Banewreaker (36 page)

"A storm, do you reckon, sir?" Beside him, Hyrgolf squinted at the clouds.

Vorax scratched at his armored chest with absentminded futility. His mount shifted restlessly, stamping a hoof. "I'm not sure." His brand was beginning to sting as if there were a hornet's nest lodged under his armor and there was a distinct
tugging
in the direction of the fortress. "No." He shook his head. "No ordinary storm, anyway. Field marshal, cancel the exercise. Dismiss the troops."

Hyrgolf roared a command in the Fjel tongue, a signal relayed by his bannerman. Pennants dipped and waved under the glowering skies, and a rumble of thunder answered. Thousands of Fjeltroll began to disperse in semi-orderly fashion, forming into winding columns and setting off at a slow, steady jog for their barracks.

Above the looming edifice, clouds built. Layer upon layer they gathered, dark and billowing, echoing the towering structure below. Angry lightning flickered, illuminating the underbellies of the bruise-colored swells. Whatever they contained, it didn't bode well for anyone caught on the field.

"It's his Lordship," Hyrgolf observed. "He's wroth."

"I think you're right." Vorax grimaced and bent over his pommel as pain clutched at his heart like a fist and the tugging sensation intensified. "Field marshal!" The words emerged in a grunt. "Help me. I have to get back there.
Now
."

"Aye, sir!" Hyrgolf gave a crisp salute and stooped to grasp the reins of Vorax's mount a half a foot below the bit. "Make way!" he bellowed at the retreating backs of his army as he forged a path. "Way for Lord Vorax!"

The columns wavered at his order and parted to create an alley. Through his pain, Vorax was dimly aware of being impressed at the discipline Tanaros had drilled into his troops and at the steady competence of the Tungskulder Fjel who commanded them. Then a bolt of lightning cracked the skies and thunder pealed. His mount, unwontedly skittish, sought to rear, tugging at the reins the Fjeltroll held in an iron grip. With his chest ablaze, it was all Vorax could do to stay upright in the saddle.

Thunder pealed again, sharp and incisive, and the clouds split open to unleash their burden. The rain that spat down was greasy and unclean, reeking of sulfur. Worse, Vorax realized with a shudder, it
burned
like sulfur. It was an unnatural rain, carrying the taint of a Shaper's fury. His flesh prickled beneath his armor, fearful of its touch on his skin, and he was glad his Staccian company wasn't on the field.

"Sir!" Hyrgolf was bawling in his ear, his hideous face looming close. Water dripped from his brow-ridges, carving steaming runnels in his obdurate hide. "Sir, I've called for a Gulnagel escort! It's the fastest way!"

Another seizure clutched at his chest, and his mount trumpeted with pain and fear, flaring its nostrils at the rain's stench. "My thanks!" Vorax managed to gasp; and then the others were there, one on either side, a pair of Gulnagel baring their eyetusks as they leapt to secure his reins.

They set out at a run, ignoring the deluge. The reins stretched taut and his horse followed anxiously in their wake, moving from a trot into a canter, settling into a gallop as the Gulnagel lengthened their strides into swift bounds. Their taloned feet scored deep gouges in the earth as they passed their hurrying brethren. Vorax clutched his deep pommel with both hands, concentrating on keeping his seat. The field was a blur. Corrosive rain sheeted from his Staccian armor and he tucked his chin tight against his chest, letting the visor of his helmet deflect the rain from his face; still, burning droplets pelted his cheeks. His mount squealed, steam arising from its sleek hide. The Fjel yelped and ran onward, leading him at breakneck speed.

At the outermost postern gates, one of Ushahin's madlings was dancing from foot to foot. He held out his hand for the reins in a pleading gesture, heedless of the bleeding scores the rain etched on his face. Still ducking his chin, Vorax struggled to free his feet from the stirrups as the Gulnagel helped him dismount. The madling crooned to his mount, shoulders hunched against the punishing rain.

And then Vorax was on solid ground, screwing his eyes shut as burning moisture seeped under his visor, trickling down his brow. He heard hoofbeats echo on the flagstones as Ushahin's madling led his horse at a run for the shelter of the stables. The obedient Gulnagel gripped his arms, hustling him through the rain toward the inner gate, where the
M�rkhar Fjel of the Havenguard granted them passage.

