Banewreaker (30 page)

They surged into the Chamber of the Marasoumië—Fjel, thousand upon thousand of them, stumbling and disoriented, filled with battle-fury and helpless terror. Elsewhere, a struggle continued and he felt the Ways flex and twist under a Soumanië's influence. Malthus remained at large. It didn't matter, that. Only this, only securing the retreat for the tens of thousands of Fjel. Node-points flickered out of his control, slipping from his grasp. It didn't matter. He was the anchor. Wrestling with the portal, he held it open, seeing through the Helm's eyes the fearful incomprehension of the Fjel. So many! It had been easier with Ushahin anchoring the other end.

On and on it went, Fjel streaming past him, until he saw the last, the hulking Tungskulder who was Tanaros' field marshal, who had brought them home to Darkhaven intact. And in Hyrgolf's countenance lay not incomprehension, but a commander's sorrowful understanding of defeat. No Fjel tramped behind him. He was the last.

With relief, Vorax relinquished the last vestiges of his hold and let the Way close. His thick fingers shook with exhaustion as he lifted the Helm from his head, feeling it like an ache between his palms. He needed sleep, needed sustenance—needed to pour an ocean of ale down his gullet, to cram himself full of roasted fowl, slabs of mutton, crackling pork, of handfuls of bread torn from the loaf and stuffed into his mouth, of glazed carrots and sweet crisp peas, of baked tubers and honeyed pastries, of puddings and confits and pears, of anything that would fill the terrible void inside him where Satoris' cry still echoed.

"Marshal Hyrgolf." Was that his voice, that frail husk? He cleared his throat, making the sound resonate in the depths of his barrel chest. "Report."

"We failed," the Fjel rumbled. "Malthus closed the Way."

Vorax nodded. It was what he had known, no more and no less. He wished there was someone else to bear the details of it to Lord Satoris. "And General Tanaros?"

The Fjeltroll shook his massive head. "He stayed to safeguard our retreat from the Counselor. Neheris spare him and grant him a safe path homeward."

Ah, cousin! Vorax spared a pitying thought for him, and another for himself. He was weary to the bone, and starved lean. Sustenance and bed, bed and sustenance. But there would be no rest for him, not this day. Lord Satoris would demand a full accounting, and he was owed it; pray that he did not lash out in rage. Their plans were in ruins, the Three had been riven. Malthus seizing control of the Marasoumië, and
Tanaros lost in the Ways, with no telling whether either lived or died, and the Dreamspinner stranded in Rukhar. A vile day, this, and vilest of all for the Sorceress of the East. Beshtanag would pay the price of this day's failure.

At least the army had survived it intact, and there had been no Staccian lives at stake. He ran a practiced eye over the milling ranks of Fjel and frowned, remembering how the army had scattered like windblown leaves throughout the Ways, how he had tried to gather them all.

Something was wrong.

Vorax's frown deepened. "Where's the Midlander?"

"WHERE ARE WE?" THERE HAD been a cavern, and an old man with a staff; a terrified crush of flesh. That was when the world had gone away, carried by the General's shouting voice. He remembered the rushing force, the terrible sense of dislocation, and then the fearsome impact. Blinded by the throbbing Marasoumië, jostled and swept away, thrown down and unhorsed, Speros of Haimhault had landed… somewhere. He found his feet and staggered, flinging out both arms, hearing his own voice rise in sharp demand. "
Where are we
?"

"Underearth, boss," a Fjel voice rumbled.

There was an arm thrust beneath his own, offering support. Speros grabbed at it, feeling it rocklike beneath bristling hide, as he swayed on his feet. "Where?"

"Don't know."

"Where's the General?"

"Don't know!"

"All right, be quiet." Speros squinted, trying to clear his gaze. They were in a vast space. He could tell that much by the echoes of their voices. Somewhere, water was dripping. Drop by drop, slow and steady, heavy as a falling stone. The mere scent of it made him ache to taste it. "How deep?"

There was a shuffling of horny feet. "Deep," one of the Fjel offered.

It was a pool. Blinking hard, he could see it. A pool of water, deep below the earth. And above it—oh, so far above it!—was open sky. It must be, for there was blue reflected in its depths. Kneeling over it, he made out a dim reflection of his own face; pale, with dilated eyes. "Water," he murmured, dipping a cupped hand into the pool.

The water didn't even ripple. As if he had grasped an ingot of solid lead, his weighted hand sank, tipping him forward. He gasped, his lips breaking the surface of that unnatural water, and he understood death had found him all unlooked-for. How stupid, he thought, trying in vain to draw back from the pool.

