Banewreaker

NINETEEN

Darkhaven shook with lord Satoris’ fury.

The very foundations trembled at the Shaper’s roar. Torches rattled in their sconces, flames casting wavering shadows against the black, marble walls. Overhead, storm clouds gathered and roiled, shot through with smoldering bolts of lightning. In the Chamber of the Font, the marrow-fire surged in blinding gouts and Godslayer pulsed, quick and erratic.

“Where?” the Shaper raged. “Where are they?”

Tanaros closed his eyes and touched the rhios in his pocket. “I do not know, my Lord Satoris,” he whispered.

“The Dreamspinner didn’t know, Lordship. Said the dragon couldn’t say.” Vorax tugged at one ear and scratched his beard. “Only it wasn’t heading here, like you’d think. Vedasia, he thought.” The Staccian shrugged. “Something about birds and Dwarfs.”

“It’s what the ravens saw, those who were shot.” Tanaros cleared his throat, summoning the will to meet the Shaper’s furious red stare. “Did Ushahin not speak to you of it, my Lord?”

“Yes.” It was a low growl, rising as he continued. “Of Malthus and deserts and ravens and Vedasia. Not of the Water of Life!”

Tanaros winced at the volume. “He didn’t know, my Lord.”

“So this Water of Life, it can put out the marrow-fire itself?” Vorax cast a dubious glance at the surging blue-white column of the Font, which was the merest manifestation of the Source below. “Take a river’s worth, I reckon. No need to fear, my Lord, unless Neheris Fourth-Born herself plans to cross the divide and Shape the rivers.”

“No.” The Shaper sounded weary. “You misunderstand, Staccian. The Water of Life is the very essence of water, drawn from the navel of Uru-Alat itself. It would take no more than a mouthful to extinguish the marrow-fire. And I … I did not know any lived who could draw it forth from the earth.”

There was a profound silence.

“Well,” Vorax said. “Why would sodding Malthus take it to Vedasia?”

Lord Satoris glared at him, raising his voice to rattle the rafters. “I don’t know!”

“My Lord,” Tanaros said carefully, pressing his fingertips to his temples to still the echoes. “Whatever else is true, it seems certain that he did. Malthus’ Company was seen in the marshes, and Carfax’s men vanished there. Ushahin said …” He cleared his throat again “ … Ushahin said seagulls bore rumors of a ship, sailing from Dwarfhorn. If it is so, then they are bound for Pelmar to unite with Haomane’s Allies.”

“Seagulls.” The Shaper’s glare turned his way. “Seagulls!”

“My Lord Satoris.” Tanaros spread his hands helplessly. “It is what he said”

The Shaper brooded, pacing the Chamber of the Font. Shadows swirled in his wake, and his eyes were like two red embers. “Ushahin Dreamspinner waits in Jakar,” he growled. “Haomane’s Allies march toward Beshtanag. The trap lies baited and ready. If my brother Haomane thinks I will fold my hand at this new threat, he is very much mistaken.” He halted, pointing at Vorax. “Lord Vorax. With two things, I charge you. You will use the Marasoumië to communicate my will to Ushahin. He is to summon the Grey Dam of the Were. Oronin’s Children do not wish to be drawn into war; very well. But this thing, they will do.” He smiled, and his smile was grim. “On pain of my wrath, they will hunt Malthus’ Company, and slay them. All of them, and most especially this … boy … from the Unknown Desert. The Water of Life, they will spill where they find it.”

“My Lord.” Vorax bowed, his rings glittering. “And the second thing?”

“I charge you with the defense of Darkhaven. To that end, I lend the Helm of Shadows into your usage.” Lord Satoris glanced at Tanaros, and his voice softened. “Forgive me, my general. You have born it nobly in my service. But I dare not leave Darkhaven without a safeguard.”

“My Lord Satoris.” Tanaros touched the hilt of the black sword at his waist “This is all I need. This is all I have ever needed”

Overhead, the stars continued their slow, inevitable movement.

