Banewreaker

TWENTY-FIVE

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. “Sweetling.” 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. Siegeladders 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 hrow. 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.

“Retreat, you idiots!” Watching the battle unfold, Carfax clenched his hands, longing for a blade. “For the love of Urulat, retreat!”

Horns echoed, silvery and clear, sounding a charge.

“My kinsmen!” Peldras’ voice held a yearning note.

Beneath the banner of the gilded bee of Valmaré, a squadron of Rivenlost archers advanced in a gleaming line, paused and knelt, bows bent in taut arcs. A flurry of Ellylon arrows split the air, grey shafts arcing. In midair, the dragon turned, effortless as a fish in water, presenting a scaled shoulder. Arrows fell like rain, glancing off that scaled flesh and bouncing harmlessly on the stony ground as the dragon launched itself skyward, ascending out of range. Another horn sounded, Man-wrought, calling the retreat in urgent, brassy tones. Under the cover of Ellylon archers, the Borderguardsmen began a methodical retreat to the siege-lines, flanked by Pelmaran and Midlander soldiers. Blaise wheeled his mount, cantering alongside them. On the slope of the mountain, Beshtanagi wardsmen watched and waited.

“It’s all right,” Fianna breathed. “That’s all right, then.”

Peldras shook his head, pointing. “I fear not, Lady Archer.”

High overhead the dragon halted its ascent, turning and stooping. There it hung, held aloft by the steady beating of its enormous wings, a glittering speck against the vast expanse of blue. Like a noonday star, Carfax thought, and wondered what had gone wrong. Something had. Something had gone terribly, terribly awry. The Army of Darkhaven had not come, and the Sorceress’ power had failed. What else could have caused the wall to fall? He hadn’t known every detail of Lord Satoris’ plan—only the Three had known—but he was certain that the Dragon of Beshtanag had played no part in it. Not like this. The dragons had aided Lord Satoris once, and most .of them had been slain for their role, in the days of old when doughty warriors like Altorus Farseer strode the earth and the Lords of the Ellylon wielded terrible power.

This was one of the last. It should not be here. Not like this.

“Oh, my Lord!” Carfax whispered, numb with horror.

Haomane’s Allies halted in their retreat, turning and regrouping, wary of the dragon. They were bunched together; too tight, the ranks too close. Gathering their ragtag forces, the Beshtanagi wardsmen advanced, reclaiming the gap and surging through it, re-forming their line in front of the wall.

I should have been there, Carfax thought, among those men. If all had gone as planned, I would be among them. If not for Malthus, I would be. And if the rest had gone as planned, Turin, Mantuas and Hunric should be among them, even now. They should have won through to Beshtanag. Have matters gone so terribly wrong that even their mission failed?

He strained his eyes for a glimpse of a familiar Staccian face, and did not know whether to be glad or anxious to see none.

I have no people here, he thought, despite all of Darkhaven’s cunning.

Amid the army of Haomane’s Allies, Blaise Caveros leaned down from the saddle, clasping hands with one of the Borderguardsman. There were discussion, protest, insistence. Dismounting, Blaise cupped his hands to boost the other into the saddle. Carfax watched as the last living descendent of the first King of Altoria removed his steel helmet, throwing back his head to address his army, words lost in the distance. The sunlight glinted on his red-gold hair. Aracus Altorus, who did not fear to lead men into battle, drew his sword, pointing it at the fortress of Beshtanag. Overhead, the dragon’s wings beat steadily, holding it in position, patient as a hawk before it stoops. Aracus Altorus raised his sword aloft like a pennant. A single word tore loose over the din, shouted like a paean, echoed by a thousand throats, Men and Ellylon.

“ … Cerelinde!”

“They’re going to stand,” Peldras said somberly. “For the Lady of the Ellylon, they’re going to stand their ground.”

Something that might have been a laugh or a sob caught in Carfax’s throat. He rocked back and forth in the saddle. digging the heels of his hands into his eyes, unable to express the futility of it all. So many assembled, so many dying! And to what purpose? None. There was nothing here but a failed gambit. The agonizing cries of the wounded and dying on both sides of the battlefield scourged his soul. In anguish, Carfax of Staccia committed his final betrayal. “She’s not there,” he gasped. “She’s not even there!”