One breath and his lungs would fill.

A wet death on dry land.

Then, pressure; a coarse, taloned hand tangled in his hair, yanking his head back and away from the deadly pool. He came up sputtering, his neck wrenched, mouth heavy with water.

"Careful, boss."

They were Gulnagel Fjel; lowlanders, the swift runners, with their grey-brown hides, lean haunches and yellowing talons. They could take down a deer at a dead run. leaping from hill to hill. There were four, and they watched him. Having saved his life, they waited for guidance. Among the races of Lesser Shapers, only Men and Ellylon had received Haomane's Gift, the gift of thought. Speros crouched by the pool, fervently wiping his numb lips, careful to make sure that not a single drop got into his mouth. Thirsting or not, what it might do inside him, he didn't dare guess. One thing was sure, he wouldn't touch that water again.

"All right." He stared at the reflected blue in its depths, then craned his head, squinting. It hurt to look at the sky, even a tiny disk of it. The shaft stretched above him to dizzying heights, and at the top of it lay open skies and freedom. "Up. We need to go up."

It was a despairing thought, here at the bottom of the world. To his surprise, one of the Gulnagel grinned and flexed his yellow talons.

"Not a problem, boss," he said cheerfully. "Up it is."

EVERYWHERE.

Nowhere.

It was dark where he was, and he was not dead. At least he didn't think so. In the darkness, Tanaros flexed his hands. He had hands; he felt them. The fingers of his right hand closed around something hard.

A sword-hilt, he thought.

And, I am lost in the Marasoumië.

What happened to people who got lost in the Ways? Sometimes the
Ways spat them out, in some unknowable location, deep beneath the earth. Sometimes the Ways did not. And then they died, of course.

Unless they were immortal.

It was Malthus' doing, may he be cursed with the same fate. In the darkness, Tanaros gave a bitter smile. It had been a near thing at the end. He had hesitated when he saw the boy. He shouldn't have done that. It had given the Counselor time, an instant's time to invoke the Marasoumië's power and send them hurtling away, the boy and his protector, flinging them desperately across the warp and weft of the Ways, enfolded in his enchantments.

A pity, that. But it was all, nearly all, the old wizard had left in him. Tanaros
had
struck, then; had let the rage course through his veins, had swung his sword with all his might at his enemy's neck. Ah, it had felt good! The black blade had bitten deep into the wood of the wizard's staff when Malthus had parried; bitten deep and stuck fast in the spell-bound wood.

He had welcomed the struggle, moving in close to see the fear in the other's eyes, wondering, do you bleed, old one? Of what did Haomane Shape you? Do you breathe, does the blood course warm in your veins? Haomane's Weapon, with my blade so near your throat, do you understand the fragility of your flesh?

And then the Soumanië had flashed, one last time.

The Counselor, it seemed, did not welcome death.

It had cast them both into the oblivion of the Ways. That was his consolation. He had felt it, sensed Malthus spinning adrift, unrooted. Tanaros flexed his hand again, feeling the sword-hilt against his palm, and thought, I am not ready to die either.

There was light, somewhere; a ruddy light, pulsing. So it must seem to a babe in the womb, afloat in blood and darkness. He remembered a birth, his son's birth; the babe he thought his son. How Calista had cried aloud in her travail, her hands closing on his with crushing force as she had expelled the child.

He had been proud, then, terrified and proud. Awe. That was the word. It had filled him with awe, that she would endure this thing; that she could produce such a thing from the depths of her mortal flesh. Life, new life. An infant wholly formed, perfect in every detail, thrust squalling into the light of day. He had cradled the babe, cupping the still-soft skull in his hands, his capable hands, marveling at the shrunken face, the closed eyes. There had been no telling, then, that the eyes behind those rounded lids were blue, blue as a cloudless sky. No telling that the downy hair plastered slick and dark with birthing was the color of ruddy gold.

Oh, my son!

In the darkness, Tanaros groaned. It bit deep, the old betrayal, as deep as his black blade. He remembered the first time he had seen Calista. She had graced Roscus' court with her fresh-faced beauty, her sparkling wit. Their courtship had been filled with passionate banter. Who now would believe Tanaros Blacksword capable of such a thing? Yet he had been, once. He had shouted for joy the day she accepted his marriage proposal. And he had loved her with all the ardor in his heart; as a lover, as a husband, as the father of the child she bore. How had she dared to look at him so? Hollow-eyed and weary, with that deep contentment. Her head on the pillow, the hair arrayed about her shoulders, watching him hold another man's babe.