In the desert, Ngurra raised his voice. “I hear you, old woman!”

She made an irritated noise, emerging from the spindly shadows of the thorn-brush to join him on the cooling rock. “You’ve ears like a bat, old man!”

He worked a wad of gamal into his cheek, smiling into his beard. “Bats hear much that is hidden from other ears.”

The red star had risen on the western horizon, riding higher than before. Warabi settled herself beside him, joints creaking. Together, they watched the stars revolve around the basin of Birru-Uru-Alat and the cleft rock-pile in its center. Alone among the old ones gathered at the Stone Grove, they kept the watch. As for the rest of the Yarru-yami, they were dispersed among the Six Clans. At Dry Gulch and Owl Springs, at Blacksnake Bore, Ant Plains and Lizard Rock, the Yarru had gone to earth.

“So it comes,” she said with sorrow.

“It comes.” He nodded, shifted the gamal wad into his other cheek. It fit neatly into a pocket there alongside his gums, teeth and tongue teasing out the bittersweet juices that sharpened the mind. “They have a choice, old woman. They all have a choice. Even the one who comes with a sword.”

“I know.” Her voice was muffled, gnarled fingers covering her face. “Ah, Ngurra! It is such a short time we have.”

“Old woman!” His hands encircled her wrists, swollen by a lifetime of digging and labor. “Warabi,” he said, and his voice was gentle. “An eternity would not be enough time to spend with you. But it has been a good time.”

Lowering her hands, she looked at him. “It has.”

“The children,” he said, “are safe.”

“But who will teach them if we perish?” Her eyes glimmered in the starlight. “Ah, Ngurra! I know what must be. I know we must offer the choice. Still, I fear.”

He patted her hands. “I too, old woman. I too.”

She stared at the stars. “The poor boy. Where do you think he is tonight?”

He shook his head. “The Bearer’s path is his own, old woman. I cannot guess. He has chosen, and must choose again and again, until his path finds its end.”

The dwarf ship docked at Port Delian, on the southern coast of Pelmar.

Carfax had the impression that the Dwarfs were glad to be rid of them, for which he did not blame them. Malthus’ Company had breached Yrinna’s Peace, destroying it irrevocably. As a war-proud Staccian in the service of Lord Satoris, he’d never had much use for peace.

Captivity had begun to change his perspective.

Peace, he thought, did not seem such an undesirable thing. Mayhap it would quench the killing urge he saw in the young knight Hobard’s eyes whenever the Vedasian glanced at him, or the cold calculation in the eyes of Blaise Caveros, who still considered him an unwelcome threat.

Mayhap he would know himself deserving of the kindness that Dani and his uncle Thulu extended to him, of the burdensome compassion of Peldras the Ellyl, of the patient regard of Malthus the Counselor. And mayhap, mayhap, Fianna of Arduan would have some tenderness to spare for him, and cast a few of the yearning glances she saved for Blaise in his direction.

Would that be so wrong?

I am confused, Carfax thought as the Company departed Port Delian, I am heartsick and confused. His hands held the reins, directing his newly purchased gelding in a steady line, following on the haunches of Blaise’s mount. It was so much easier to follow, to obey unquestioning. What merit was there in fruitless resistance? He had tried and tried and tried, to no avail.

Malthus knew it. He saw it in the Counselor’s gaze, gentle and wise.

What if Malthus were a match for Lord Satoris?

It was heresy, the deepest kind of heresy. It froze his blood to think on it; yet think on it he must. What if it were so? Step by step, the Prophecy was being fulfilled. And they did not seem, after all, so evil. They believed in the rightness of what they did, in the quest to render the Sundered World whole.

Was it wrong?

Would Urulat be the worse if they succeeded?

