Banewreaker (11 page)

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.

"Yield, 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 melee.

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.

CERELINDE OPENED HER EYES ONTO a nightmare.

Fjeltroll.

She was the Lady of the Ellylon and, to her credit, she did not cry aloud, though the face that hovered over hers was immense and hideously ugly, covered in a thick, grey-green hide. It was so close she could smell its musk, feel its breath on her skin. Its nostrils were the size of wine goblets. Tiny eyes squinted down at her beneath the bulge of an overhanging brow. A broad mouth stretched its width, yellowing tusks protruding above and below the leathery lips.

Even as she blinked in uncomprehending fear, its maw opened. A voice emerged, deep and rumbling, speaking in the common tongue. "The Lady wakes."

Cerelinde sat up, seeking to scramble backward. A sharp pain lanced her skull, and a wave of sickness clutched her stomach.

"Peace, lass." The squatting Fjeltroll held up one enormous hand. The hide was thick and horny, the dangerous talons grimy. It was not a reassuring sight. "You will come to no harm here."

"No harm?" With an effort of will, she quelled the sensation of sickness. Memories of Lindanen Dale rose in its place and overwhelmed her; the grey Were in their midst, her kinsmen slain and Aracus fighting for his life, the mounted figure in Pelmaran armor bearing down upon her, blood dripping from his blade. "Ah, Haomane! There is naught but harm in this day!"

"As you say, lass." The vast shoulders moved in a shrug. "It is
Haomane's Prophecy you sought to fulfill this day. Still, I tell you, you will not be harmed by my Lordship's hand."

"Your Lordship." Cerelinde glanced at her surroundings. She was underground in a vast tunnel, tall and wide. A handful of Fjel carrying heavy packs squatted in waiting, their fearsome features further distorted by wavering torchlight. She repressed a shudder. Beyond them, another figure stood, dismounted beside a restless horse, a bundle under one arm. His head was bowed, his face in shadow. The torchlight glinted on his pale hair, which shone like that of her own people. Through the anguish in her heart and the throbbing pain in her head, slow realization of her plight dawned. It was not Beshtanagi who had attacked her wedding. It was worse, far worse. "Who are you?" she asked, already fearing the answer. "What is this place?"

The Fjeltroll smiled with hideous gentleness. "Lady, I am Hyrgolf of the Tungskulder Fjel, field marshal of the Army of Darkhaven," he said. "And this place is merely a waystation."

"Darkhaven," she whispered. "
Why
?"

He looked at her a moment before speaking. "Surely you must know."

Cerelinde closed her eyes briefly. "Your master seeks to destroy us."

"Destroy?" The Fjeltroll gave a rumbling snort. "Haomane's Wrath brings destruction upon us. His Lordship wishes to survive it." He rose, extending one horny hand. "Come, lass. Can you travel? I will bear you if you cannot."

"I pray you, Marshal Hyrgolf, do not." Cerelinde took a shallow breath, conscious of the limited air, of the weight of the earth pressing above them. It was a sickening sensation. Her head ached and her heart felt battered within her breast. Her flesh retained a vague, horrible memory of being borne in the Fjeltroll's arms. She had been right; there was risk, too much risk.

Lindanen Dale had been a mistake.

"It is no hardship," Hyrgolf said, misunderstanding her hesitation. His talons brushed her fingertips.

"
No
!" Cerelinde shrank from his touch. She found the wall of the tunnel at her back and levered herself upright. "If I must walk," she said, summoning her dignity and gathering it around her, "I shall walk."

"Lady." Hyrgolf uttered a few words in the guttural Fjel tongue, and the others shook off their apparent torpor. The light of their torches receded as they began to trot down the tunnel at a steady pace. The other figure, beside the horse, stood unmoving. Hyrgolf gestured for her to precede him. "As you will."

The rocky floor of the tunnel was harsh beneath her feet, clad in the embroidered slippers of her wedding finery. As they passed the motionless figure with the pale hair, she glanced sidelong.

Ushahin the Misbegotten raised his head, his mismatched eyes glittering with unshed tears and hatred. His combined heritage was stamped on his face, as clearly as the marks of violence left by those who had sought to erase his existence.

"Ah, Haomane!" She breathed the word like a prayer, faltering.

"Come, Lady," Hyrgolf said low in his throat. His talons were on her arm, hurrying her past. "Leave the Dreamspinner to his grief."

She went without arguing.

