions stare at the cavern's empty mouth.

Again, yet again, the Were regrouped. One rose onto his rear legs, clawed hands snatching away his blindfold to reveal amber eyes glowing with all the rage of a thwarted hunt. "You rest," the Were leader growled, "die."

A bow spoke in answer; not Oronin's, but an Arduan longbow made of ashwood and sinew, its string singing as shafts buzzed like hornets in the air. Three of the Were fell, silent and stricken, before their Brethren raced for the shadows, howling in wounded anger. "Not yet," Fianna vowed, tears staining her cheeks. "Not yet!"

Then it was Hobard defending her as the surviving Were renewed their attack with doubled stealth and speed, scattering the fire and spoiling the Archer's aim. The young Vedasian fought with all the pride and skill of his knight's upbringing. He swung his sword with a valiant effort, grimacing as one of the Were passed close, fierce teeth scoring his side.

"Blaise!" A silver shout in the smoke-streaked darkness; Peldras had reached the horses. With an Ellyl charm he bound them, horseflesh shivering in fearful obedience, four sets of equine eyes rolling in terror, four sets of reins tangled in his hands. " 'Tis our only chance!"

Blaise of the Borderguard swore, forging a path toward the Ellyl.

Why is it, Carfax wondered, that I am so alone here? What am I doing here? He took a step forward, interposing himself between Fianna and one of the Were, raising his smoldering branch in foolish opposition. A stick, a silly weapon; a few embers and a length of wood. Still, he had done damage with it. The Were halted, dropping to all fours and showing its teeth in uncertainty.

"You were not shown us," it said in guttural common. "You are not prey."

"Yes." Gritting his teeth, Carfax swung the branch at the Were's head. "I am."

The branch connected with a horrible crunch.

There was confusion, then, in the milling darkness; shouts and curses, the high-pitched keen of injured Were. Sparks emblazoned the night and steel flashed, four-legged death dodged and darted with impossible speed, while sharp teeth tore and muzzles were stained with blood. This was battle, and did not need to be understood. Somewhere,

Blaise was shouting commands, and Fianna was no longer there. Instead, there were the Were, howling with the fury of betrayal and lunging for his blood, maddened and forgetful of their greater quest. Without thinking, Carfax set his back to Hobard's as to a battle-comrade's and fought, heedless of aught else, until the branch he wielded snapped in two, and he knew his death was upon him.

"Staccian!" The Vedasian gripped his arm. "Go."

Carfax gaped at him.

"Go!" With a curse, Hobard pointed across the glade at the dim figures of mounted riders, horses pitching in barely contained terror. "Go now, and you have a chance! The horses are fresh and the Ellyl can see in the dark."

"Give me your sword!" Carfax thrust out his hand. "Don't be a fool, Vedasian. I've betrayed my loyalties. Either way, I'm a dead man. Let me buy you time. Give me your sword."

"Staccian, if I hadn't argued for killing you, we would not have wasted a day in this place." Hobard jabbed at one of the circling Were. "This is my sword, and my father's before me. I'll not surrender it to the likes of you." In the faint ember-light he gave a grim smile. One cheek was streaming with blood and he no longer looked young. "This is my death. Go."

Carfax hesitated.

"Go!"

He went, racing at full pelt across the darkened glade. Behind him, the three surviving members of Oronin's Hunters gathered, flinging themselves after him like a cast spear. They were swift and deadly, armed with fang and claw, and they could have dropped him like a yearling deer.