Searching his mind, Carfax found no answers. And so he rode among them as they entered the depths of the Pelmaran forests, his dreams of vengeance giving way to vague thoughts of escape and warning. And he found himself seeking, unwitting, to win their approval, gathering firewood and making himself useful. Ushahin! he whimpered in his thoughts from time to time, but there was no answer, for Malthus’ binding held, more gentle but no less firm.

And Fianna smiled at him when he gathered pine rosin for her bow, the ordinary Arduan bow she used for shooting game, and her smile echoed the smile of another girl long ago in Staccia. Goldenrod pollen, and freckles on the bridge of her nose.

Oh, my Lord! Carfax prayed. Forgive me. I know not what I do.

Although it had stood for many years, Jakar remained a desert encampment, a few sandstone buildings erected around a scrubby oasis, the rest of it a city of tents. From time out of mind, Rukhari traders had used it as a last stopping-place before entering the trade routes that cut into the forests of Pelmar. Now the traders had fled, making way for fierce warriors with sun-scorched faces and black mustaches, who raced their swift desert ponies between the lines of tents with ululating cries.

It was a good bargain Vorax had offered them.

A half league to the west, a stony ridge sprawled across the landscape, ruddy and ominous in the light of the setting sun. It was haunted, the Rukhari said; riddled with caverns and haunted by bloodthirsty spirits of the unavenged dead. Small wonder, for it held a node of the Marasoumië, which was death to the unwary traveler.

A half league to the east, the Pelmaran forest began, a dark and ragged fringe looming over the barren plains of Rukhar. Beyond the verge was a darkness even the slanting rays of the sun could not penetrate, where Oronin’s Children might lurk in the shadows a stone’s throw from the trodden path.

Between the two was Ushahin, cross-legged before his tent. He was Satoris’ emissary and one of the Three; he could have had the finest lodging Jakar had to offer, had he wished it. He had chosen otherwise. It was a cruel task his Lord had set him; the cruelest he had known. Still, he understood what was at stake. It was that and that alone that had decided him, that had set his course. Borrowing a pony from Makneen, the Rukhari commander, he had ridden to the verge of the Pelmaran forest and beyond, into the shadows. There, he had given the summons.

Ravens would carry it and Were would answer. The Grey Dam herself would answer. Of that, he had no doubt. It was a rare gift, a rare trust, that Sorash had given her adopted son before she died. Her successor Vashuka had no choice but to honor it.

Oh, Mother!

His eyes stung, remembering. No one’s son, the dragon had called him, but he had loved her like a son; loved her enough to know he could not stay among the Were. For the great sacrifice Lord Satoris had asked of her, he had gone as a supplicant. He had asked, praying all the while she would refuse. But she had not, had chosen to find an honorable death in the request, though his heart grieved at it.

In this, there was no honor.

The sun sank below the stony ridge, and shadows crept across the ground. Near the oasis, cooking-fires were lit and the smell of lamb roasted on the grill wafted in the air. Dry, warm air, it made his bones ache less. Lamps were kindled as Ushahin watched, tallow candles lit inside lacquered bladders and hung from the openings of tents. By the shouting and raucous bursts of song, the Rukhari might have been on holiday, awaiting the arrival of the army of Darkhaven. Having walked in their dreams, he knew what a harsh and difficult living there was to be eked out on the skirts of the Unknown Desert, in what fearful contempt the Pelmarans held them, what potential lay in the promise of a Staccian alliance.

Hoofbeats clattered between the tents, and lamplight gleamed on polished horseflesh as a pony rounded the tent, muscles surging as it was drawn up short in a scatter of pebbles. A swarthy face; Zaki, Makneen’s second-in-command, peered down at his feet, studiously avoiding eye contact.

“Meat ready, Dream-stalker,” the Rukhar offered in broken common. “You eat?”

“No.” Sitting straight-backed, Ushahin did not rise. “Thank you, Zaki.”

After a moment, the Rukhar shrugged. “Makneen offer. Is good, yes? You are pleased? Not to trouble sleep?”

