Banewreaker (20 page)

With one wary eye on Darkhaven, for nearly thirty years he had exerted his subtle influence, laying seeds of thought and ambition in the boy that came to fruition in the man. And he had done his work well, Cerelinde thought with rue. The Wise Counselor had set out to Shape a hero.

He had done so.

For all the dignitaries assembled in the Hall of Meronil, they might have been alone, they two. It had passed between them, a thing understood, undetermined by the counsels of the wise. He reached out to grasp his destiny like a man grasping a burning brand. He would love her with all the fierce passion of his mortal heart. And she, she would love him in turn, in a tempestuous blaze. There was sorrow in it, yes, and grief, but not horror. Love, fair Arahila's Gift, changed all.

And while it lasted, the fate that overshadowed them would be held at bay. Oh, the price would be high! They knew it, both of them. Death would come hard on its heels, whether by sickness or age or the point of a sword. Oronin Last-Born, the Glad Hunter, would blow his horn, summoning the hero home. And Cerelinde would be left to endure in her grief. Even in victory, if the Sunderer were defeated at last and Urulat healed, her grief would endure. But their children; ah, Haomane! Mortal through their father's blood, still they would be half-Ellylon, granted a length of days uncommon to Men, able to reckon the vast span of time as no mortals among the Lesser Shapers had done before them. Their children would carry on that flame of hope and passion, uniting their races at last in a world made whole.

The image of the half-breed's crooked face rose unbidden in her memory, Tanaros' words echoing dryly.
Such as he is, your own children would have been
…

A lie; another lie. Surely children conceived in love would be different, would be accepted by both races. Was that not the intent of Haomane's Prophecy? Cerelinde sat upon the immense bed that had been prepared for her, covering her face with both hands. If she could have wept, she would have, but Ellylon could only shed tears for the sorrow of others. A storm of terror raged in her heart and mind. After five thousand years of resistance, she had relented, had accepted her fate. A moment of joy; an eternity of grief. It was enough; merciful Arahila, was it not enough?

This was not supposed to happen.

"Aracus," she whispered.

DAWN ROSE ON THE DELTA, and with the return of the light came swarms of gnats. They were merciless, descending in dark clouds, settling on sweat-slick skin already prickling in the heat, taking their measure of blood and leaving itching welts in trade. Turin waved his arms futilely and swore.

It didn't matter.

Nothing mattered. Mantuas, quick-witted, loud-mouthed Mantuas, was dead, drowned in a sucking mudpool. It happened so fast. Even Hunric, who could track his way through a Staccian blizzard, hadn't seen it coming. There hadn't been a thing they could do. Slithering on their bellies, poking branches; Mantuas, take hold, take hold! He couldn't free his arms from the muck, could only blink, desperately, as it covered his nostrils. He sank fast. Turin had turned away when the mud reached his eyes. By the time he dared look, only a few locks of hair lay atop the burbling muck.

Farewell, Mantuas.

A good job they'd turned the horses loose.

Lord Satoris might be wroth, but Lord Satoris should have
known
. This was the place that had engendered him. Had it been fair, once? Hunric said old trackers' tales claimed as much. Well, it was foul, now. All the muck and foetor that fouled the Verdine River crawled straight from the stinking heart of the Delta.

"Hold." Ahead of him, Hunric paused, probing the watery passage with a long stick he'd cut from a mangrove tree. "All right. Slide along here."

"I'm coming." Turin followed his lead, slogging through waist-deep water along the edge of a clump of mangroves. His waterlogged boots were like lead weights on his feet, slipping on the slick, knotted roots that rose above the swamp. Only fear of snakes kept him from removing them. A few feet away, a basking lizard blinked at him and slithered rapidly in his direction, flicking a blue tongue. "Gah!" Turin recoiled, flailing his arms as the heavy pack strapped across his shoulders overbalanced him.