The Ellyl touched his forearm, frowning. “What are you saying?”

“Oh, Haomane!” Fianna cried. “No!”

Too late, too late for everything. Far, far above them all, the dragon folded its wings and dove, dropping like a falling star. Its jaws stretched wide, opening onto an impossible gullet. Smoke trailed from its nostrils. Plated armor covered its breast, a nictitating membrane protected its eyes and its foreclaws were outstretched, each talon like an iron spike, driving earthward.

Whatever resolve Aracus Altorus had instilled in Haomane’s Allies shattered.

Crying out in fear, vast numbers of the Pelmaran soldiery fled like leaves blown before a gale, carrying ill-prepared Midlander forces with them. Here and there, pockets of Vedasian knights gathered, seeking to rally around their standards, and the archers of the Rivenlost kept their line intact.

But it was the Borderguard of Curonan that held steadfast in the center.

At the last possible moment, the dragon’s wings snapped open, membranes spreading like sails to brake its dive. Arrows and spears clattered from its impervious hide. Its neck wove back and forth like an immense serpent’s, fire belching from its open maw as it swept low over the field, cutting a swathe through Haomane’s Allies, not discriminating between nations and races. Everywhere, Men and Ellylon gibbered and wept, cowered under shields, died screaming and scorched. The dragon’s claws flexed and gathered, and bodies dangled from the clutch of its gleaming talons as it soared upward; dangled, and fell like broken dolls as the talons released.

Somewhere, Aracus Altorus was shouting, and the surviving Borderguard answered with grim determination, gathering tight around him. In the smoke and chaos left in the dragon’s wake, the Beshtanagi forces spread out and advanced, closing in on the far-flung edges of their attackers’ forces, driving toward the center with desperate urgency.

Their numbers were few—but they outnumbered the Borderguard.

A lone figure stepped forth beneath the dun standard to meet the onslaught.

“Blaise!” Fianna spurred her mount unthinking, guiding it with her legs, her Archer’s hands reaching as she sped across the battlefield, dodging around unmounted Beshtanagi wardsmen. Oronin’s Bow was in her hand, her hand reaching over her shoulder. Light spilled from her quiver as she grasped an arrow, an ordinary arrow, fitting it to the string. The black horn bow sang a single, deadly note as she loosed it, and a wardsman fell, clutching his chest where an arrow sprouted. “Blaise!”

“Fianna!” Starting after her, Carfax felt the Ellyl’s grip tighten on his forearm. “Peldras, let me go,” he said, trying to pull away. “She’s like to get slaughtered out there without armor or a guard!”

“Peace, Arahila’s Child. I seek only the truth.” The Ellyl’s grip was gentle, but surprisingly firm. His deep gaze searched Carfax’s face. “Will you withhold it while people die in vain?”

Above the battlefield, the Dragon of Beshtanag circled low, harrying fleeing soldiers and driving them back onto the battlefield as it came in for another pass. Fire roared, and cries of agony rose; a din of chaos and anguish. Somewhere, Oronin’s Bow was sounding its single note, over and over. On the outskirts of it all, Carfax met Peldras’ gaze. “Can you stop the fighting if I tell you?”

“I don’t know, Carfax of Staccia.” The Ellyl did not flinch. “I fear it may be too late to sue for a truce. But if the Lady Cerelinde is not here, I will do my best to carry word. Perhaps some lives may be saved, and Fianna the Archer’s among them.”

It was too late, after all. Too late for everything.

“She’s in Darkhaven,” Carfax said simply. With those few words, he surrendered the long burden of his loyalty and knew, in doing so, he accepted his death. When all was said and done, it was a relief, an unspeakable relief. He should have died with his men. He wished that he had. There was no honor in a life foresworn. It would be good to have it done. “Your Lady Cerelinde is in Darkhaven. She was never here. It was a trick, all a trick. General Tanaros was supposed to lead the army through the Ways and fall upon you from behind. Something went wrong. I don’t know what.”

Peldras nodded. “Thank you.”

“May I go now?”

