Banewreaker (29 page)

"General!" Hyrgolf's roar rose above the fray. "Your orders!"

Somewhere, in Darkhaven, Vorax kept a thin, desperate thread of the Way open to retreat, pitting the Helm of Shadows against the awful might of Malthus. Tanaros could feel it, taste it. The Ways shuddered and strained beneath their struggle, threatening to splinter into an infinity of passages, but there was still a chance, an alley. "Retreat!" he shouted, willing the Fjel to hear him. "Field marshal,
retreat
!"

And then the black horse convulsed beneath him, and Tanaros was flung from the saddle. The stony ground rushed up to meet him, striking hard. He covered his head, fearful of stamping hooves. Knowing that the Ways could not destroy him, Tanaros curled around his aching, Souma-branded heart and held himself
here
, knowing there was naught else he could do. Somewhere, Hyrgolf was roaring, trying to organize his troops, trying to follow the thin thread of hope back to Darkhaven and safety even as the Ways collapsed, flinging them backward in time, sundering their company.

A good general protects his troops.

Everything seemed very quiet, the shouting receding into echoless silence as Tanaros climbed to his feet to face the Counselor, and drew the black sword. "Malthus," he said, testing the weight of his sword, that was quenched in a Shaper's blood. His circumscribed heart was unexpectedly light. "Your path ends here."

"Dani," Malthus said, ignoring him. "Trust me."

It was a boy who stepped forth from the Counselor's fearsome shadow and nodded; a boy, dark-skinned and unobtrusive, accompanied by a wary protector. There was a clay vial at his throat, tied by a crude thong. With a shock, Tanaros recognized it, knew what it must hold. Here, then, was the true enemy, the one who mattered. Here was the Bearer of prophecy, who carried the Water of Life, who could extinguish the marrow-fire itself. And it was a boy, a mere boy, a pawn in Haomane's game. Their gazes met, and the boy's was questioning, uncertain.

"No," Tanaros whispered. "
Listen
…"

Malthus the Counselor lifted his staff, and light shone between his fingers.

Red light pulsed and the Ways opened. Light flexed, coruscating.

IT HAPPENED AS SHE CROSSED the threshold of her reception hall.

One moment she was walking, grateful for Pietre at her elbow, concentrating on keeping her head proudly erect for the watching servants. Relief at the dragon's news made it easier. It didn't matter, now, that the circlet felt too tight around her brow, that the Soumanië lay hot against her flesh, that an unnatural awareness stirred at the base of her skull—those were the harbingers of salvation, signs that the Ways had been opened. Tired as she was, Lilias bore them with gladness.

Between one step and the next, everything changed.

She had been a child, once; a mortal child playing children's games of hide-and-chase in her father's estate in Pelmar. Her younger brother had darted from the ice-house, slamming the heavy stone door in her face. A thousand years later she remembered it; the sound like a thunderclap, the unexpected impact and sudden darkness, and how the air was too tight to breathe.

It was like that, only worse, a hundred times worse. A red light burst behind her eyes as a Way was slammed closed, exploding open elsewhere, splintering into a myriad dwindling passages. By the stinging of her palms, she understood that she had fallen onto the flagstones. Her eyes were open and blind. Somewhere, Pietre was tugging at her arm, begging her to get up. There were tears in his voice. Her brother Tomik had sounded that way, once, when he begged her to abandon the Soumanië after she had descended Beshtanag Mountain to show him. "It's a dragon's gift, Lilias! Put it back!"

Lilias.

"Calandor," she whispered.

I am sorry.

With an effort she dragged herself to kneel in a puddle of her velvet robes, running her hands blindly over her face. There were murmurs all around; of anxiety, of sympathy, of mutiny. None of them mattered. Her little brother was centuries in the grave and her choice had been made a long time ago. "Calandor, what happened in the Marasoumië?"

Malthus.

Lilias blinked. Her vision was clearing. Sarika's face swam before her gaze, tear-stained as she knelt before her mistress, fumbling with a goblet of mulled wine as she sought to press it into her mistress' hands. This was her home, after all. For a thousand years, Beshtanag had been hers. "Calandor." Lilias swallowed, tasting fear. "Is Satoris' army coming?"

No.

SOMEWHERE IN THE NIGHT IT had ceased to matter that they had not begun their journey as comrades. In the headlong flight through the forest there were neither prisoners nor captors, only allies seeking a common cause: Survival.

Hobard had given his life for them. For
him
, Carfax thought, numb and awed. Over and over he saw it; the Vedasian knight going down, the dark wave of fur closing over him. It had bought them time. Not much, but enough. By the time the Were pursued, they were in flight.

Trees, trees and more trees; an endless labyrinth of forest, dampened by skeins of rain. A storm broke, driving their flight with increasing urgency. It lashed their faces, rendering them water-blind. Trunks loomed out of the darkness and branches reached, slashing at unprotected skin, lashing the horses' flanks. They shouldn't have been able to outrun the Were, if not for the Ellyl.