"Steady!" Hunric caught his flailing wrist, bracing him. "It's just a lizard, lad. It won't harm you."

"All right, all right, I'm all right!" Turin fought down his panic and shook off the tracker's hand. Was his gear secure? Yes, there was his sword, lashed sideways atop his pack. He reached behind him, felt the reassuring bulk of the supplies he carried. There was gold coin there, Lord Vorax's gift, useless in this place. Arahila willing, the bannock-cakes were secure in their oilcloth wrappings and they would not starve just yet. "All right. Let's go."

"Here." Hunric scooped a handful of muck from the bottom of the swamp. "Plaster it on your skin. It will help keep the gnats off."

He pushed away the proffered hand, dripping mud. "I don't want it on me."

"Turin." There was a despairing note in the tracker's voice. "Don't make it harder. I'm sorry about Mantuas, truly. I don't know the terrain and the Delta is harder than I thought. I'm doing my best."

"Hunric?"

"Aye?"

"They're not coming, are they?" Turin swallowed, hard. The words were hard to say. "Lieutenant Carfax, the others… you've been scoring trees, marking the safest route, ever since Mantuas died. I've watched you. If they were following, we'd have heard them by now."

"Mayhap." The tracker's eyes were shuttered in the mask of drying mud that coated his face. "If they captured Malthus' Company… if they did, lad, it may be that they found more pressing business lay elsewhere. Mayhap they seek to catch the Dreamspinner's thoughts, aye, or his ravens, to make a report to General Tanaros, aye, or Lord Satoris himself."

"Mayhap." Waist-deep in water, Turin tilted his chin and gazed at the sky, a heated blue against the green leaves of the mangroves. Birds roosted in the treetops, but only the kind that were born to this place. High above, the sun blazed like a hammer. Haomane's Wrath, beating down incessantly on the birthplace of Satoris Third-Born, who had defied his will. Banewreaker, the world named him, but he had always honored his word with Staccia, ever since Lord Vorax struck his bargain over a thousand years ago. What other Shaper had done as much since the world was Sundered? If matters went awry now, it meant something had gone grievously wrong. And Turin had a bad feeling that it had. "I don't think so, Hunric."

Water splashed as the Staccian tracker shifted, settling his own pack on his shoulders. "Well, then," he said, his voice hardening. "We'll have to press on, won't we?"

A HUNDRED BANNERS FLEW IN Seahold.

There was the trident of Duke Bornin, of course, argent on a sea-blue field. And there were others; a dozen of his liege-lords, the barons and earls who held fiefdoms in the Midlands. There was the spreading oak of Quercas, the gilded stag of Tilodan, the harrow of Sarthac, all declaring their allegiance with pride. All had been seen in the city of Seahold, though never at once.

Not the Host of the Ellylon.

It had been a long time, since the Fourth Age of the Sundered World. Altoria had reigned and the Duke of Seahold had sworn fealty to its Kings when last these banners had been seen in the city.

It was a glorious sight.

Pennants and oriflammes hung from every turret, overhung every door of Castle Seahold. In the marketplaces, merchants displayed them with pride, hoping to stake some claim by virtue of symbolism to Ellyl patrons. In the streets, companies of Ellylon passed, carrying their standards with sombre pride. There was the argent scroll of Ingolin, the thistle-blossom of Núrilin, the gilded bee of Valmaré, the sable elbok of Numireth, the shipwright's wheel of Cerion… all of these and more, many more, representing the Houses of the Rivenlost, personified by their living scions and grieving kin alike.

Above them all hung the Crown and Souma of Elterrion the Bold.

No company dared bear this standard, no merchant dared display it. It hung limp in the summer's heat from the highest turret of Castle
Seahold, gilt and ruby on a field of virgin white, a dire reminder of what was at stake.

Cerelinde.

