Banewreaker

FIVE

The old man squatted on his haunches, gazing at the stars.

Even in the small hours of night, the rock held enough sun-captured heat to warm his buttocks, though the naked soles of his feet were calloused and immune to warmth or cold. He watched the stars wheel slowly through their nocturnal circuit, counting through the long telling of his ancestors. There was a smell of water in his nostrils, iron-rich and heavy. Something scrabbled in the spiny thorn-brush. It might have been a hopping-mouse or a hunting lizard, though it was not. He was an Elder of the Yarru-yami, and he knew every sound in the Unknown Desert.

“Can you not leave me in peace, old woman?” the old man grumbled.

“Peace!” She emerged from the night to place herself before his rock, folding arms over withered dugs, her long, grey-white hair illuminated by starlight. “You would squat on this rock all night, old man, chewing gamal and watching the stars. You call that peace?”

After all these years, she was as spirited as the day he had met her. He smiled into his beard. “I do, old woman. If you’ll not let be, then join me.”

With a snort of disapproval, she clambered up the rock to squat at his side, groaning a little as her hipbones popped and creaked. He shifted to make room for her, digging into the worn pouch that hung at his waist and passing her a pinch of gamal. Her jaws worked, softening the dried fibers, working her mouth’s moisture into them. Eighty-three years old, and her teeth still strong, working the gamal into a moist wad to tuck into her cheek.

Side by side, they squatted and watched the stars.

Especially the red one low on the western horizon.

Her voice, when she spoke, was sombre. “It’s the choosing-time, isn’t it?”

He nodded. “Coming fast.”

“The poor boy.” She shook her head. “Poor boy! There’s no fairness in it. He’s not fit to make such a choice. Who is?”

He shrugged. “Doesn’t stop it from coming.”

She eyed him acerbically. “And how would you choose, old one?”

“Me?” He turned his hands over, examining his palms. Paler than the rest of his skin, they were leathery and creased, tanned like an old hide. Age had marked them, and wear, and the lines of mortality. Nothing else. “It’s not mine to choose.”

“I know,” she whispered. “Poor boy! I pray he chooses aright.”

The old man squatted and listened to the sounds of the desert, while the stars wheeled slowly overhead. He felt the slow, steady beat of his heart, winding down to its inevitable faltering, the blood coursing through his veins, as water coursed through the earth far, far below them. In the heart of the Unknown Desert, there was water, water from the deepest place, the oldest place.

Birru-Uru-Alat, the Navel, the Well of the World.

It had been forgotten by all save the Yarru, who had cause to remember. Long ago, Haomane’s Wrath had driven them beneath the earth, where they fled for shelter and in turn were given a trust. The Elders had kept the wisdom of Uru-Alat. When the boy was born with the markings on his hands, they had known. He was the Bearer, one who could carry the Water of Life, though it weighed heavier than stone or steel, as heavy as the burden of choice itself.

The Water of Life, which could extinguish the marrow-fire.

It would not be forgotten forever. A red star had risen and the Bearer was nearing manhood. The choosing-time would be upon him.

It was coming.

Tanaros choked back a gasp as he emerged in the Chamber of the Marasoumië beneath Darkhaven, his heart constricting with a sharp pain as the node-point closed, hurling his form back into the framework of mortality, stumbling and shaken, his senses blurred with the speed of his passage.

“Steady, cousin.” Vorax’s deep voice reassured him, a solid hand on his elbow, anchoring him in time and place. Tanaros blinked, waiting for his vision to clear, every bone in his body aching at the abrupt transition. The world seemed preternaturally slow after traveling the Ways. He stared at the Staccian’s beard, feeling he could number each auburn hair of it while the fleshy lips formed their next sentence. “Did the Sorceress consent?”

“Aye.” Seizing upon the question, he managed an answer. His chest loosened, normal breathing returning. “The lady and the dragon consented alike.”

“Well done.” Forgetting himself, Vorax thumped his shoulder with a proud grin. “Well done, indeed! His Lordship will be pleased.”

Tanaros winced as the edge of his spaulder bruised his flesh. “My thanks. What has transpired here, cousin?”

“General.” A Fjeltroll stepped forward, yellow-eyed in the pulsing light of the chamber. One of the Kaldjager, the Cold Hunters, who patrolled the vast network of tunnels. “We have scouted passage to Lindanen Dale. We may pass below the Aven River. An entrance lies less than a league to the north. Kaldjager hold it secure. We took pains not to be seen.”

“Good” Tanaros collected his wits, which were beginning to function once more. “Good. And Vorax, on your end?”

The Staccian shrugged. “I am in readiness. A chamber has been prepared, fit for a Queen. As for the rest, there’s a fast ship awaiting in Harrington Bay, and a company of my lads ready to outrace the Ellylon to it, posing as Beshtanagi in disguise.”