Beneath the tall, heavy ceilings they were safe from the rain. One of the Gulnagel spoke in their guttural tongue, and the Havenguard replied in the same. With deft care, Fjeltroll talons unbuckled straps, removing his armor piece by piece, lifting the helmet from his head. Rainwater dripped and sizzled harmlessly on the stone floor, making the entryway reek of rotten eggs. The Fjel wiped his swordbelt dry, settling it around his waist. Vorax braced his hands on his thighs and took a deep breath against the dizzying pain in his chest. Straightening, he wiped his brow with his sleeve. The fumes made his eyes sting as he opened them and a patch of blisters was rising on his forehead, but he was whole.

"The army?" It was important to ask.

"On their way, boss." One of the Gulnagel pointed past the open door toward the outer gates, where the columns were making their way toward their deep-hewn barracks. He shook himself like a dog, shedding water. Slow, dark blood oozed from pockmarks in his yellowish hide. "This is no good, though, even for Fjel."

"No," Vorax said, wincing at the sight. "It's not." Outside, angry thunder pealed. One of the
M�rkhar fingered a carved talisman, leathery lips moving in a whispered prayer. "You, lad," Vorax said to him. Tanaros would have known his name; he didn't. For the first time, he felt bad about the fact. "Take me to his Lordship."

"Aye, Lord Vorax." The M�rkhar stowed his figurine. "This way, sir."

It felt like a long walk, longer than usual. Ushahin's madlings were in hiding, and there were only the empty halls of Darkhaven, veins of marrow-fire pulsing with agitation in the gleaming black walls. Vorax felt his own pulse quicken in accord, his heart constricting. Ah, Neheris-of-the-Leaping-Waters, he thought. Have pity on your Children, and those who have dwelled alongside them! We mean no harm, no, not to you. This is your brother Haomane's quarrel.

There was no answer, of course. For ages beyond counting, no Shaper had ever answered the prayers of mortal kind save Lord Satoris. Distant and remote on Torath, they bent their wills to Haomane's pride, while on the face of Urulat, Lord Satoris fought against a dark tide of pain, and kept his promises to all who honored him.

There was only the journey, and its ending, where the towering iron doors of the Throne Hall had been flung apart, standing open as if onto a vast furnace. The diorama of the Shapers' War was split wide open, separating Lord Satoris from the Six Shapers. Beyond lay a maelstrom of darkness and a throbbing red light, source of the infernal
pull
, beckoning to him like a lodestone.

Godslayer, Vorax thought, his mouth going dry. He's taken it from the Font.

The Havenguard on duty saluted, hands clutched firm on the hafts of their battle-axes. Fjel seldom looked nervous, but these two did. "Lord Vorax," one acknowledged him, deep-set eyes glittering in the light of the marrow-fire. "Be wary. He is wroth."

"I know." Vorax wiped his sweating, blistered brow and sighed. "My thanks, lads," he said, and crossed the threshold. Inside, torches sprang alight with the marrow-fire. He squinted at the blue-white effluence, the shadows of his own body looming in the corners. Fair
Arahila, he thought, you've a name for mercy, even his Lordship said so. What wouldn't I give, now, for all that I've taken for granted? A meal fit for a king, a hungry king. A warm bath and a sweet lass to rub oil into my aching shoulders. Is it so much to ask? The red light of Godslayer flared, disrupting his thoughts. Pain seized his chest and hammered him to his knees.

"
Kill them
!" Lord Satoris' voice cracked like thunder, until the very walls creaked and trembled in protest. "
Do you understand? I am giving this order. Kill them. Kill them ALL
!"

"My Lord!" Vorax gasped, floundering on the carpet. His eardrums ached with the pressure and his heart was beating so fast it threatened to burst his chest. I am too old for this, he thought, and too fat. "As you will, it shall be done!"

There was silence, and the pressure abated. "Vorax. My words were meant for another. Tanaros Blacksword lives. He has won free of the Marasoumië."

"Good news, my Lord." Gratefully, he struggled to his feet. He could see, now. The black carpet stretching in front of him and the figure on the Throne, illumed in darkness. Vorax made his feet move. It was not hard, after all. That which compelled him was held in his Lord's hands, a shard of red light pulsing like lifeblood. It reeled him onward as surely as a hook in his heart, and he placed one foot in front of the other until he stood before the Throne and gazed at Satoris' face, hidden behind the aching void of the Helm of Shadows. "You summoned me?"

"My Staccian." The Shaper bent his head. "Yes. Matters have… transpired."

"Aye, my Lord." It was hot within the Throne Hall, cursedly hot. The news about Tanaros was welcome. He did not think the rest would be. Vorax watched the dagger throbbing between the Shaper's palms, held like a prayer-offering. The beat of his own scarred heart matched its rhythm. "What matters?"