And one other standard flew, plain and unadorned, taking place of precedence above the Duke of Seahold. It was dun-grey, this banner; a blank field empty of arms. From time to time, the summer breezes lofted its fabric. It unfurled, revealing… nothing. Only dun, the dull-yellow color of the cloaks of the Borderguard of Curonan, designed to blend with the endless plains of heart-grass.

Once, Altoria had reigned; once, the King of Altoria had born different arms. A sword, a gilt sword on a field of sable, its quillons curved to the shape of eyes. It was the insignia of Altorus Farseer, who had been called friend by the Ellylon and risen to rule a nation in the Sundered World of Urulat.

No more.

Aracus Altorus had sworn it. Not until his Borderguard opposed Satoris Banewreaker himself would he take up the ancient banner of his forefathers. But he did not doubt—did not doubt for an instant�that the Sunderer was behind the Sorceress' actions. Once Cerelinde was restored, he would turn his far-seeing gaze on their true Enemy.

Rumor ran through the city. Citizens and merchants and freeholders assembled in Seaholder Square, gazing up at the Castle, waiting and murmuring. Opportunistic peddlers did a good trade in meat-pies wrapped in pastry; winesellers prospered, too. At noon, Duke Bornin of Seahold appeared on the balcony and addressed them. Possessed of a good set of lungs, he spoke with volume and at length.

It was true, all true.

The Prophecy, the wedding-that-would-have-been, the raid on Lindanen Dale. Oronin's Children, the Were at hunt. An abduction; the Lady of the Ellylon. Pelmaran soldiers in guise, falling trees. A message, an impossible ransom, delivered at a magical distance; rumors of the Dragon of Beshtanag, seen aloft.

Oh, it was all true, and the Sorceress of the East had overreached.

There was cheering when Duke Bornin finished; cheering, rising en masse. He had ruled long enough to be clever. He waited for it to end. And when it was done, he introduced to them Aracus Altorus, naming him warleader of the Allied forces of the West.

Primed for it, they cheered all the louder. War was declared on Beshtanag.

WASHED, SALVED AND RESTED, CLAD in the armor of slain a Staccian warrior, Speros of Haimhault looked much improved by daylight. Despite his travail, his eyes were clear and alert and he moved as smoothly as his bandaged wounds allowed, a testament to the resilience of youth.

He hadn't lied, either; he knew how to handle a sword. At his insistence, Tanaros tested the former prisoner himself on the training-field of Darkhaven. Hyrgolf brought a squadron of Tungskulder Fjel to watch, forming a loose circle and leaning casually on their spears.

Inside the circle of onlookers, they fought.

Speros saluted him in the old manner; a clenched fist to the heart, then extended with an open palm.
Brother, let us spar. I trust my life unto your hands
. The old traditions died hard in the Midlands. How many times had he and Roscus Altorus saluted each other thusly in their Altorian boyhood?

Too many to count, and the memories were fond enough to hurt.

Tanaros returned the salute and drew his sword. Speros wasted only one glance upon it, briefly disappointed to see that it was not the General's infamous black sword, but merely an ordinary weapon. As well for him, since the black sword could shear through steel like flesh. Afterward, he ignored it, fixing his gaze on Tanaros himself, watching the subtle shifts in his face, in the musculature of his chest, in the set of his shield, that betokened a shift in his attack.

Flick, flick, flick, their blades darted and crossed, rang on the bosses of their shields. It made a prodigious sound on the training-field. Back and forth they went, churning the ground beneath their boots. Such was the swordplay of his youth, drilled into him a thousand years ago by a grizzled master-of-arms, sharp-tongued and relentless, always on the lookout for a pupil of promise.

"Not bad, horse-thief." Tanaros found himself smiling. "Not bad at all!"

"I do better…" Speros essayed a thrust and stumbled, wincing, forced to make a desperate parry. "I do better," he gasped, "when I've not been clamped in chains and had hot pokers held to my feet, Lord General."

