Banewreaker

SIX

“Counselor, forgive me,” the arduan croaked, falling to her knees.

The Company of Malthus halted beneath the hammer of the sun, a merciless, white-hot blaze in the vivid blue sky. All around them, the scorched landscape extended farther than the eye could see in any direction, red earth baked and cracking, broken only by the strange, towering structures of anthills.

“I told you it was no journey for a woman.” Although his face was drawn beneath beard-stubble, the former Commander of the Borderguard kept his feet, wavering only slightly. “We should have sent her back.”

“Peace, Blaise:” Even Malthus’ voice was cracked and weary. “Fianna is the Archer of Arduan. It is as it must be. None of us can go much farther.” Drawing back his sheltering hood, the Counselor bowed his head and took the Soumanië from its place of concealment beneath his robes, chanting softly and steadily in the Shaper’s tongue. The gem shone like a red star between his hands.

Ants scurried on the cracked earth as it stirred beneath them, departing in black rivulets. Dry spikes of thorn-brush rattled, trembling.

“Look!” It was the young Vedasian, Hobard, who saw it first, pointing. A green tendril of life emerging from the cracks in the desert floor, questing in the open air. “A drought-eater! Yrinna be blessed!”

It grew beneath the Counselor’s fraying chant, the green stalk thickening, branches springing from the trunk with a thick succulent’s leaves; grew, and withered, even as flowers blossomed and fruited, seeds swelling to ripe globes. A drought-eater, capable of absorbing every drop of moisture within an acre of land and producing fruit that was almost wholly water. Water, held within a tough greenish rind.

They fell upon it, ripping the fruit from its stems even as the branches shriveled. Hobard split his with both thumbs, sucking at the pulpy interior Blaise Caveros, for all his harsh words, had a care with the Arduan woman, cutting the fruit and feeding it to her piece by dripping piece. Malthus the Counselor leaned wearily on his walking-staff and watched them, and among all his Company only Peldras of the Rivenlost, whose light step left no tracks on the red, dusty soil, waited his turn until the rest were sated.

Thirst could not kill Haomane’s Children; only steel.

Peldras shaded his eyes, gazing at the endless vista of baked red earth. If the Counselor’s wisdom were true, they should have found the ones they sought long before; the Charred Ones, who had hidden from the scorching fire of Haomane’s wrath.

“What do you see, my long-sighted friend?” Malthus asked in a low tone.

The Ellyl shook his head. “Nothing.”

“Hush.”

Staring at the vine-curtained opening, Tanaros lifted a hand for silence. To a fellow, Men and Fjel obeyed him alike. No need to caution the Were, who were silence itself. Only the shuffle and stamp of the horses disturbed the quiet, and even that was minimal. Green light filtered into the tunnel, and beyond the opening he could hear birdsong.

“Go” He motioned to the Were brethren. “Clear the perimeter, and report.”

They went, both of them, like arrows shot from the bow, low to the ground and sleek, traveling at an inhuman gait, muzzles pointed forward, ears pricked and wary.

“Good hunting, brothers,” the Grey Dam murmured.

Tanaros repressed a shudder.

Always, the waiting was the hardest. He felt awkward in the unfamiliar Pelmaran armor; steel plates laced onto boiled leather, and an ill-disguised conical helmet. Their arms had been chosen with care, to give a semblance of Beshtanagi troops in disguise. Tanaros rolled his shoulders, loosened his sword in its sheath. A borrowed sword, not his own, with a Pelmaran grip.

Behind him, Vorax’s Staccians whispered in excitement. This was their moment, the role only they could play. Among them, Vorax had chosen the youngest, the fiercest, the swiftest. They had trained hard, and rehearsed their roles to perfection. They had shaved their beards and stained their skin with walnut dye. Tanaros turned in the saddle to survey them, feeling the battle-calm settle over him.

Their lieutenant met his eye; Carfax, a steady fellow. They exchanged nods. And there, in the vanguard, Turin, the yellow-haired decoy, swallowing hard. Choose one who is fair, his Lordship had said, fair as morning’s first star. He was a youth, still beardless, his skin undyed and pale, clad in bridal silks. The troops had laughed, to see him thus. Now, none laughed.

“We strike a blow this day, brothers,” Tanaros said in a soft, carrying voice, jostling his mount to face them. “A mighty blow! Are you ready?”

They gave a whispered cheer.