Behind them, she heard the sound of hooves shuffling and stamping, a horse's snort. And then hoofbeats, following in their wake. When she dared glance behind once more, he was there, riding astride with the leather case in his lap. He stared hard at her, his twisted face a parody of Haomane's Children, of almost all she held dear.

And there were no more tears in his eyes, only hatred.

She was alone among the Sunderer's minions.

The Fjel were not swift, but they were steady and tireless. They spoke little, keeping to their pace, and the Misbegotten spoke not at all. Cerelinde walked among them for hours, feeling Ushahin's hatred at her back, as palpable as the heat of a blazing hearth. The tunnel sloped downward, and with each step she felt herself taken further from the surface, from Aracus and her kinfolk, from clean air and the light of Haomane's blessed, life-giving sun. The air within the tunnels was dank and close, growing ever more so the further they went. Only a handful of shafts pierced the stifling darkness, providing barely enough air to keep them alive, to keep the torches alight.

Within the first hour, they passed beneath the Aven River.

The sound, a deep, muffled rushing sound, announced it. The walls of the tunnel thrummed and groaned. Cerelinde started in terror even as the Fjel tramped onward, unperturbed.

"Peace, lass," Hyrgolf rumbled. "It is only the river above us."

"Above us?" Cerelinde echoed the words, feeling ill. The weight of all that water, rushing overhead, was incomprehensible. She knew the river well. Some leagues to the south, Meronil, the white city, sat on its banks.

"Aye, far above." Hyrgolf regarded her. "The Fjel know tunnels, lass. You're safe with us. You've no need to fear."

"Lass!" A despairing laugh escaped her. "Ah, Marshal! So you call me, and yet I have lived long enough for ten score of your generations to toil and die in the Sunderer's name. Have you any idea what it is you do here?"

He gave another shrug, as though her words glanced off his impervious hide. "As you will, Lady. Can you continue?"

"Yes," Cerelinde whispered.

Onward they tramped, and the sound of the Aven River grew louder and more terrifying, then faded and vanished. Cerelinde thought of Meronil, of her home, passing steadily beyond her reach, and fought against despair.

After many hours, they reached a vast, open cavern where Hyrgolf called a halt. Cerelinde stood on battered and aching feet, watching as his Fjel made camp, dispersing the supplies they bore. There were food and water, as well as bedrolls and fodder for horses. Others, it seemed, were anticipated. Only the Misbegotten took no part in the preparations, retreating to a dark alcove and crouching in misery, arms wrapped around the case he carried.

Cerelinde was too weary to care. Whatever ailed him, there was no room in her heart for compassion, save for those she had left behind. When Hyrgolf pointed to a hide tent his Fjel had erected for her, pounding tent-pegs into rock with sheer might, she crawled into it without a word, drawing the flap closed behind her. There she lay, staring open-eyed at the tent's peak, and reliving the bloody memories of Lindanen Dale.

Hours passed.

The hoofbeats, when they came, were weary and slow. Cerelinde lay tense and quiet, listening to the sounds of the camp. There was a Man's voice speaking in the common tongue, tired, yet filled with command. "How is she?"

"Quiet, Lord General," answered Hyrgolf's deep tone.

The voice spoke in Staccian, giving orders. For a moment, Cerelinde relaxed; then came the sound of booted feet drawing near her tent.

"Lady," the Man's voice said. "I bring you greetings from my Lord Satoris."

Her fingers trembled as she drew back the tent's flap. He averted his gaze as she emerged, allowing her to study him. The sight made her stomach clench. His was the face she had seen through the opening of a Pelmaran helm, bearing down upon her, a bloody sword in his fist.

Not until she stood did he meet her eyes, and she knew, then, that she had seen his likeness elsewhere, in the shadow of features worn by his distant kinsman. The dark hair was the same, falling over his brow; the stern mouth, the face, austere and handsome by the standards of Men. Only the eyes were different, weary with the knowledge of centuries beyond mortal telling.

Her voice shook. "
You
!"

"Lady." He bowed, correct and exacting. "I am General Tanaros of Darkhaven, and I mean you no harm."

"Harm!" Cerelinde passed her hands over her face, another wild laugh threatening to choke her. "O blessed Haomane, Arahila the Fair, what does such a word
mean
to you people? I know you, Tanaros Kingslayer, Banewreaker's Servant."

"So you name me." A muscle in his jaw twitched. "I did not choose such names, Lady. Is this how you return a greeting fairly given?"

