Banewreaker (33 page)

"I can't." The words came harshly, catching in his throat. The tears were flowing freely, coursing his cheeks. "Forgive me, Blaise, but I can't."

The Borderguardsman nodded with regret.

"Carfax, please!" Fianna's face swam in his vision, and there were tears in her own eyes, shining on her cheeks. How not? Archer or no, she was a woman, and women reckoned the cost. Always, women reckoned the cost. Her hands found his, gripping them tightly. "You saved my life! How can you name yourself aught but a friend?"

"I wasn't prey." He blinked at her, clutching her hands. Soft, so soft, save for the bowstring's calluses. "Do you understand? The Were wouldn't attack me. I might as well have struck an unarmed man."

"As
they
did!" Her voice rose. "You defended Dani, too, who never raised his hand to anyone! Where is the wrong in that?"

Carfax shook his head and looked away, withdrawing from her grasp. "Dani raised his hand against Darkhaven when he drew forth the Water of Life," he murmured. "Malthus knew it, if the boy did not. And the Were knew it, too. I'm sorry, Fianna." Gathering himself, he met Blaise's eyes. "I'll do nothing to thwart your purpose. You have my word on that, my lord. But I cannot pledge you my loyalty." He swallowed against the lump in his throat. "I ride into Beshtanag as your prisoner."

"So be it." The Borderguardsman's gaze was steady. "My hand is extended in friendship, Staccian. It will be there should you wish to take it."

Not trusting himself to speak, Carfax nodded.

THE WALL WAS FAILING.

It was simply too much to hold. For three days, Haomane's Allies had assailed it without cease. Day and night, night and day. No one could sleep for the sound of battering rams thudding mercilessly against granite, seeking cracks where Lilias' power weakened.

She had held out longer than she had dreamed possible. It wasn't easy work, Shaping, and she was neither Ellyl nor Counselor, with Haomane's Gifts in her blood to make it easier. Rock and stone fought her will, seeking to return to their original form. Again and again, her bindings loosened. With grim determination, she held them in place, until exhaustion left her weak and dizzy, forgetful of her surroundings.

"Please, my lady! You
must
drink."

The cool rim of a cup touched her lower lip. Raising her head with a jerk, Lilias saw Sarika kneeling before her, eyes pleading. "Sweet-ling." She steadied the girl's hands with her own, drinking deep. The water forged a cool trail into her empty belly, lending the illusion of fullness. "Our stores endure?"

"Water." Sarika licked her lips involuntarily. "There is water, and quarter-rations of gruel for the wardsmen. As you ordered, my lady."

"Yes." Lilias pressed one hand to her brow, feeling the weight of the Soumanië. "Of course." A hollow boom shook the mountain as a battering ram struck her wall for the hundredth time that morning, and she shuddered. "Where is Gergon?"

"He's coming." It was Radovan's voice that spoke; Radovan, whose smouldering eyes had pleased her once. Now they stared at her with dark hatred, and disdain laced his voice. "My lady." He spat the words like an epithet, running one grimy finger beneath the linked silver collar that bound him to her.

It was folly, of course. She should have freed him before this began; should never have bound them so close. Any of them, her pretty ones. It had never been necessary, not with the good ones. How had it begun? A sop to her mortal vanity; to pride, to desire. What was power good for if not for that? It pleased her to be surrounded by youth in all its fleeting beauty. What was immortality good for without simple pleasures? She was a generous mistress. None of them had ever taken any harm from it, only tales to tell their grandchildren.

Too late, now. As strained as the linkage was, it would take more to sever it than to maintain it. Lilias shoved aside her regrets and shook her head like a fly-stung horse, impatient. "Gergon?"

"There, my lady." Sarika pointed, her voice soothing.

He looked like an ant toiling up the mountainside. They all looked like ants. Her wardsmen, the Warders of Beshtanag, defending the mighty wall. Other ants in bright armor swarmed it, creeping along the top with their siege-towers and ladders, while the battering ram boomed without ceasing. Lilias sat back in her chair, surveying her crumbling empire. She remembered, now. She'd had a high-backed chair of office placed here, on the terrace of Beshtanag Fortress itself, to do just that.

Lilias.

Calandor's voice echoed in her skull. "No," she said aloud. "No."

Her Ward Commander, Gergon, toiled up the mountainside, nodding as he went to archers posted here and there, the last defenders of Beshtanag. It was warm and he was sweating, his greying hair damp beneath his helmet. He took it off to salute her. "My lady Lilias." He tucked his helmet under his arm, regarding her. His face was gaunt and the flesh beneath his eyes hung in bags. He had served her since his birth, as had his father and his father's father before him. "I am here in answer to your summons."

"Gergon." Her fingers curved around the arms of the chair. "How goes the battle?"

He pointed. "As you see, I fear."