“Field marshal.” His gaze roamed past the Staccians, falling upon Hyrgolf, who stood with the massed Fjeltroll at the rear. “Are you ready?”

Hyrgolf of the Tungskulder Fjel stood like a boulder, stolid and dependable. “We are ready, General,” he rumbled. “Bring us the Ellyl lady, and we will conduct her in all speed to Darkhaven”

“Dreamspinner.” Tanaros bent his gaze upon the half-breed, who crouched at the entrance to the tunnels, holding the Helm of Shadows in his trembling hands. “Are you ready, cousin?”

“I am ready.” Ushahin bared his teeth, the enlarged pupil in one eye glittering. In the green light, his face looked ghastly. The thing in his hands throbbed with a darkness that ached like a wound, unbearable to behold. “Upon your command!”

As if summoned by his words, one of the Were brethren dashed through the hanging vines that curtained the entrance, eyes glowing amber, bloodstains upon his muzzle. “The way is clear,” he said, the words thick and guttural in his throat. Sharp white teeth showed as he licked blood from his chops. “Why do you wait? In the Dale, they wed. Go now, now!”

Sorash the Grey Dam lifted her muzzle and keened a lament for her long-slain cubs.

The moment had come.

Tanaros. drew his sword, and though it was not his, still it sang as it cleared the scabbard, a high, piercing sound that echoed inside his head. “Go!” he shouted, digging his heels into his mount’s sides, feeling the surge of muscle as the black horse lunged up the sloping tunnel for the entrance. “Go, go, go!”

Lashed by green vines, Tanaros burst through the tunnel entrance, bounding into a forest in the full foliage of spring. A grey form hurtled past him, bound at speed for Lindanen Dale.

Altorus!

The word was a battle-paean in his head, igniting the ancient hurt, the ancient hatred. Altorus! He took a deep breath, filling his lungs with it. Rage, cleansing rage. Tanaros wheeled the black horse, his mind clear and sharp. There, the Staccians, emerging in formation. There, the dim figures of the Kaldjager Fjel, slipping through the trees. There, by the opening, Ushahin Dreamspinner, lowering the Helm of Shadows onto his head.

“Ride!” Tanaros shouted. “Men, ride!”

They rode, pounding through the oak wood, the ancient holdings of Altoria, and the mounts they rode were the horses of Darkhaven, swift-hooved and high-spirited, their glossy coats disguised with mud and burrs. They rode, and the trees passed in a blur, and behind them slid Fjeltroll with yellow eyes and sharp axes, laying a trap for those who would follow—and there four of their number paused, waiting. Here and there lay corpses, Ellylon and Men alike, sentries who grinned in death at the innocent spring leaves. They rode, and death ran before them, Oronin’s Children, grey and implacable.

A league, a league, less than a league.

Ahead, the trees thinned, bright sunlight shining on Lindanen Dale. Tanaros glanced left and right, wind-sprung tears blurring his vision. In the periphery of his gaze, he could see the Staccians following, falling into a wedge formation. The Were had vanished. Let them be there, he thought, a desperate prayer. Oh my Lord, let them be there! Drawing his sword, he loosed a wordless cry as they emerged into the Dale.

Greensward, and flowers hidden in the grass.

Silk tents, with pennants fluttering.

And the host, the nuptial host, milling on the lawn, chaos sown in their midst, with rent garments and blood flowing freely. A harpist, moaning and pale, cradled a torn forearm; others lay unmoving, and their blood spread on the grass, darkening. This, they had not expected. Not the grey hunters of the Were, not Oronin’s Children, who could penetrate any defense not raised behind walls. Ah, and even so! So many, so many of Haomane’s Allies, gathered in one place. Lindanen Dale seethed like a kicked anthill. Unready and unmounted they might be, but they had not come unarmed. Already, the soldiers were gathering their wits. There was one of the Were brethren, dying, his hairy belly slit, entrails dragging on the greensward. And there, the other, brought to bay by the Duke of Seahold’s men, closing in with spears.

Tanaros thundered past, ignoring them.

There … there.