Once, he had been born again in hatred.

Why not twice?

A node-point was near, very near. Such was the light he perceived behind his lids, the beating red light. His circumscribed heart thumped, responding to its erratic pulse. If he could reach it… one, just one. If he could birth himself into the Marasoumië, he would be alive in the world. And where there was one, there was another, in a trail that led him all the way to Darkhaven.

Home.

Tanaros
reached
.

BESHTANAC ENDURED, HALF-STARVED AND weary.

From her balcony, Lilias watched her enemies, wondering if they knew. Would it matter? Would they act differently? She thought not. They had never known it for a trap. They went about the siege as they had begun it, with determined patience. By late afternoon the skies had cleared, though rain still dripped from the pines. Here and there Aracus Altorus strode, a tiny figure, recognizable by his hair. He wasted no time, ordering construction to begin anew on their siege-engines.

Three days.

That was how long they would have had to wait, if Darkhaven's army had arrived at Jakar as planned. Even now, the Fjeltroll would be on the march, trampling the undergrowth beneath their broad feet, commanded by General Tanaros.

Only they were not coming, would never arrive. Lilias knew. She had gone, alone, to the cavern of the Marasoumië, deep beneath Beshtanag. Had gone and stood, wondering if she dared to flee. The node-lights flickered erratically. Something was wrong, very wrong, in the Ways.

Probing, she had found it. There were not one, but two souls trapped within the Marasoumië; no mere mortals, but beings of power, under whose influence the Ways buckled and flexed. One bore a power equal to her own, a very Soumanië, and only the complete exhaustion of his energies kept him from wielding it. The other was one of the Branded, and the mark of Godslayer and a Shaper's power upon his flesh kept the Marasoumië from devouring him entire. For the rest, it was sheer stubbornness that kept him alive, forcing the Ways to bend to his will.

Either way, it was unsafe to enter.

She had stared at the node-point for a long time. Once, she might have dared it, when she was young enough to be fearless in her abilities. Not now, when she had spent so much of herself, pouring it into the stone and wood of this place. In the end, did it matter? Beshtanag was her home. She didn't know where she would go if she fled it.

So she had stayed.

A hunting-party emerged from the fringe of the forest, whooping in triumph. They carried long poles over their shoulders, a pair of deer between them. Regent Martinek's men, clad in his leather armor overlaid with steel rings. Lilias ground her teeth. Already, they had scoured her smallholders' estates, laying claim to their flocks. Where the armies of Men were camped, the ground was strewn with mutton-bones. Now, they took the bounty of the forest itself while her people went hungry.

"My lady."

It was Gergon, his helmet under his arm. He looked unspeakably tired.

"Ward Commander." Lilias made room for him upon the balcony. "What is it?"

"It is said…" He paused, surveying Haomane's Allies. In the waning sunlight, the Ellyl herald was stepping forth to give his third utterance of the day, demanding in a clarion voice the surrender of the Lady Cerelinde. Gergon met her gaze, his features blunt and honest. "You were heard, in the reception hall, where you took ill, my lady. It is said Darkhaven's army is not coming. Is it true?"

Lilias did not answer, watching the Ellyl herald. How could armor shine thusly? It flamed in the slanted rays of sunlight as he turned on his heel, marching back to rejoin the Rivenlost. They held themselves apart from the armies of Men, from the Pelmaran encampment and their feast of bones. Only Aracus Altorus strode between them, stitching together their alliance, Haomane's Children and Arahila's, keeping them united for the sake of the woman he loved; the woman he believed she held captive.

"Is it true?" Gergon's voice was soft and insistent.

What folly, what amazing folly! To think that they had come so far and fought so hard for naught. "No," she said. "It is a lie."

Her Ward Commander gave a sigh from the depths of his being. "Shapers be blessed! Where are they, my lady? How long will it be?"

She met his eyes unflinching. "Three days. They travel from Jakar."

Gergon gave a grim nod and bowed to her. "Then we will hold."

"Good." Lilias bit her lip and swallowed hard. The lie, spoken, seemed to lodge in her throat. And yet what else was there to do? Haomane's Allies might grant merciful terms if she surrendered, but they would take no pity on her. Beshtanag would be dismantled, the Soumanië stripped from her. And Calandor… they would slay him if they could. She wanted to weep; for herself, for Gergon, for all of Beshtanag. But it would not do to let Gergon see her weak. Gathering her skirts, Lilias brushed past him. "Carry on, commander."