Peldras drew deep on the ancient lore of Haomane's Children, using the Shaper's Gifts to master the horses' fear, mastering all their fear. Such was the skill of the Rivenlost, first among the Lesser Shapers. It lent courage to their hearts, speed to their mounts' heels. Onward and onward they followed him, a slender figure on horseback, lit with a faint silvery luminosity, forging a path through the impossible tangle.

Pursuit came, of course; the Were bounding at their sides, leaping and snapping. Not as many, no; only three. A deadly three. And they came with muzzles red with blood, howling for their slain Brethren, a keening sorrow tinged with the rage of betrayal.

Carfax, unarmed, could only follow blindly in the Ellyl's wake, trying to protect Fianna with the simple bulk of his presence, turning his mount broadside and flailing in the saddle in a vain effort to fend off their attackers. It was Blaise who defended them, who brought up the rear; Blaise of the Borderguard. And he fought with a deadly, tireless efficiency, whirling time and time again to face the onslaught, his sodden hair lashing his cheeks. There was bitterness there, and fury; oh, yes! He was the appointed Protector of Malthus' Company, now shattered. If he had to spend his last breath protecting what remained of it, he would do it. Again and again his sword rose and fell, rain-washed and running with dark fluids, until the clouds broke and the grey light of dawn showed it ruddy, and the four of them alive.

When had Blaise slain the last of the Were?

Carfax could not say. Only that dawn had found them alone.

He sat quiet in the saddle, dripping, marveling at the steady throb of blood in his veins, at his hands on the reins, only his knuckles scratched, listening to their quarreling voices mingle with the rising birdsong while his exhausted mount hung its head low, too weary to lip at the undergrowth.

"But where should we
go
?" Fianna's voice, tired and plaintive. "Blaise?"

"Beshtanag… Jakar…" The Borderguardsman gave a grim smile. "I cannot guess, Lady Archer. You heard him as well as I did, and as poorly. Peldras?"

Troubled, the Ellyl shook his head. "What I can do, I have done. The ways of the Counselor are the ways of Haomane, cousin, and even I cannot guess at them. It is for you to decide."

"So be it." Blaise drew a harsh breath, laying his sword across his pommel. Red blood dripped from its tip onto the forest floor. "We have lost Malthus—and the Bearer. The Company is broken, and we must go where we will best serve. Staccian?"

Startled, Carfax lifted his head. "My lord?" The words came unbidden.

"Where should we go?"

He averted his face from the Borderguardsman's steady gaze, which said all his words did not. Hobard had given his life. A debt was owed. On a nearby tree a lone raven sat, cocking its head. Carfax swallowed hard and looked back at Blaise. "Beshtanag is a trap."

Was that his voice that had spoken? The words sounded so flat, lacking emotion, nothing to do with his tongue, thick in his mouth. But Blaise Caveros only nodded, as if hearing confirmation of a long-held suspicion.

"Do we have time to warn them?"

"I… don't know." Carfax said the words and something in him eased as he met the Borderguardsman's level gaze. "It may be. I don't know."

Blaise nodded again, surveying the remnants of their Company. Fianna straightened in the saddle, one hand reaching to check for Oronin's Bow and the Arrow of Fire. "So be it, then," he said. "To Beshtanag."

On a nearby tree, a raven took wing.

So be it, Carfax thought.

He felt numb. Better to die with honor than to live without it. It was too late, now. It was done. In the space of a few heartbeats, in a few spoken words, he had irrevocably betrayed his oath of loyalty. The words he had exchanged with Blaise long ago rang in his memory. If he could have smiled, he would have, but the corners of his mouth refused to lift. He wanted to weep instead.

There was only one end awaiting him.

Why do you smile, Staccian?

To make a friend of death.

IT WAS A COLD DAWN over the plains of Rukhar.

Ushahin lay curled among the rocks where he had dragged himself, his ill-knit bones aching and his teeth chattering. Behind him, in the cavern of the Marasoumië, the node-lights were as dead and grey as yesterday's ashes. Unable to raise his head, he stared at the pocked face of a sandstone boulder until the rising light made his head ache beyond bearing and he closed his eyes.

He had failed to hold the Way open.

Footsteps sounded, and he squinted through swollen lids. A pair of booted feet came into view; Rukhari work, with soft leather soles and embroidered laces. The toe of one boot prodded his ribs. Childhood memories, half-forgotten, returned in a flood and filled his mouth with a bitter taste.

"Dream-stalker." Above him was Makneen, the Rukhari commander. The rising sun silhouetted his head. "Where is your army?"

"Gone," Ushahin croaked, squinting upward and wincing at the brightness.

The Rukhari nodded in understanding. Somewhere, near, horses stamped and men muttered in their own tongue. Yesterday, they had feared him. Today, they wanted to see him dead. Makneen's hand shifted to the hilt of his curved sword, wrapped in bright copper wire. "So our bargain is broken."

"No." He spat, clearing his mouth of bile. "Wait…"

"It is broken." Watching him like a wary hawk, the Rukhari raised one hand, then turned away, speaking over his shoulder with careless aplomb. "Tell the Glutton we kept faith. It is you who failed. Now, we go."