Before the bower, wrought with Ellylon craftsmanship, enwrapped with flowers—there. A man, bare-headed, danced with death in a bridegroom’s finery, and the sunlight gleamed on his red-gold hair and the naked steel of his blade. A grey, shadowy figure lunged at his throat, teeth snapping in a hunger that had honed itself for centuries. Around and around they went in a deadly pavane. After a thousand years, the Grey Dam of the Were sought to avenge the deaths of her mate and cubs. And all around them, the Altorians stood in a ring, the Borderguard of Curonan, holding their blades for fear of striking awry, shouting fierce encouragement to their king-in-exile, so grievously assaulted on his wedding day.

Not there. No.

To the left, where an Ellyl woman stood, clad in bridal silks. There was fear in her face, and pride. Oh yes, Haomane knew, there was pride! She shone like a flame, lending courage to the women who attended her and cowered at her side, strengthening the hearts of her Rivenlost guards who bristled about her, swords and spears at the ready.

It took all his strength not to howl his Lord’s name, betraying the origin of their attack; though in truth, it would not have mattered if he did, for at that moment the Dreamspinner’s subtle influence began to manifest, warping sight and sound, and Men turned in confusion toward imagined attackers where there were none. Such was Ushahin’s illusion, augmented by the Helm of Shadows, that even the Ellylon believed with utter certitude that an involuntary Beshtanagi warcry was uttered in the mêlée.

“Now!” Tanaros shouted to his men. “Now!”

They followed as he led them in a charge against the personal guard of Cerelinde, granddaughter of Elterrion the Bold, Lord of the Rivenlost. Young men—boys, some of them—sworn to fat Vorax. Why? He didn’t dare ask, but must trust them to be there, fighting on horseback at his side as his sword rose and fell, rose and fell, dripping with Ellyl blood. The cries of the dying rang in his ears, his and theirs. Proud Ellyl faces, eyes bright with Haomane’s favor, swam in his vision; he cut them down, cleaving a path through them, again and again and again, until his sword-arm grew tired.

And then …

Only fear, in her beautiful face; fear and disbelief.

“Lady, come!” he gasped, discarding his buckler and hauling her across his pommel with one strong arm.

The weight of her—oh Lord, oh my Lord Satoris!

Tanaros gritted his teeth, feeling her struggle, her flesh against his; Ellyl flesh, a woman’s flesh, warm and living. Her hair spilled like gleaming silk over his left knee, tangling in his Pelmaran greaves, his stirrup. Pale, her hair, like cornsilk. The surviving Staccians closed around him, swords flashing as they fought, checking their mounts broadside into the bodies of her defenders. Across the Dale, cavalry units scrambled to assemble and an Ellyl horn blew, a sound of silvery defiance, summoning the Host

“Lady, forgive me,” Tanaros muttered and, raising his sword, brought the hilt down sharply on the base of her skull. Her weight went still and limp, quiescent.

A cry of rage and fury shattered the air.

“Cerelinde! CERELINDE!”

Tanaros turned his head and met Aracus Altorus’ gaze.

In that instant, the Grey Dam of the Were made her final lunge; one last, desperate attack, carrying the onus of the battle to her opponent, spending her life upon it. Altorus’ sword came up between them, spitting her, and he wept with futile anger as her weight bore him down, jaws seeking his throat even as her eyes filmed.

“Go!” Tanaros shouted, wheeling the black. “Go!”

Tanaros clung to his mount like grim death, one hand on the reins, one clutching the limp burden athwart his pommel, the Staccians surrounding him as they raced for the treeline. The greensward of Lindanen Dale was churned to mud beneath the pounding hooves of the horses of Darkhaven.

And behind them, Haomane’s allies were closing fast, astride and racing, and in the vanguard was the cavalry of Ingolin the Wise, Lord of the Rivenlost, moved to hot-blooded wrath for the first time in centuries; and close at their heels were the Borderguard of Curonan in their dun-colored cloaks. Thirty paces to the forest, twenty …

With Cerelinde to carry, he couldn’t outrun them.

“Now, Dreamspinner,” Tanaros whispered under his breath. “Now!”

Madness broke.

Like a wave, a vast black wave, it crashed down upon them, and the sound in his skull was an atonal howl of grief, as if the whole of Oronin’s Children mourned at once, as if every Were in Urulat opened throat in lament. And so it was, in a fashion, for Ushahin Dreamspinner unleashed the full force of his power and gave voice to the grief of them all, and the form of his grief was madness, given shape by the Helm of Shadows.