The shard flared in Satoris' hands. "One of the Eldest has fallen."

Vorax swallowed, hard. "The Dragon of Beshtanag?"

"Yes." Through the eyeslits of the Helm of Shadows, the Shaper stared at him without blinking. "His name was Calandor, and he was old when I first walked the earth; oldest of all, save one. He was my friend, many ages ago."

Dire news, indeed. The Ellylon of old had slain dragons, but never one of the most ancient, the Eldest. Only in the Shapers' War had that come to pass. In the face of the Helm's hollow-eyed stare, Vorax had to look away. "How was it done?" he asked.

Lord Satoris gave a mirthless laugh. "With the Arrow of Fire."

In the sweltering heat of the Throne Hall, his skin turned cold and clammy. Haomane's Prophecy pounded like a litany in his skull. "They did it," Vorax said, forcing the words past a lump of fear in his throat. "Found the lost weapon."

"Yes." The Shaper contemplated the dagger in his hands. Godslayer's flames caressed his fingers, shadows writhing in the Helm's eyeslits. "They did. And they will be coming for us, my Staccian, these Allies of my Brother." His head lifted and his eyes blazed to life. "But what they plan, I have
seen
! I dare what they did not think I would dare! I am not my Brother, to quail in mortality's shadow! I dare to don the Helm, I dare to pluck Godslayer from the marrow-fire and
see
!"

"Right." With a prodigious effort, Vorax filled his lungs, then exhaled. He was tired, his blistered skin stung and his knees ached, but he was one of the Three, and he had sworn his oath a long, long time ago. "What now, my Lord?"

"Vengeance," Satoris said softly, "for one who was a friend, once. Protection, for us. There is something I must do, a grave and dire thing. It is for this, and this alone, that I have taken Godslayer from the marrow-fire. And I have a task for you, Vorax, that will put an end this talk of my Elder Brother's Prophecy."

"Aye, my Lord!" Relief outweighed remorse as Vorax reached for his sword-hilt. To slay a defenseless woman was no welcome chore, but such was the nature of the bargain he had made. Immortality and plenitude for him; peace and prosperity for Staccia. It was the only sensible course, and he was glad his Lordship had seen it at last. One stroke, and the Prophecy would be undone. She would not suffer, he would see to that. It would be swift and merciful, and done in time for supper. "Elterrion's granddaughter will be dead ere dawn, I promise you."

"No!"

Vorax winced at the thunderous word, relinquishing his hilt.

"No," the Shaper repeated, leaning forward on the throne. The sweet reek of blood mingled with the distant stench of sulfur, and his eyes burned like red embers through the Helm's dark slits. "I am not my Brother, Staccian. I will play this game with honor, in my own way. I will not let Haomane strip that from me, and force me to become all that he has named me." His voice dripped contempt. "I will not become the thing that I
despise
. I will assail my enemies as they assail me. The Lady Cerelinde—" he lifted one admonishing finger from Godslayer, "—is my guest. She is not to be harmed."

"As you will." Vorax licked his lips. Had his Lordship gone mad? He pushed the thought away, trying not to remember stormclouds piling high over Darkhaven, a foul rain falling, seething flesh. What did it matter if he had? After all, Satoris Third-Born had reason enough for anger. And he, Vorax of Staccia, had sworn an oath, was bound and branded by it, upon a shard of the Souma itself. There was no gainsaying it. To be foresworn was to die. "What, then?"

"Your work lies in the north." Satoris smiled with grim satisfaction. "Malthus erred. He spent his strength shielding his Bearer from my sight, but he cannot conceal the lad's path through the Marasoumië. I know where he lit. The one who would extinguish the marrow-fire is in the north, Vorax. Send a company; Men you trust, and Fjel to aid them. Find the Bearer, and kill him. Let the vial he carries be shattered, and the Water of Life spilled harmless upon the barren earth."

"My Lord." A simple task, after all. Relieved, he bowed. "It will be done."

"Good." Satoris regarded Godslayer, turning the shard in his fingers. "Ushahin comes apace," he mused, forgetting the Staccian's presence, "and Tanaros has his orders, though he likes them not. You must be consigned to the marrow-fire, my bitter friend, for you are too dangerous to be kept elsewhere. But first; ah, first! We have a task to accomplish, you and I."

"My Lord?" Vorax waited, then inquired, uncertain if his services were needed.

The eye slits of the Helm turned his way, filled with all the darkness and agony of a dying world. "It is time to close the Marasoumië," Lord Satoris said. "Now, while Malthus is trapped within it, before he regains his strength."