“Good,” Tanaros repeated. “And the Dreamspinner? Did he succeed?”

“Well … don’t go a-walking in the wood, cousin.” Vorax grinned. “Does that answer it for you?”

It did.

It was a plan, a simple plan.

Tanaros considered it as he lay in his bath.

The difficulty lay in gaining access, for the full might of the Rivenlost would. be turned out to safeguard this wedding; aye, and the Borderguard of Curonan, too. And unless Tanaros missed his guess, the Duke of Seahold would have a contingent present as well. Every inch of ground within a dozen leagues of Lindanen Dale would have been scouted and secured.

Except the tunnels.

It was a pity they could not make use of the Marasoumië, but that would come later. Merely to hold the Ways open for so many would require two of the Three, taxing them to their utmost, and Ushahin was needed for this plan. The tunnels would be slower, but they would suffice.

It was a pity, a grave pity, that he could not bring the entire army through them with sufficient time to assemble. That would put an end to it. The army of Darkhaven was not so vast as Men believed it; that was Ushahin Dreamspinner’s work, who walked in the dreams of Men and magnified their fears, playing them into nightmares. But it was vast enough, Tanaros thought, to win in a pitched battle. Under Lord Satoris’ protection, the numbers of the Fjel had grown steadily throughout the centuries. Not enough to rival Men, who held nearly the whole of Urulat as their domain, but enough. And Tanaros had trained them.

On level ground, on the open field … ah, but the Ellylon and the sons of Altorus were too clever for that gambit. Once, it had worked. Long ago, on the plains of Curonan. He had donned the Helm of Shadows, and led the army of Darkhaven against the forces of Altoria, bringing down a nation, securing a buffer zone.

Altoria had had a Queen, then. He had never met her, never seen her. He wondered, sometimes, if she had resembled his wife. In the adamance of her pride, at the urging of her advisors, she had poured all the resources of her realm into that war, until nothing was left. In the end, Altoria lost Curonan and the throne, leaving the remnants of the sons of Altorus to patrol the verges of the lost plains.

Now, it was different. They needed to draw their Enemy out into the open. And they needed bait to do it. That was where the tunnels came into play, and Beshtanag, and above all, the Were that Ushahin had brought to Darkhaven.

The bath-water was growing cool. Tanaros stood, dripping.

“Here, Lord General.”

Meara, the madling, slunk around the entrance to his bathing-chamber, proffering a length of clean linen toweling and eyeing him through her tangled hair. She had never done such before.

“Thank you, Meara.” He dried himself, self-conscious for the first time in many decades. Physically, his body was unchanged. Save for the mark of his branding, it was little different than it had been on his wedding night, strong and lean and serviceable. Only the puckered, silvery scar on his breast gave evidence of his nature; that, and the deep ache of years.

“Does it hurt?” She pointed at his chest.

“Yes.” He touched the scar with his fingertips, feeling the ridged flesh, remembering the searing ecstasy he’d felt when his Lord took Godslayer from the blazing marrow-fire and branded him with it, using the force of the Souma to stretch the Chain of Being to its limits to encompass him. “It hurts.”

Meara nodded. “I thought so.” She watched him don his robe. “What was she like, Lord General?”

“She?” He paused.

Her eyes glittered. “The Sorceress.”

“She was … courteous.”

“Was she prettier than me?” she asked plaintively.

“Prettier?” Tanaros gazed at the madling, who squirmed away from his scrutiny. He thought about Lilias, whose imperious beauty softened only in the presence of the dragon. “No, Meara. Not prettier.”

She followed him as he left the bathing-chamber, tossing back her hair and glaring. “Another one is coming, you know. Coming here.”

“Another one?”

“A lady.” She spat the word. “An Ellyl lady.”

“Yes.” He wondered how she knew, if they all knew. “Such is the plan.”

“It is a mistake,” Meara said darkly.

“Meara.” Tanaros rumpled his hair, damp from the bath. He remembered the Sorceress, and how the wind on the mountainside had tugged at her hair, that had otherwise fallen dark and shining, bound by the circlet, the red Soumanië vivid against her pale brow. He wondered what the other would be like, and if it were a mistake to bring her here. “The lady is to be under our Lord’s protection.”

The madling shuddered, turned and fled.

Bewildered, Tanaros watched her go.

There was never enough time to prepare, when it came to it.

The Warchamber was packed with representatives of three of the races of Lesser Shapers, all crowded around the map-table and listening intently to the Commander General of the Army of Darkhaven. It was a simple plan. Tanaros wished he liked it better. Nonetheless, it was his Lord’s will, and he continued, carrying it out to the letter. “And here,”—he pointed at the map—“is the mouth of the tunnel. Here, and here and here, there will be sentries posted, guarding the perimeter of Lindanen Dale. Those,”—Tanaros glanced at the Were Brethren—“will be yours to dispatch, as we agreed.”