"You cut down my guardsmen where they stood, sent one of Oronin's Hunters against my husband-to-be, unarmed in his wedding bower. How can you say you mean me no harm?" Anger set her words ablaze. "What happens to me matters naught, Kingslayer. I am resolved to die. But do not slay my kinsmen and tell me you mean no harm! In cold blood, unprovoked—"

Tanaros interrupted her. "Why did you agree to wed him?"

Cerelinde looked away, gazing past him, through the impenetrable cavern walls.

"Why?"

She flinched at his tone; the granddaughter of Elterrion the Bold. Yet there was steel in her—courage, and heart. Oh yes, Haomane's Children had heart. It had been Arahila's Gift to them, the only one Haomane had permitted. "You need to ask?" Her backbone rigid, she stood straight and tall. "There is valor in him, and a noble spirit. I am a woman,
Tanaros Kingslayer, Ellyl or no." Color flushed her cheekbones. "And there is naught in him a woman would not—"

He cut her short. "You sought to fulfill the Prophecy."

Cerelinde opened her mouth, then closed it.

Tanaros laughed, a dry sound. "You sought to fulfill the Prophecy. Make no mistake. It was an act of war."

"I seek to preserve the lives of my people, Tanaros Blacksword." Her grey eyes were somber. "Can you say the same?"

"Aye, I can and do. You are a pawn, Lady, in a war of Haomane First-Born's devising." He raked a hand through his hair; it was greasy, after days under a helm. "Who talked you into the wedding? Ingolin the Wise? Malthus the Counselor, Haomane's Servant and Weapon?" Tanaros gave a bitter smile at her expression. "See how their wisdom availed them! Well, now I have taken you, and you are Lord Satoris' pawn. At least he is honest about it. And as his emissary, I tell you this: He means you no harm."

"I have been abducted." Cerelinde's voice trembled, with anger and the effort of holding her fear at bay. "Abducted by force, brought here against my will, held captive by—" Catching sight of Ushahin huddled against the far wall, she pointed with a shaking finger. "By
creatures
, by Fjeltroll and that foul Misbegotten—"

"Enough!" Tanaros struck her hand down, a sharp, shocking blow.

Too close for comfort, they stared at one another.

"Your people abandoned Ushahin, Lady," Tanaros said to her. "Remember that. Such as he is, your own children would have been, had you wed Aracus Altorus."

"Never!" She flung the denial out in defiance, his words touching on her darkest fear. "They will be conceived in love, in accordance with Haomane's Prophecy." Cerelinde shook her head. "It is not the same, not the same at all. Why do you think we name him thusly? It is not for the mixing of the races. Ushahin the Misbegotten was conceived in lust, in base desire." She pronounced the words with distaste. "The Sunderer's
Gift
, not fair Arahila's."

Tanaros raised his brows. "Thus you hold him accountable for his birth?"

"Not his birth, but what he has made of the ill-conceived life he was given," Cerelinde said evenly. "And my folk gave him into the care of yours, Tanaros Kingslayer. We are not to blame for the cruelty wrought by the children of Men."

"No." He looked away from her, gazing at Ushahin. "And yet you were quicker to abandon him than the children of Men were to assail him. Only Oronin's Children rose above such pettiness. The Were took him in when none other would." His gaze returned to hers. "Leave him be. He lost more than any of us in Lindanen Dale."

She remembered the grey forms in their midst, Aracus engaged in combat. Her breath was quick and shallow. "The one who attacked my betrothed…"

"The Dreamspinner called her 'mother,'" Tanaros said quietly. "Remember that, when you condemn us in Haomane's name, Lady. You have my word as surety: No harm will come to you here."

Bowing stiffly, he took his leave.

Cerelinde watched him go. A part of her heart soared, for if his words were true, it meant that Aracus lived. As dire as her prospects appeared, while they both drew breath, hope must not be abandoned. Haomane's Prophecy might yet be fulfilled, and Satoris Banewreaker destroyed through his own folly.

And yet she was troubled.

Tanaros moved through the encampment, greeting the Fjel, checking on his injured Men, making his way to Ushahin's side. There he squatted on his heels, speaking in low tones, one hand on the Misbegotten's shoulder.

He was her enemy, one of the Three. He had killed his wife and slain his King. He was the servant of Satoris Banewreaker.

He was not at all what she had expected.

THE WHITE SLIVER OF THE new moon was bright enough to cast shadows.

The old man shook his head, watching the strangers stumble into the Stone Grove. Half dead, most of them, past caring that they entered a sacred place. One crumpled, unable to walk another step; another knelt beside her, breathing hard through his mouth. Foolish, wasting his breath's moisture in the desert, but what else were they to do with those tiny nostrils?