The Ellyl removed his hand from the Staccian’s arm and drew his sword. Grasping it by the blade, he presented the hilt. “Take my blade, and my blessing. May Arahila the Fair have mercy upon you, Carfax of Staccia.”

He grasped the hilt. It felt good in his palm. Firm. He hoisted it. The blade was light in his grip, its edge keen and silver-bright, its balance immaculate. Ellylon craftsmanship. “Thank you, Peldras.”

Once more, the Ellyl nodded. “Farewell, my friend.”

On the battlefield, all was madness.

The Pelmaran forces had been routed to a man. Last to commit, first to flee. Carfax had to dodge them as he rode, his mount’s hooves scrabbling on the loose scree at the base of Beshtanag Mountain. Here and there Beshtanagi wardsmen pursued them. It was hard to tell one from the other, clad alike in leather armor with steel rings, colors obscured by veils of smoke.

No matter. He wasn’t here to fight anyone’s war.

A pall of smoke hung over the battlefield, which reeked of smoke and sulfur, of charred flesh and spilled gore, of the inevitable stench of bowels voided in death. Carfax ignored it, guiding his horse with an expert hand past the dead and the dying, deserters and their pursuers, avoiding them and thinking of other times.

There had been a girl, once, in Staccia. He had brushed her skin with goldenrod pollen, gilding her freckles. And he had thought, oh, he had thought! He had thought to return home a hero, to wipe away the tears his mother had shed when he left, to smile into his girl’s eyes and see her a woman grown, and wipe away the remembered traces of pollen from her soft skin.

Blaise had asked him: Why do you smile, Staccian?

To make a friend of death.

Thickening smoke made his eyes sting. He squinted, and persevered.

Fianna had smiled at him when he brought her pine rosin for her bow. Her Arduan bow, wrought of ordinary wood and mortal sinew. Not this one, that was made of black horn and strung with … strung with what? Hairs from the head of Oronin Last-Born, perhaps, or sinew from the Glad Hunter’s first kill, sounding a Shaper’s battlecry. It had twisted in her hands when she fought against the Were, refusing to slay its maker’s Children.

Not so, here. Oronin’s Bow sang in her hands, uttering its single note, naming its victims one by one. She had smiled at him, and he … he had made a friend of death. Here, at the end, there was a hand extended in friendship, and it was one he could take at last. A traitor, yes. He was that. Carfax of Staccia would die a traitor.

Still, there was honor of a kind in dying for a woman’s smile. If nothing else, there was that.

He found himself singing a Staccian paean as he rode, and the Ellyl’s sword was light in his grip as he swung it, forging a path toward the song of Oronin’s Bow. Toward the center, the battle was in progress and it was necessary to fight his way through it. With expertise born of long hours on the drill-field, Carfax wielded the Ellylon blade. Left side, right side! On either side of his mount’s lathered neck, the silver-bright blade dipped and rose dripping. A man’s snarling face appeared at his stirrup and a spearhead gouged a burning path along his right thigh. Carfax bared his teeth in response and made a slashing cut, shearing away a portion of his opponent’s face. Friend or foe? Which was which?

No matter.

Peering through the dense smoke, he won through to where the fighting was fiercest. A tight knot of men, hard to see in their dun-grey cloaks. The kneeling line of Ellylon, pausing in their retreat to fire and fire again, the points of their arrows clattering uselessly off their prey. The fine-wrought faces of the Rivenlost were grim. The dragon’s body was vast and gleaming, churning the smoke-filled air. Only portions of it were visible at such close range, too vast for the mortal eye to encompass. Despite the whispered incantations of the Ellylon, the terrible courage of the Borderguardsmen, their weapons clattered harmlessly off its hide. Swords shattered, arrows fell to earth.

After all, what could penetrate those scales? This was no mere dragonling, but one of the ancient ones, one of the last. Even Elterrion the Bold would have hesitated to engage the Dragon of Beshtanag in the fullness of its wrath. Under cover of the devastation it wreaked, a desperate wedge of Beshtanagi wardsmen fell upon the enemy. Hand to hand, blade to blade, hollow-eyed and starving, ready to claim victory at the price of death. Some of the outnumbered Borderguard were standing, many were down. A charnel reek hung over them all. It didn’t matter. There was only one person for whom Carfax searched. There was only one whose weapon mattered here.