A flat voice spoke, passionless and grey. “And here they plight their troth?”

“Aye.” The skin at the back of his neck prickled. With an effort, Tanaros made himself meet the gaze of Sorash, the Grey Dam of the Were, who rested one clawed forefinger upon the heart of Lindanen Dale. “That is where you will strike, honored one, if you be willing.”

The Grey Dam gave him a terrible smile. “I am willing.”

There was no telling her age. The Were had used the strange magics bequeathed them by Oronin Last-Born to circumvent the very Chain of Being, at least for the Grey Dam. Tanaros knew only that she was ancient. Ushahin Dreamspinner had been a boy when Faranol, Crown Prince of Altoria, had slain the Grey Dam’s cubs and her mate in a hunting excursion, heaping glory upon his kindred during a state visit to Pelmar.

“You are brave, honored one,” Tanaros said.

The ancient Were shook her head. “My successor is chosen.”

Grey her voice, grey her name, grey her being. One year of their lives, that was what each of the Were surrendered that the Grey Dam might endure. So it had been, in the beginning; now, it was more, for their numbers had dwindled. Five years, ten, or more. Tanaros knew naught of what such ceremonies might entail, how it was enacted. Only that the Grey Dam endured, until the mantle was passed, and endured anew.

It had been many centuries since that had happened.

“You know you will die, old mother?”

Ushahin’s voice, raw and aching. It was not the first time he had asked it.

“Little Man-cub, little son.” The old Were’s amber gaze softened, and she patted his misshapen cheek with her padded, hairy palm. “You have assuaged my pain these many years, but the time has come to make an end. It is a good way to die. If the Glad Hunter wills it, my teeth will meet in the flesh of an Altorus before the finish.”

He bowed his head. The Were Brethren growled softly.

Tanaros cleared his throat. “Then you will strike here, honored one, and your Brethren will clear the way. In the confusion, we will make our move, here.” He traced a pathway on the map. “Under my command, a company of Lord Vorax’s men will seize Cerelinde of the Rivenlost, and fall back to the meeting point, where the switch will be made. From thence, they will flee east, with the decoy. Lord Ushahin, weave what visions you may. The remaining men and I will hold them as long as we dare, before we retreat to the tunnels and the Kaldjager Fjel hide our passage.”

And there it was, the first phase of it, in all its risky totality.

“General.” Hyrgolf’s shrewd eyes met his with a soldier’s frankness. “The Fjel are ready to serve. It would be better if you did not command the raid yourself.”

“It must be,” Tanaros said bluntly. “It is his Lordship’s will, and there is no room for error. Hyrgolf, I would trust you to lead it, and I would trust any lieutenant of your appointing. But if we are to convince the Ellylon and the Altorians that this raid originated in Beshtanag, there can be no hint of the presence of Fjeltroll.”

“Cousin, I would command my own—” began Vorax.

Ushahin cut short his words, his tone light and bitter. “You can’t, fat one. Your bulk can’t be concealed under Pelmaran armor, as can the rest of your beard-shorn Staccians, and Tanaros, too.” With a twisted smile, he raised his crippled hands that could grip nothing heavier than a dagger. “I would do it myself, if I could. But I think my skills do not avail in this instance.”

“Enough!” Tanaros raised his voice. “It is mine to do.” For a moment, he thought they would quarrel; then they settled, acceding to his command. He leaned over the map-table, resting his hands on the edges, the southwestern quadrant of Urulat framed between his braced arms. “Are we in accord?”

“We are, brother,” whispered the Grey Dam. “We are.”

No one disagreed.

His dreams, when he had them, were restless.

Tanaros slept, and awoke, restless, tossing in his bedsheets, and slept only to dream anew, and twist and wind himself into shrouds in his dreaming.

Blood.

He dreamed of blood.

An ocean of it.

It ran like a red skein through his dreams, wet and dripping. Red, like the Souma, like Godslayer, like the star that had arisen in the west and the one that adorned the Sorceress’ brow. It dripped like a veil over the features of his wife, long-slain, and over his own hands as he looked down in horror, seeing them relinquish the hilt of his sword, the blade protruding from his King’s chest.

Tanaros tossed, and groaned.

It went back, further back, the trail of blood; far, so far. All the way back through the ages of the Sundered World, blood, soaking into the earth of a thousand battlefields, clots of gore. Back and back and back, until the beginning, when a great cry rent the fabric of Urulat, a mighty blow parted the world, and the Sundering Seas rushed in to fill the void, warm and salty as blood.

Tanaros awoke, the mark of his brand aching in summons.

He dressed himself and went to answer it.

Downward he went, through one of the three-fold doors and down the spiraling stairs that led to the Chamber of the Font, down the winding way where the walls shone like onyx, and the veins of marrow-fire were buried deep and strong. At the base of the spiral stair a blast of heat greeted him.