Below, the ants scurried, those inside the wall hurrying away under its shadow.

A loud
crr-ackk
! sounded and a web of lines emerged on a portion of the wall, revealing its component elements. Rocks shifted, boulders grinding ominously. Lilias stiffened in her chair, closing her eyes, drawing on the power of the Soumanië. In her mind she saw her wall whole and gleaming; willed it so, Shaped it so, shifting platelike segments of mica, re-forming the crystalline bonds of silica into a tracery of veins running throughout a single, solid structure. What she saw, she Shaped, and held.

There was a pause, and then the sound of the battering ram resumed.

Lilias bent over, gasping. "There!"

"Lady." Gergon gazed down at the siege and mopped the sweat from his brow, breathing a sigh that held no relief. "Forgive me, but it is the third such breach this morning, and I perceive you grow weary." His voice was hoarse. "I am weary. My men are weary. We are hungry, all of us. We will defend Beshtanag unto the death, only…" The cords in his weathered throat moved as he swallowed, hale flesh grown slack with privation and exhaustion. "Three days, you said. Today is the fourth. Where are they?"

Lilias, you must tell him.

"I know." She shuddered. "Ah, Calandor! I know."

Before her, Gergon choked on an indrawn breath, a fearful certainty dawning in his hollow-set eyes. He glanced down at his men, his shoulders sagging with defeat, then back at her. "They're not coming," he said. "Are they?"

"No," she said softly. With an effort, Lilias dragged herself upright in her chair and met his gaze, knowing he deserved that much. "I lied. I'm sorry. Something went awry in the Marasoumië. I thought…" She bowed her head. "I don't know what I thought. Only that somehow, in the end, it wouldn't come to this. Gergon, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

A sound arose; two sounds. They seemed linked, at first—the redoubled sound of the battering ram, Radovan's rising shout. He plunged at her, his smouldering eyes gone quite mad, the paring-knife held high overhead. Somewhere, Sarika's shrill scream echoed against Gergon's belated cry of protest.

Lilias dealt with it unthinking.

The Soumanië on her brow flared into life, casting its crimson glow. Abandoning every tendril of her defense of the wall, she drew upon the Soumanië and hurled every ounce of her remaining strength at him,

Shaping the pulse of his life-force as surely as she had Shaped the veins of silica. Radovan stiffened mid-strike, his free hand clutching at his throat; at the silver collar he wore, the token of her will circumscribing his life. Sunlight shone on the edge of the paring-knife, casting a bar of brightness across her face. When had he stolen it? How long had he planned this? She had known, known she should have freed him! If he had only asked, only spoken to her of his resentment… but, already, it was too late. Panicked and careless, Lilias forgot all else, concentrating the Soumanië's power upon him, until his heartbeat fluttered and failed.

Lifeless knees buckling, Radovan slumped to earth.

At the base of the mountain, a great shout arose.

The crash resounded across the forests of Pelmar as a portion of her wall crumbled; crumbled, resolving itself irrevocably into shards and chips, rough-hewn boulders. There was a price to be paid for her lapse, for the act of will that had saved her life and taken his. A gap wide enough to drive a team of four through stood open, and Haomane's Allies poured through it. For three days, Aracus Altorus had held his troops at the ready, waiting for such an opening. Now he seized it unhesitating, and a trickle of ants grew to a stream, swelled to a flood. A clangor of battle arose and, all along the wall, defense positions were abandoned as the wardsmen of Beshtanag surged to meet the influx. Siege-ladders thumped against undefended granite. Haomane's Allies scrambled over the wall by the dozen, their numbers growing. On the terrace, her Ward Commander Gergon shouted futile orders.

"No," Lilias said, numb with horror. "No!"

How could it all fall apart so swiftly?

They came and they came, erecting battle-standards on Beshtanag Mountain. Regents of Pelmar, lords of Seahold, ancient families of Vedasia, and oh! The banners of the Ellylon, bright and keen, never seen on Beshtanagi soil. And there, inexorable, moved the standard of Aracus Altorus, the dun-grey banner of the Borderguardsmen of Curonan, unadorned and plain.

"No," Lilias whispered.

Now, Lilias.

"No! Wait!" She reached for the power of the Soumanië;
reached
. And for once, found nothing. After all, when all was said and done, she was mortal still, and her power had found its limits. Radovan lay dead, a paring-knife in his open hand, his heart stopped. The earth would not rise at her command and swallow her enemies; the roots of the dense forest would not drink their blood. The Soumanië was a dead ember on her brow. Somewhere, Sarika was weeping with fear, and it seemed unfair, so unfair. "Calandor, no!"

It is time, Lilias.