And amidst all the chaos, she stood, calm and ready.

A smoke-wreathed statue, limned in pure light. Her quiver was empty. The Archer of Arduan had drawn her last arrow, the arrow, tracking the dragon with it, as calmly as though she were hunting rabbit. Oronin’s Bow was in her left hand, the fingers of her right hand curled about the string, drawing it taut to her ear. A shaft of white fire, tinged with gold, illuminated the soft tendrils of hair that curled on her cheek.

The Arrow of Fire, Dergail’s lost weapon, was ready to be loosed.

When, Carfax wondered, did she lose her horse?

A vaned pinion passed near overhead, a gout of fire was loosed elsewhere, and his mount squealed in terror, halfrearing and bucking. All unwitting, it took him closer to her, shaking him half-loose in the process. Carfax slid down its back, clutching at its mane with his free hand. He saw her shift at the sound, then gather herself, refusing to relinquish her focus. He saw the body she straddled, protecting it. Blood seeped from a wound on Blaise Caveros’ brow, the Borderguardsman’s face pale and drawn. He saw the vast, scaled expanse of the dragon’s flank sliding past him. He saw a determined squadron of Beshtanagi making for the Archer. Before his thrashing, terrified mount threw him, he heard, somewhere, a voice he knew belonged to Aracus Altorus, shouting futile exhortations.

He saw the stony ground rushing up to meet him and felt it strike him hard.

“Here, dragon! Here, damn you! I’m waiting!”

It was Fianna’s voice, rough-edged with despair, strung taut with defiance. Lying on his back, Carfax blinked and lifted his head. He saw tears making clean tracks on Fianna’s soot-smudged cheeks. The bow was steady in her hands and the Arrow of Fire trailed flames of white-gold glory as the scaled underbelly of the dragon passed overhead. He groped for the Ellyl’s sword and found he held it still, though his knuckles were scraped and raw. He felt at his body and found it intact. Completing its pass, the dragon climbed in the air, gaining altitude. Still alive and standing, Fianna tracked its progress, the Arrow’s point blazing like a star. Carfax levered himself to his feet, lurching upright. Wet blood ran down his wounded right thigh, soaking his breeches, squelching in his boot. A reminder of another wound, one that never healed.

Forgive me, my Lord …

“The Arrow! The Arrow of Fire!”

It was an Ellyl voice that raised the cry, silvery and unmistakable. It was Men’s voices that echoed it, harsh and ragged, forced through throats seared by smoke and fire. They had seen Fianna, seen what she held. With their diminished numbers, the Borderguard of Curonan sought to rally. But no one had expected to find the Archer of Arduan and the lost weapon on the battlefield, and she stood alone, isolated in a tightening circle of Beshtanagi wardsmen, her steady gaze and the Arrow’s blazing point tracking the dragon’s ascent.

He alone could protect her.

“Time to die,” Carfax said aloud.

He took the closest man first. A thrust to the gut, no time wasted. The tip of the Ellyl blade pierced cured leather like butter. His wounded right leg quivered as he withdrew the sword, threatening to give way beneath him. No time for that. He ignored the weakness and made his feet move over the harsh terrain, picking another target, swinging two-handed. Another wardsman fell, and another, clearing a path around Fianna, who hadn’t even registered his presence. No matter. It felt good to have a sword in his hands. Better if he had been wearing armor, good Staccian armor. It might have kept him from enduring the myriad strokes that scored his flesh until he bled from a dozen places or more. It might have turned aside the cold blade that ran him through from behind, penetrating something vital. Blood soaked his clothing, mingling with sweat, running down his skin.

Panting, Carfax pivoted on his numb leg and cut down his foremost attacker, and another who followed, and two more after, three more. They came and they came, and he struck and he struck, weaving a circle around her, until his blood-slickened arms had no more feeling in them. Again and again, until he could no longer raise his sword and the battlefield seemed to darken in his vision.

Death is a coin to be spent wisely.