"You do well enough." Putting an end to it, Tanaros stepped inside the young man's guard, catching his ill-timed swing on the edge of his shield. The point of his sword came to rest in the hollow of the lad's throat. "I am not displeased."

Speros, with commendable poise, held himself still, although his brown eyes nearly crossed in an effort to look down at Tanaros' sword. "I concede, my lord. You have the better of me."

"Well, then." Tanaros put up his sword. "We have each other's measure."

Deep, booming laughter ensued; Hyrgolf, who stepped forward to clap a massive hand on Speros' shoulder. It rested there, heavy as a stone, talons dangling. "Give the lad a dram of
svartblod
," he rumbled, beckoning to one of his soldiers with his free hand. "He's earned it."

To his credit, Speros grinned with gap-toothed fearlessness at the Fjel, sheathing his sword and hoisting the skin one of the Tungskulder proffered. It was a foul liquor, black as pitch, fermented from the blood of sheep that drank the tainted waters of the Gorgantus River, and Speros sputtered as he drank, dark liquid running in rivulets from the corners of his mouth. He shook himself like a wet dog, spattering droplets of
svartblod
.

The Fjel, who adored the foul stuff, laughed uproariously.

Tanaros touched the carved
rhios
that hung from his belt. "Take him in hand, Hyrgolf," he said to his field marshal. "Show him what there is to be seen in Darkhaven, and let him have a look at the forges. He may be worth keeping, this one."

"General." Hyrgolf inclined his head. There was a shrewdness in his small boar's eyes. Fjeltroll he might be, Tungskulder Fjel, broadest and strongest of his mighty race, but he was a father, too, and there were things he knew that Tanaros did not. "Aye, General."

"Good." It was a relief, after all, to strip the practice helmet from his head, to raise two fingers to his lips and give the shrill whistle of command that summoned the black horse. Tanaros mounted, gazing down at Hyrgolf. "The Dreamspinner has requested my counsel. We'll resume drills in two days' time. See that the Midlander's taught the rudiments of battle formations and the proper commands. I could use a subordinate on the field."

"Aye, General." The tips of Hyrgolf's eyetusks showed as he smiled.

Under his thighs, the black's hide rippled. Tanaros raised his hand.

"Speros of Haimhault!" he called. "I'm leaving you to the untender mercies of Field Marshal Hyrgolf, who will teach you to be a soldier of Darkhaven. Can you handle it, lad?"

"Aye, Lord General!" Surrounded by Fjel, the former prisoner gave his gap-toothed grin and a cheerful salute. Clearly, Speros found himself at home here, unabashed by the rough camaraderie of the Fjel. "Can I have one of those horses to ride if I do?"

Tanaros rode toward the rookery, a lingering smile on his lips. How long had it been, since one of his countrymen had served Dark-haven? Too long. Loathe though he was to admit it, he'd missed it.

At the outskirts of the beech wood, he turned his mount loose and proceeded on foot, boots sinking deep into the soft mast, his shield slung over his back. Truly, he thought, the lad had fought well. It was no easy chore, to spar when one's every step was a waking agony. It must be so, with the searing wounds Speros had endured. A good thing Vorax's own physician had attended him. Though it had done no permanent harm, it had been an ungentle questioning.

Tanaros' own arrival had differed. He was one of the Three, and Lord Satoris himself had sensed his broken heart and his wounded pride, had used the Helm of Shadows to summon him. And in all the wildness of his despair, Tanaros had answered the summons, had out-faced and out-shouted the Thunder Voice Fjel, and made his way through the Defile unaided and undeterred.

And presented himself to the Sunderer, who had asked his aid.

Even now, after so long, he shuddered in remembered ecstasy. The knot of scarred flesh that circumscribed his heart constricted at the memory of his branding, of how the hilt of Godslayer, laid against his skin, had
stretched
the chains of his mortality. Even now, when his aching joints remembered their endless sojourn, it moved him.