In her quarters, Sarika startled to her feet, but she shook her head at the girl. Let her get some rest. All her people were hollow-eyed for lack of sleep and hunger. Haomane's Allies had come early; the siege had already endured longer than anticipated. Unattended, Lilias made her way through the fortress, the lie churning in her belly. It would give them hope, for a little while. How long, she could not say.

Her feet trod a familiar path along the stone hallways of Beshtanag, taking her to the tiny egress hidden at the rear of the fortress. For once, it was unguarded; every man who could be spared was on the siege-lines. This too did not matter. No one went this way save her except under duress. Lilias slipped through the door and started up the winding path, heedful of sharp rocks beneath her slippers. After the claustrophobic atmosphere of the fortress, it was good to be outdoors.

The mountain stretched down below her, ringed around with the great wall she had raised. She allowed herself a moment to contemplate it with satisfaction. Even viewed from above, it was a formidable obstacle and, for all their numbers, Haomane's Allies had not breached it yet.

They were trying, though. There, on the eastern side, a group of Altorus' Borderguardsmen had built a roaring fire, seeking to weaken the bindings that held the granite together. Lilias paused, frowning down at them. Tiny figures clustered around a mighty log, a battering ram with its prow sheathed in bronze. Closing her eyes, she probed the section of wall they assailed.

There… yes, there. A breach-point, where the smooth stone, annealed by fire, threatened to crack, remembering the composite rocks from which it had been rendered. Faint lines showed on its surface. Drawing on the Soumanië, she Shaped it, restoring it to a seamless whole.

The effort left her weak.

It didn't matter. At the top of the mountain, Calandor was waiting. Gorse bushes caught at her skirts, dragging her back. Lilias tore free, forcing her way upward. Step by weary step, she made her way to the crest of Beshtanag Mountain. When she reached the mouth of the cavern, she was breathless.

He was there, waiting.

"You knew," she panted, the tears coming unbidden. "You
knew
!"

For a long time, the dragon was silent; then he moved, one clawed foot scraping the cavern floor as his mighty head lowered until one green-gold eye was level with hers. "No, Liliasss." A deep voice, laden with sorrow and sulfur fumes. "Only what mussst be. Not when, nor how."

"Why?" Her voice cracked. "
Why
?"

He let her strike him then, her soft fists thudding against his bronze-plated cheeks and jaw. His sinuous neck bent to gather her in a protective coil. "All things musst be as they mussst, little sssisster," Calandor murmured, his voice rumbling in his furnace-chest beneath her ear. "All things."

Defeated, she slumped against him. "Must it be
now
?"

The dragon moved, his vanes stirring. "Is it your wish that I carry you, Liliasss? Far away? To Sstaccia, with itss ice and sssnow?"

Uncertain, she drew back. "Is there such a place, where no one could find us?"

"Yesss." The dragon's eyes glowed with regret. "And no. For a time, Liliasss. Only that. In the end, they will always find usss. Is it your wish?"

Walking away, she stood with her back to him, gazing down the mountain. There were dozens of campfires burning at its base. The evening breeze carried the faint strains of revelry and shouting. Inside the wall, Gergon's warders paced the perimeter, or hunkered around braziers and gnawed half-rations, keeping a watchful eye out for assaults. How many, she wondered, would live to see the end of this? They were her people. For generation upon generation, Lilias had bound them to her service. Her actions had brought this fate upon them. It was too late to undo what was done, and yet, if she could do nothing else, at least she would not abandon them.

She would stand or fall with Beshtanag.

It was not much, but it was all she had to offer.

"No,"' she said. "I will stay."

EVEN FOR THE GULNAGEL, IT was difficult.

Throughout the day, Speros watched them with wide-eyed astonishment. Fjel were meant to delve, not to climb.

Still, they managed it. They worked in shifts, shucking the straps of leather armor that held their weapons. One would crouch low beside the pool, bending his back to make a broad surface, boosting up his fellow. And up the other would go, plunging his yellowed talons into the smooth surface of the rocky cistern, forging hand- and footholds by dint of brute strength, stone giving way beneath their blows.

None of them could last more than a few minutes, that was the problem. Their own body weight was too great, threatening to crack their talons the longer they hung suspended. It was Speros who got them to form the base of a pyramid around the pool, arms outstretched to catch their fellows as they made the precarious descent. And they did it. Working without complaint, hour upon hour, they scaled the cistern.