Falling to his knees, he tried to remember who had spoken those words. It sounded like Lord Vorax. It might have been his mother. Oh, there was brightness in the world, for all that it was slipping from his grasp. He thought about blue lakes under a blue summer sky and goldenrod in bloom, a dusting of pollen. A Beshtanagi wardsman loomed out of the smoke, grimacing, a hand-axe held above his head, prepared to deliver the final blow. On his knees, Carfax blinked and thrust upward with both hands, taking the man under the chin. The point of his borrowed sword stuck in the man’s brain-pan. “Staccians,” he whispered, “die hard.”

There was shouting, then, and the clashing of steel. Somewhere, the Borderguard of Curonan claimed ground, driving back the Beshtanagi. Horns were blowing an order to stand, and straining above them were the clarion sounds of the horns of the Rivenlost in the encampment, pleading a retreat no one heeded. With an effort, Carfax tried to rise. Instead, the world keeled sideways. He blinked, realizing his cheek was pillowed on the loose scree of rocks, and he could no longer feel his body.

So must his men have felt, when they died.

He lay prone, lacking the strength to move. All he could do, he had done, whether she knew it or not. No matter. He had not done it for her, but for her smile, and a memory of what might have been. She was close; so near, so far. The heels of her boots were inches from his open eyes, cracked and downtrodden. How many leagues had they traveled together? He could see every shiny crease worn in the leather. He might have loved her if she had let him. It would have spread balm on the aching wound of his betrayal. But it was not to be, and all he could do was die for her sake. It would have to be enough, for there was nothing else left to him. Between them lay the man she loved and protected. Blaise’s calloused hand was outflung, open, as if to reach in friendship. His closed lids fluttered and his fingertips twitched.

There was another sound. The dragon’s roar.

It hurt Carfax to move his head, but he did. Enough to see the black horn of Oronin’s Bow silhouetted against the sky and the blazing shaft of the Arrow it held taut. Enough to see the tension in her body as the stooping dragon began its last dive, growing from a dwindling speck of brightness to a massive comet. Fianna’s legs were trembling, though she had her feet firmly planted. He saw the strong muscles of her calves quivering in fear. But she was the Archer of Arduan and her arms held steady. In the midst of chaos and battle, she held. Even in the face of the dragon’s dive, as its wings shadowed the sky and its gleaming talons threatened to gouge the earth.

Even when its jaws gaped wide, revealing the depths of its impossible gullet, and fire spewed from the furnace of its belly. With tears on her face, she held her ground, shoulders braced, a shaft of white-gold fire blazing in the arc of horn and hair circumscribed by her hands. As he watched, her lips shaped a single, desperate prayer and her fingers released the string.

The Archer of Arduan shot the Arrow of Fire.

Trailing white-gold glory, it flew true between the dragon’s jaws; flew true and pierced the gullet, pierced the mighty furnace of its belly. There was an explosion, then; a column of fire that seared the skies, while Men and Ellylon flung themselves to earth, and from somewhere, a cry, a terrible descant like the sound of a heart breaking asunder.

Dying, the dragon fell.

The impact made the mountain shudder.

Once the tremors faded there was a great deal of activity. Crushed Men screaming, defeated Men surrendering. Hailing shouts, and orders given crisply. Ellylon voices like a choir, intermingled with the sound of horns. A name uttered in a futile paean. None of it had anything to do with him. Carfax closed his eyes, and did not open them for a long time. It would have been better not to know. Still, he looked. Near him, so near him, a massive jaw lay quiescent on the scree, attached to a sinuous neck. Twin spirals of smoke trickled from bronze nostrils, wisping into nothingness in the empty air. The massive body lay beyond the bounds of his vision, broken-winged. Life was fading from a green-gilt eye. “I’m sorry,” Carfax said; or tried to say, mouthing the words. There was no strength in his lungs to voice them, and his eardrums were broken. “I’m sorry.”

Distant shouting; victory cries.

In a green-gilt eye, a dying light flickered, and a faint voice spoke in his mind. This battle is not of your making, Arahila’s Child. You played your part. Be forgiven. And then words, three words, wrested forth in an agonizing wrench, one final throe before the end. Lilias! Forgive me!

Not for him. No matter. It was enough.

Carfax sighed, and died.