She had fallen to her knees, unaware. In a rising stillness no one else perceived, something bright flickered atop Beshtanag Mountain. Sunlight, glinting on scales, on talons capable of grasping a full-grown sheep, on the outstretched vanes of mighty wings. No one seemed to notice. At the base of the mountain, Haomane's Allies struggled on the loose scree inside the wall, fighting in knots, surging upward, gaining ground by the yard. Assured of her temporary safety, Ward Commander Gergon, striding down the mountain, shouted at his archers to fall back, fall back and defend. All the brightness in the world, and no one noticed.

"Please don't," Lilias whispered. "Oh, Calandor!"

Atop the mountain, Calandor roared.

It was a sound like no other sound on earth.

It held fire, gouts of fire, issuing forth from the furnace of the dragon's heart. It held all the fury of the predator; of every predator, everywhere. It held the deep tones of dark places, of the bones of the earth, of wisdom rent from their very marrow. It held love; oh yes. It held love, in all its self-aware rue; of the strong for the weak, of the burden of strength and true nature of sacrifice. And it was like trumpets, clarion and defiant, brazen in its knowledge.

"
Calandor
," Lilias whispered on her knees, and wept.

Haomane's Allies went still, and feared.

Roaring, with sunlight glittering on his scales, on his taloned claws, on the vanes of his wings, rendering pale the gouts of flame that issued from his sinuous throat, the Dragon of Beshtanag launched himself. Below the brightness in the sky, a shadow, a vast shadow, darkened the mountain.

At last, Haomane's Allies knew terror.

LONG BEFORE THEY REACHED BESHTANAG they heard the clamor of battle, and another, more fearful sound, a roar that resonated in their very bones and made the blood run cold in their veins. Among the four of them, only the Ellyl had heard such a sound before. Blaise looked at him for confirmation and Peldras nodded, his luminous eyes gone dark and grave.

"It is the dragon."

Blaise looked grim. "Ride!"

For the last time, they charged headlong through the dense Pelmaran forests, matted pine needles churned beneath the hooves of their horses. Half-forgotten, Carfax brought up the rear, wondering and fearing what they would find upon reaching Beshtanag. From the forest's verge they saw the encampment of Haomane's Allies. Above the battlefield, at the foot of the great walled mountain, fire searing the skies.

Blaise Caveros uttered a wordless cry, clapping his heels to his mount's sides. When they reached the point where the treetops were smouldering he streaked into the lead, the other three following as they burst from dense cover. With his bared sword clutched in one fist, he abandoned his company and charged into battle shouting.

"Curonan!
Curonan
!"

Trailing, Carfax halted and watched in awe.

The wall that surrounded the mountain seemed impregnable; seamless granite four times the height of a tall man. And yet it had been breached. A vast gap lay open in the great wall that had surrounded Beshtanag, a gaping hole where the wall crumbled into its component stones. There, Men fought in the rubble, Men and Ellylon, and above it all, a bright shadow circled; circled, and breathed gouts of fire.

His heart caught inexplicably at the sight of it, at the dragon's vaned wings, outstretched to ride the drafts. Such terrible beauty! But where were the others? Where were the Fjel, stalwart and faithful? Where was the company of Rukhari that Lord Vorax had promised? Where was General Tanaros?

Peldras drew rein alongside him. "You did not expect this."

"No." Carfax frowned, following the dragon's flight. "Beshtanag was meant to be a trap. But not like
this
."

"How?" The Ellyl's voice was calm.

Atop her mount, Fianna was trembling. "Oh, Haomane!" The quiver she bore at her back pulsed with light. "Carfax, they are dying.
Dying
!"

It was true. Whatever had transpired before to breach the wall, Haomane's Allies were dying now, by the score. Bodies littered the ground inside the wall, many of them charred beyond recognition.

Beshtanag's defenders surged toward the gap, seeking to secure their position and retake the breach, sealing it. And above them all, the dragon circled, casting a vast shadow on the base of the mountain.

"Curonan!"

A knot of men answering to the dun-grey standard had forged their way to the forefront. It was to their aid that Blaise had streaked, battling against the tide to reclaim the gap in the wall; where a handful of men held the gap by dint of sheer valor. Above them the dragon circled, then stooped. The prudent Beshtanagi fell back to regroup on the mountainside. The men of Curonan flung themselves to the ground beneath the dragon's shadow. It passed over them, so low that its scaled belly almost scraped the top of the wall. The mighty jaws opened and gouts of white-hot flame issued forth from the gaping furnace.

One of the Borderguardsmen screamed, rolling. Others cried out and beat at smouldering garments. The smell of burning flesh hung in the air.

"Blaise!" Fianna whispered in anguish.

He was clear, wrenching his horse's reins mercilessly, his mount sidling free of the fire's scorching path. The dragon's wings beat hard, creating a powerful downdraft as its gleaming body banked and rolled. Its scaled tail, tipped with deadly spikes, swept like a cudgel. Blaise's mount danced, avoiding it by a narrow margin.