They did, even as he struggled to sit upright, lifting the aching burden of his head. Horseflesh surged on either side of him, urged on with jeering cries. Hooves pounded, sending chips of sandstone flying. Ushahin lifted a hand to shield his face from laceration. Whatever Vorax had promised them, it was all gone, all lost. And there was no satisfaction, none at all, in knowing he had been right.

This was Malthus' doing.

He had felt it, had known the instant the Counselor had entered the Ways, seizing control of the Marasoumië and wresting it to his own ends, severing all of Ushahin's influence in one surge of the Soumanië. And he had known, in that instant, utter helplessness.

It should not have happened.

Something had gone terribly wrong.

Weary and defeated, Ushahin buried his face in his hands, taking solace in the familiar darkness, the misshapen bones beneath his fingertips.
My Lord
, he thought,
I have failed you
! In a moment, in a few moments, he would make the effort that was needful, freeing his mind from the bonds of what Men called sanity to sift through their dreams. Now—

Now was the sound of claws on sandstone.

Seated on barren rock, Ushahin lifted his weary head from his shel-tering hands. A grey shadow shifted on the rocks, poking his head into view, muzzle twitching. He was young, this one, sent to bear an unwelcome message. Aching and bone-weary as he was, Ushahin observed the old courtesies, asking in his visitor's tongue, "How fares Oronin's Hunt?"

The young Were howled.

It bounded, clearing the ridge with a single leap to land before him. There was pain in its amber eyes, luminous in the sunlight. One fore-limb lashed out, and Ushahin reeled backward as taloned claws raked his misshapen cheek. Groping blindly for power, he drew on the brand that circumscribed his heart, remembering Godslayer and the marrow-fire, and his Lord's long torment. "
Enough
!" he cried harshly, feeling Lord Satoris' strength in his bones. "What of your quest?"

The Were cowered, ears flat against its skull. "Eight," it whimpered in angry protest. "There were eight!"

Eight?

"No," Ushahin whispered. "Malthus' Company… Malthus' Company numbered seven."

Baring teeth, the young Brother showed him, putting the pictures in his mind, as the Were had done since Oronin Shaped them. There were eight, and the eighth a Staccian, tall and stricken-faced, a burning brand in his hands. A blow struck when the Brethren expected it not. Sparks against the darkness. A branch, a twig to turn a flood.

"Why?" Ushahin groped for a thread of mortal thought. "
Why
?"

"We have
done
." Emboldened, the young Were reared on its haunches, spat its words, red tongue working in its muzzle. "This says the Grey Dam! No more debts, no one's son. There were eight! We will Hunt for us, only, and fight no more!"

Done.

A slash of talons, a bounding leap. Claws scrabbled on sandstone, and the Were was gone, leaving Ushahin bereft, aching in the cold light of dawn, at last and truly alone.

"Mother." He whispered the word, remembering her scent, her sharp, oily musk. How she let him seek comfort in her form, burying his aching, broken face in her fur. How her hackles raised at any threat, menacing all enemies and affording him safety, a safety he had never known. He had healed in her shadow.

The Grey Dam is dead, the Grey Dam lives.

Not his.

His shoulders shook as he wept. The Ellylon could only weep for the sorrows of others, but Ushahin the Misbegotten was the child of three races and none, and he wept for his own bereavement.

When he was done he gathered himself and stood, and began to make his long way toward Darkhaven, to the only home left to him.

THERE HAD BEEN A CRY, filled with rage and defeat, when the path was severed. A single cry, echoing in Vorax's head, filling his skull like a sounding drum. Through the Helm of Shadows he heard it, filled with an eternity of anguish.

Ah, my Lord Satoris, he thought, forgive us!

It anchored him, that cry, kept his feet solid on the rocky floor of the cavern. It gave him a strength he had not known he possessed and kept him tethered to the Marasoumië. He felt it happen, all of it, as Malthus wielded the Soumanië and wrested control of the Ways from them. And there was only one thing he could do.

Through the eyeslits of the Helm, the node-lights twitched in fitful pain and he saw what he could not see with his naked eyes, the truth no one dared voice. The whole, vast network was dying, aeon by aeon, inch by inch. The Sundering of the world was the slow death of the Marasoumië. Not now, not yet, but over ages, it would happen.

Vorax could not prevent it, any more than he could prevent Malthus from seizing control of the Ways, from closing their egress and sending the army of Darkhaven into flailing chaos. All he could do was hold open his end of the path.

He did.

And he gathered them, scattered like wind-blown leaves through the Ways. It was not his strength, this kind of work, but he made it so. He was one of the Three, and he had sworn to protect his Lord's fortress. What did it matter that his belly rumbled, that the long hours ground him to the bone? He was Vorax of Staccia, he was a colossus. A battle may be lost, but not the war, no. Not on his watch. The army of Darkhaven would endure to fight another day. Like a beacon of darkness, he anchored their retreat, bringing them home.