“It is well done, Zaki. We are allies. I will not trouble your dreams.” Ushahin watched as the Rukhar shrugged again, then lashed his pony’s rump with trailing reins, startling it into a galloping spurt. The Rukhari feared him. Well and good; they should. He resumed his vigil, watching the darkening verge of the forest.

Time passed.

A half moon rose and the stars emerged, and brightest of them was the red one, high above the horizon.

“Brother.”

A grey voice, emerging from darkness. It named him in the tongue of Oronin’s Children, which he had spoken seldom since childhood. Ushahin rose, straightening his stiffening joints and inclining his head. “Brother,” he replied in kind. “Well met by moonlight.”

There was a gleam, as of bared teeth. “I do not think so. Follow.”

Follow he did, leaving the illuminated tents behind, traveling on foot over the stony soil. Ahead of him, a grey shadow moved low to the ground, silent but for the occasional click of claw on stone. On and onward they traveled, until the lamps of Jakar were distant sparks and the forest enveloped them.

Into the tall pines his guide led him, leaving behind the beaten paths and treading on soft pine mast, to a glade where moonlight spilled on silvery fur, and one awaited in a circle of many. By this alone, by the honor the pack accorded her, he knew her.

“Old mother.” Ushahin bowed low. “I give you honor.”

“Son of my self.” Ritual words, devoid of affection. Vashuka the Grey Dam stood upright and her amber eyes were narrowed in the moonlight, A score of dim figures crouched around her, hackled and wary. “The Grey Dam Sorash gave you a sacred trust. Why have you used it to summon me here, so near to a place of Men?”

“Honored one, forgive me.” He felt sick, the brand on his chest a searing pain. “Oronin’s Children are my kin, but I have sworn a deeper oath.”

Her lip wrinkled, exposing her canines, still white. “Satoris.”

“To my Lord Satoris, yes” Ushahin drew a deep breath. trying to loosen his chest. Where were the ravens? The trees should be full of them; were empty instead. He reached out with his thoughts, and a low, concerted growl came from the crouching circle of Were. “Brethren! Has it come to this?”

Vashuka raised a clenched, clawed hand, and the circle fell silent. Her gaze never left him. “Tell us, Ushahin-who-walks-between-dusk-and-dawn. What has it come to?”

“A favor.” It was harder than he had imagined to hold his ground before her. His very flesh was vulnerable. For all that he was one of the Three, he was no warrior like Tanaros or Vorax. His crippled hands could scarce grip a sword, and such powers as he had would avail him little against the Were, who were themselves the stuff of which Men’s nightmares were made. “Death.”

“War!” she growled, and the pack echoed her.

“No.” Ushahin shook his head. “You have refused to commit Oronin’s Children to war, honored one, and Satoris Third-Born respects this. It is death he asks of you; a hunt, far from the battlefield. There is a company, a small company, that enters the forests of Pelmar, These, my Lord wishes slain.”

“Wishes.” The Grey Dam’s voice was dry. “Asks. Who are we to slay?”

“Malthus the Counselor,”he whispered. “And all who accompany him.”

At that, she threw back her head, loosing a howl. It echoed forlorn throughout the forest, and the Were who accompanied her crouched and quivered.

“Old mother,” Ushahin said to her. “Has Malthus the Counselor been a friend to our kind? Have the Sons of Men? Have the Ellylon? No! Only Lord Satoris. Seven deaths is not so much to ask.”

Closing her jaws with a snap, Vashuka snarled. “Have we not given as much?” She jerked her chin toward the red star above the tree-line of the glade. “There, Ushahin-who-walks-between-dusk-and-dawn! The Counselor Dergail’s Soumanië, that we wrested from him! For this, Men and Ellylon name us enemy and hunt us without mercy.” She folded her arms across her gaunt bosom. “I am the Grey Dam; I remember. I am the Grey Dam; I say, no more.”