“My Lord.”

Some distance from the center of the chamber, in a ringed pit, the marrow-fire rose from its unseen Source to surge like a fountain through a narrow aperture, blue-white fire rising up in a column, falling, coruscating. And in the heart of it—ah! Tanaros closed his eyes briefly. There in midair hung the dagger Godslayer, that burned and was not consumed, beating like a heart. Its edges were as sharp and jagged as the day it had been splintered from the Souma, reflecting and refracting the marrow-fire from its ruby facets.

“Tanaros.” The Shaper stood before the Font, a massive form, hands laced behind his back. The blazing light played over his calm features, the broad brow, the shadowed eyes that reflected the red gleam of the Souma in pinpricks. “Tomorrow it begin”

He knew not what to say. “Yes, my Lord.”

“War,” mused the Shaper, taking a step forward to gaze at the Font. The preternatural light shone on the seeping trail of ichor that glistened on his thigh, and the marrow-fire took on an edge of creeping blackness, like shadow made flame. “My Elder Brother gives me no peace, and this time he wagers all. Do you understand why this must be, Tanaros? Do you understand that this is your time?”

“Yes, my Lord.” His teeth chattered, his chest ached and blazed.

“I was stabbed with this dagger.” Lord Satoris reached out a hand, penetrating the blue-white fountain, and the flames grew tinged with darkness. “Thus.” His forefinger touched the crudely rounded knob that formed Godslayer’s hilt. Tanaros hissed through his teeth as the dagger’s light convulsed and the scar of his branding constricted. “To this day, the pain endures. And yet it is not so great as the pain of my siblings’ betrayal.”

“My Lord.” Tanaros drew a deep breath against the tightness in his chest. On the eve of war, he asked the question none of the Three had voiced. “Why did you refuse Haomane’s request?”

“Brave Tanaros.” The Shaper smiled without mirth. “There is danger in conversing with dragons. I saw too clearly the Shape of what-would-be if my Gift were withdrawn from Men, uncoupled forever from the Gift of thought. Out of knowledge, I refused; and out of love, love for Arahila, my Sister. Still.” He paused. “What did Haomane see, I wonder? Why did he refuse my Gift for his Children? Was it pride, or something more?”

“I know not, my Lord,” Tanaros said humbly.

“No.” Considering, Lord Satoris shook his head. “I think not. My Elder Brother was ever proud. And it matters not, now.” His hand tightened on Godslayer’s hilt. “Only this. Haomane seeks it, my General. That is what it comes to, in the end. Blood, and more blood, ending in mine—or his.”

“My Lord!” Tanaros gasped, tearing at his chest.

“Forgive me.” The Shaper withdrew from the marrow-fire, his hands closing on Tanaros’ upper arms. The power in them made Tanaros’ skin prickle. “Would you know what is in my heart?” he asked in a low voice. “I did not choose this, Tanaros Blacksword. But I will not go gently, either. Any of them … any of them!” He loosed his hold and turned away. “Any of them could cross the divide,” he said, softly. “Any of the Six. It is theirs to do, to defy Haomane’s will, to risk mortality. If they did …” He smiled sadly. “Oh, Arahila! Sister, together, you and I …”

Catching his breath, Tanaros bowed, not knowing what else to do before such immeasurable sorrow. “My Lord, we will do our best to deliver you Urulat.”

“Urulat.” The Shaper gathered himself. “Yes. Urulat. If I held Urulat in my palm, would it be enough to challenge Haomane’s sovereignty?” His laughter was harsh and empty. “Perhaps. I would like to find out.”

“It shall be yours, my Lord!” Tanaros said fiercely, believing it, his heart blazing within him like the marrow-fire. “I will make it so!”

Blood yet unshed dripped between them.

“Tanaros.” His name, nothing more; everything. The touch of the Shaper’s lips on his brow, chaste and burning. It had been his Gift, once. The quickening of the flesh, joyful blood leaping in the loins. A crude Gift, but his, cut short by Godslayer’s thrust. “May it be so.”

“My Lord,” Tanaros whispered, and knew himself dismissed.

As he took his leave, Lord Satoris turned back to the marrow-fire, gazing at it as if to find answers hidden in the ruby shard. The Shaper’s features were shadowed with unease, a fearful sight of itself. “Where is your weapon Malthus, Brother, and what does he plot?” he murmured. “Why must you force my hand? I did not Sunder the world. And yet I have become what you named me. Is that truly what must come to pass, or is there another way?” He sighed, the sound echoing in the Chamber. “If there is, I cannot see it. Your wrath has been raised against me too long. All things must be as they must.”

Tanaros withdrew quietly, not swiftly enough to avoid hearing the anguish in the Shaper’s final words.

“Uru-Alat!” Lord Satoris whispered. “I would this role had fallen to another.”