It halted the armies of Haomane; horses balking, throwing riders, Men clapping hands over ears and falling to writhe on the ground, while the Ellylon sought in vain to control mortal steeds that plunged and pitched in terror. Only the horses of Darkhaven, tended from their foaling by the hands of madlings, were untouched by it.

“Ride, damn you!” Carfax, the Staccian lieutenant, exhorted his troops, almost weeping. “Ride, you sons of whores!”

A flurry of ravens arose as they entered the forest

Branches, breaking at their passage. Tanaros bent low over the black stallion’s neck, clinging with his knees, concentrating on the limp form of the Ellyl woman. The horse’s mane stung his eyes. Oh, brave heart! Hooves pounded the loam, massive trunks rushed past them. How long, until Haomane’s Allies gathered themselves to follow?

A league, less than a league to the meeting place.

In a dappled glade surrounded by dense thickets and tall oaks, he drew rein, sawing at the black’s lathered neck. Turin the decoy was there waiting, and three others, helping as he dismounted, easing the Ellyl noblewoman to the ground. She moaned faintly, stirring against the loam. Tanaros reached down, unclasping her outer garment; a cloak of white silk, embroidered in gold thread and rubies with an interlacing pattern of crown and Souma. It came loose with surprising ease, and he straightened with it

“That would be for me, Lord General.” The young Staccian settled the cloak over his shoulders and fastened the clasp, tossing his yellow locks back. He nodded at a round Pelmaran buckler propped against a rock. “In thanks, I give you my shield.”

Tanaros clasped his hand. “Lord Satoris’ blessing on you, Turin.”

The Staccian spared him a brief grin. “And you, General. Buy us time.”

With that, he turned away, and one of his comrades, astride a black horse, gave him a hand, slinging him across the pommel where he landed with a grunt. The decoy was in place.

“Lord General!” Carfax saluted.

“Go,” Tanaros said softly. “We’ll hold them long enough for you to cross the Aven. Cut the bridges if you can. After that, you’re on your own. Lord Vorax’s ship awaits you in Harrington Bay.”

Carfax smiled. “We’ll see you in Beshtanag.”

With that, he gave the command, wheeling; the bulk of the Staccians thundered with him, heading eastward through the forest, toward the River Aven, Turin the decoy jouncing athwart the pommel of one.

“General,” a deep voice rumbled, as Hyrgolf stepped between the trees, massive and deliberate. Lowering his thick head, he stared under his brow-ridges at the inert form of the Ellyl woman. “This is her?”

“Aye.”

“Well, then.” The Fjeltroll stooped, gathering Cerelinde of the Ellylon in his thick-hided arms. Her body sagged, pale hair trailing earthward on one end, slipper-shod feet twitching at the other. “Poor lass,” Hyrgolf murmured.

“Take her to Darkhaven!” Tanaros snapped, swinging astride his mount.

“Aye, General.” The Fjel’s tone was mild as he turned away, bearing his burden. “We will do that,” he said over his shoulder. “Hold the glade, as long as you dare. The Kaldjager are ready with their axes. Do not wait too long.”

Tanaros nodded and settled Turin’s buckler on his left arm.

He was ready.

They were few, so few.

Tanaros did not count the losses; he did not dare. Even now, after so many, it hurt to number them. He merely waited, with Vorax’s Staccians, and knew that a dozen were left to him. Bold lads, to a man. Their teeth gleamed white against their dyed skin as they awaited the onslaught. This time, there would be no help from the Dreamspinner; Ushahin was spent. Only them, with mortal steel against innumerable odds.

It came quickly.

The passage into the glade was narrow. Tanaros took the lead position, with a soldier a pace behind him on either side, the rest arrayed in ranks of three behind them, ready to move up should any fall. The forest resounded with the sound of enemy pursuit. Through the trees, he saw them coming, and a lord of the Ellylon led the charge, checking when he saw the narrow gap with its defenders. Horns blew, ordering a halt, but even so Haomane’s Allies continued to come by the hundred; the Borderguard of Curonan, blue-clad men of Seahold, massed behind the Ellylon.

“Yeld, defiler.” The Ellyl lord’s voice was implacable. “Return the lady.”

Tanaros shook his head.

The Ellyl drew his sword, and dappled sunlight shone silver on it; silver was his armor, and worked on his shield a thistle-blossom, marking him of the House of Núrilin. “Then you will die.”

Nudging his mount forward, Tanaros drew his Pelmaran sword in salute.