“And I say,” Ushahin said softly, with infinite regret, “that do you refuse, Lord Satoris will name you his enemy. And there is an army coming, old mother. An army of Fjeltroll with hides like leather and the strength to move mountains, commanded by General Tanaros Blacksword himself. Right now, there is a force—” he pointed, “—of two hundred Rukhari warriors on that plain, and their swords are whetted. Who will you turn to if Lord Satoris turns against you? The Pelmaran Regents, who have sought to stamp out your kind? Aracus Altorus?” He shook his head. “I do not think so. My mother-who-was spent her life’s last blood seeking Altorus’ throat. He will not be quick to forgive.”

She snarled again, and the moonlight glittered on her sharp teeth. “Ask! You ask nothing and demand everything!”

Heavy with sorrow, he nodded. “Yes, old mother. Childhood must end, even for immortals. Will you abide or refuse?”

Lifting her muzzle, the Grey Dam gazed at the night sky. “If I refuse,” she mused aloud, “who will obey? The Counselor Malthus wields the Soumanië. Who among you can look upon it? Oronin’s Children alone can withstand it, we whom the Glad Hunter Shaped, we who can veil our eyes and hunt by scent alone.”

“Yes,”he said. “It is so. But Oronin’s Children are few, and Lord Satoris’ armies are many.” Thinking of the raging storm of fury emanating from Darkhaven, Ushahin shuddered. In the depths of his shattered bones, it was a madness he understood. “Make no mistake, old mother. One way or another, he will triumph. And if you refuse him, he will have his vengeance.”

“Aaaarrhhhh!” A raw cry, half howl. Her furred hands rose to cover her face, and the Were Brethren surrounding her keened. “Selves of myself,” she whispered to her predecessors’ memories, “why did you make an ally of he who Sundered the world?” Lowering clenched hands, she hardened her voice. “So be it.” The Grey Dam spun, pointing. “You,” she said harshly. “You. You and you, you, you and you! Seven Brethren for seven deaths.” Her amber eyes shone hard and cold, and her voice imparted hatred to her words. “Will it suffice, son of my self?”

“Yes, honored one.” Ushahin bowed low. “It will.”

She turned her back to him, speaking over her shoulder. “Show them.”

This he did, opening his mind to them in the ancient tradition of the Were, showing them in pictures the Company as he had witnessed it upon the marshlands of Vedasia: The Counselor, the Ellyl, the Borderguardsman, the Archer, the Vedasian, the Yarru boy and his guardian uncle. He showed them the death that must be, the rent flesh and life’s blood seeping into the forest’s floor, the red gem of the Soumanië to be kept for Lord Satoris, the clay flask containing the Water of Life that must be broken and spilled. And he showed them the pictures that had filtered through the fractured shards of the Ravensmirror, the rumor of gulls and a ship setting anchor on Pelmaran soil.

“There,” he whispered. “Find them and slay them.”

In their minds there opened a dry gully of thirst that only red blood could slake. As one, the seven Brethren bowed, obedient to the will of the Grey Dam, and death was their every thought. As one, they crouched low and sprang into motion, seven shadows moving swift and grey through the Pelmaran forests. Only the barest rustle of pine needles marked their passing. Oronin’s Children, direst of hunters.

“Go.” It was the Were who had guided him who spoke, rising from the shadows to stand upright, his voice harsh and choked. “Go now, no one’s son!”

“Old mother …” Helpless, Ushahin reached out a hand toward the motionless figure of the Grey Dam, remembering Sorash-who-was, remembering the touch of her rough pelt as she cradled his broken limbs. His boyhood self, and the only mother he had ever known. The Grey Dam is dead. The Grey Dam lives. The keen wire of pain that defined him grew tighter, madness pressing in close and a sound rising in his mind, rising and rising, a howl unuttered in his branded chest. “Oh, mother! I am sorry …”

“Go!”