He had spoken the truth to Speros. In the beginning, there had been only rage. It had driven him to Darkhaven in fury and despair, and he had laid it at the feet of Lord Satoris, willing to serve evil itself if it would purge his furious heart. Since then he had come to understand that the world was not as he had believed it in his youth. He had come to love Lord Satoris, who clung to his defiance in the face of the overwhelming tyranny of Haomane's will, wounded and bereft though he was. Haomane's Wrath had scorched the very earth in pursuit of
Satoris. Were it not for Arahila's merciful intervention, the Lord-of-Thought might have destroyed Urulat itself.

Tanaros wondered if Haomane would have reckoned it worth the cost. After all, it would enable him to Shape the world anew, the better to suit his desires. It was the will of Uru-Alat, Haomane claimed, that he should reign supreme among Shapers; and yet, each of them held a different Gift. Was the Gift of thought superior to all others? Once, Tanaros had believed it to be so; until the courage and loyalty of the Fjel humbled him.

It was a pity Haomane First-Born had never known humility. Perhaps he would not be so jealous of his station, so quick to wrath, if he were humbled. Perhaps, after all, it was Lord Satoris' destiny to do so.

He wondered how he could ever have believed in Haomane's benevolence. Surely it must be the power of the Souma. But as long as Lord Satoris opposed him with Godslayer in his possession, Haomane could not wield its full might. And Tanaros meant to do all in his power to aid his Lordship. Perhaps, one day, he might be healed, and Urulat with him.

O my Lord, he thought, my Lord! Let me be worthy of your choosing.

"Blacksword."

A dry voice, dry as the Unknown Desert. Ushahin Dreamspinner, seated cross-legged under a beech tree, still as the forest. Lids parted, mismatched eyes cracked open. Sticky lashes, parched lips.

"Cousin," Tanaros said. "You wished to see me?"

"Aye." Dry lips withdrew from teeth. "Did you see the ravens?"

"Ravens?" Tanaros glanced about with alarm. The rookery was sparsely populated, but that was not unusual. It was more seldom than not that he espied his tufted friend. "Is it Fetch? Has something happened to him?"

"No." The half-breed rested his head against a beech bole. "Your feathered friend is safe, for the nonce. He keeps watch, with others, on Haomane's Allies as they make ready to depart for Pelmar. But something has happened."

Tanaros seated himself opposite the Dreamspinner, frowning. "What is it?"

"I don't know." Ushahin grimaced, raising crooked fingers to his temples. "Therein lies the problem, cousin. All I can do is put a name to it."

"And the name?" A chill tickled Tanaros' spine.

"Malthus."

One word; no more, and no less. They gazed at one another, knowing as did few on Urulat what it betokened. Malthus the Counselor was Haomane's weapon, and where he went, ill followed for those who opposed him.

"How so?" Tanaros asked softly.

Ushahin gave his hunch-shouldered shrug. "If I knew, cousin, I would tell you, and his Lordship, too. All I know is that Malthus' Company entered the Unknown Desert. Some days past, they emerged. And they brought someone—and something—with them."

"Bound for Darkhaven?"

"No." Ushahin shook his head. "They went east. That's what worries me."

"Toward Pelmar?" Tanaros relaxed. "Then Malthus himself has bought our gambit, and there is no cause for fear—"

"Not Pelmar." The half-breed tilted his head, the dim, patterned shadow of beech leaves marking his misshapen face. "Malthus' Company is bound for Vedasia."

There was a pause, then.

"Send your ravens," Tanaros suggested.

Ushahin spared him a contemptuous glance. "I
did
. Three I sent, and three are dead, strung by their feet from an Arduan saddlebag. And now, the circle has closed tight around Malthus' Company, and there is no mind open to me. I cannot find them. I do not like it. Who and what did Malthus bring out of the Unknown Desert?"

Both of them thought, without saying it, of the Prophecy.

"Does his Lordship know?" Tanaros asked.