They engaged.

The Núrilin’s first blow reeled him in the saddle, nearly cracking the borrowed buckler with its force. This was no mere guardsman taken unaware and on foot, but a lord of the Ellylon fighting on horseback, equal to equal. Tanaros’ shield-arm went numb to the shoulder. Anger rose in him like a tide. With a wordless shout, he pressed the attack, driving the Ellyl back by main force. The heaving sides of their mounts jostled one another as they grappled, too close for either to get a solid blow. On the left and right, the sounds of battle arose.

“You’re too few,” the Núrilin lord said. “Surrender, and be spared.”

Tanaros gritted his teeth and raised his aching shield-arm, shoving the buckler hard into the Ellyl’s body, gaining a few inches of space. Obedient to the command of his knees, the black horse wheeled and Tanaros brought his sword around in a flashing arc, landing a solid blow to the helm. The Núrilin retreated a pace, shaking his head, but to his left, one of the Staccians cried out and fell back, wounded. Even as another struggled to take his comrade’s place, battle surged, pressing toward the glade. Tanaros cut across, driving them back, gasping as the tip of a blade scored his unprotected side, piercing the leather seam of his armor. Blood trickled down his ribcage.

“How long, defiler?” the Núrilin lord called. “Until all your men are dead?”

From the corner of his eyes, Tanaros could see movement in the massed ranks behind the Ellylon. Dun-colored cloaks, moving through the trees. He swore under his breath. The Borderguard of Curonan was spreading out, seeking another passage, trying to come around and flank them. It was what he would have ordered. They would do it, in time; and worse, they would find the decoy’s trail, too soon.

“How long, General?” one of the Staccians muttered behind him as the onslaught redoubled its efforts, forcing them back another pace.

Tanaros pressed his elbow against his bleeding side. “We will—”

At the rear of the massed Allies, something stirred, the troops of the Duke of Seahold parting to admit a handful of men, spearheaded by one who uttered a single cry. “Curonan!”

In the woods, the dun-colored cloaks turned back in answer.

The Ellylon halted their attack, waiting.

In the gap, the Staccians held, panting, Tanaros at their head. One was dead, two direly wounded. Tanaros pressed his wound and watched as Aracus Altorus made his way through the ranks. Pride, he thought, as Aracus drew nearer. Always pride. His armor had been donned in haste, flung over his bridegroom’s finery. He held his helmet under one arm, and his wide-set eyes were filled with fury.

“Now,” Tanaros whispered.

His blow caught the Núrilin lord unaware, the sword finding a gap in the Ellyl’s armor. With cries of wrath, the Ellylon surged to the attack. Everywhere, silvered armor, fair Ellyl faces, eyes bright and fierce behind visors, horseflesh churning as they pressed through the gap, forcing the Staccians backward. Aracus Altorus and the Borderguard of Curonan were lost in the center of the mêlée.

One more step, Tanaros thought, wielding his Pelmaran sword with desperate energy, guarding their retreat and trying to save as many of Vorax’s men as he might. The Ellylon were fearful in their wrath, and he could feel the Staccians’ courage ebbing, turning to terror. It was why he had needed to lead the raid himself. Battle-trained, the black horse retreated, obedient to his commands, turning this way and that to allow him room to swing his blade.

One more step, one … more … step …

With a sound like cracking thunder, trees began to fall; ancient trees, mighty oaks, the sentinels of Lindanen Wood. And the first to fall toppled like a giant across the gap, smashing the enemy vanguard, shattering bone and crushing flesh, the earth shuddering at its impact. The way was blocked, for now, and above the moans of the enemy rose the screaming of injured horses.

The Kaldjager Fjeltroll had done their job.

Weary and sore, Tanaros turned his mount and ordered his Men back to the tunnels. There should have been joy in the victory, and yet there was none. Once, he would have been on the other side of this battle, defending his liege-lord. Those days were long gone, and yet … . Destroying the happiness of one Son of Altorus did not bring back the love Tanaros had lost, the life that had once been his. Nothing would, ever. With his own hands, he had destroyed it, and chosen Lord Satoris’ dark truth over the bright lie of love that he had once cherished.

If it had been true before, it was true twice over this day. He had sealed that path as surely as the Kaldjager Fjel had blocked their retreat. There was no merit in regretting what was done, and no choice but to continue onward.

Darkhaven was all that was left to him.