Foot by torturous foot, the Gulnagel forged a ladder.

"Oof!" The last volunteer descended, helped onto solid ground amid the jests of his companions. He rested his hands on his bulging thighs, fighting to catch his breath. "Reckon that's about done it, boss," he said cheerfully, regaining his voice. "Few feet from the lip, any mind. You want to go on up?"

Grabbing a handy shoulder, Speros leaned over the deadly pool and craned his neck, gazing upward. Faint stars twinkled in the distant circle of sky, emerging on a background of twilight. "What's up top?"

Exchanging glances, the Gulnagel shrugged.

"Hot," one said helpfully. "Gets hotter the higher you go."

"Nothing living, don't think," another added. "Quiet, if it is."

"All right." Speros gnawed at thumbnail, thinking. The Gulnagel waited patiently and watched him. In General Tanaros' absence, he was their commander; he was one of Arahila's Children, endowed with Haomane's Gift. A piece of irony, that. He'd been raised on tales of Fjel horrors. In Haimhault, parents threatened to feed misbehaving children to the Fjeltroll; at least his own Ma had done, often enough. Now here he was, with four Fjel patiently awaiting his orders. Well, he'd cast his lot, and he had to live with it. Still, it wasn't so bad, was it? Few mortal men could say they'd had Fjeltroll jump at their command. "Yes, let's try it. Better by night than by day, when we'd be sitting targets emerging. Odrald, will you take the lead?"

"Aye, boss!" The smallest of the Fjel saluted him.

"Good." Speros flexed his muscles, anticipating the climb. "You, give me a boost. The rest of you, follow me."

HE DID NOT SPEAK AFTER he summoned her, not for a long time.

Cerelinde sat in the chair he provided, staring with a fixed gaze at the throbbing image of Godslayer. How could something immersed in the marrow-fire itself retain such a crimson glow? It seemed impossible.

He stalked the outskirts of the chamber.

He was angry; no, he was furious. She felt it on her skin, tasted it in her mouth. A prickling like needles, like an impending storm. A taste of copper, only
sweet
.

"You know what has happened." His voice was a husk, but resonant.

"No." She shook her head, willing her denial to be true. It was true, for the most part. A plan had been made; a plan had failed. That much she knew, and no more. The Fjeltroll had returned. And when she spoke of Tanaros, her maidservant Meara had wailed and fled the room. "I know nothing, Lord Satoris."

"Malthus was waiting!"

Unseen rafters rattled at the Shaper's raised voice. Cerelinde winced, and laced her hands together. The light of the marrow-fire cast her raised knuckles in sharp shadow. "Does his Lordship hold me to blame?"

There was a sigh then.

It came from every corner of the room, and it came from him;
him
. And he was before her, then, stooping as a thundercloud might stoop, humbling himself in front of her. The swell of his shoulders blotted out the marrow-fire. His eyes, crimson as Godslayer's beating heart. "No, Cerelinde. I do not blame the blameless. That is my Elder Brother's job."

She shrank back as far as the chair would allow. At close range, the odor was overwhelming; a sweet charnel reek, burned flesh and an undertone of rotting vegetation. It stirred terror in her; mindless terror, and something else, a dark and awful quickening. Trapped and fearful, she lashed out with words. "Your jealousy speaks, Sundered What do you
want
of me?"

The Shaper laughed.

It was a hollow sound, filled with bitterness and despair. He bent his head, mighty hands lifting to cover his face. A Shaper's hands, immaculately articulated, for all they were burned black as pitch by Haomane's Wrath. His fingertips dug into the flesh of his brow, pitting the blackened skin.

Somehow, that was the most terrible thing of all.

"
Want
?" His head snapped upright, crimson eyes glaring between his fingers. "Oh, I
want
, Haomane's Child! I want my innocence back, and the happy, happy ignorance that has served your race for so long! I want my Gift back! I want to see my sister Arahila's smile! I want to see my brother Haomane grovel, and his Wise Counselor's head on a pike!"

"I didn't—" she breathed.

"
Who are you to ask me what I want
?"

The Shaper's words ricocheted and echoed in the cavern. The marrow-fire surged in answer, a fierce blue-white light, casting shadows knife-edged and blinding. Cerelinde held herself taut, frozen with terror, fighting the awful tendrils of pity that probed at her heart. "Forgive me," she said softly. "My Lord Satoris."