Banewreaker (34 page)

"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 Border-guard 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, half-rearing 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.