Banewreaker, Page 3

  Tanaros touched the cavern wall, bowing his head. “You were due leave.”

  “In two months’ time.” The sound of the whetstone never slowed. “That’s the luck, isn’t it? We always knew this day might come.”

  “Yes.” He looked back at the Fjeltroll. “How do your people tell it?”

  “The Prophecy?” Hyrgolf shook his massive head. “We don’t, General.”

  No, of course not. In the First Age of the Sundered World, when Satoris was sore wounded and at his weakest, when Haomane First-Born, the Lord-of-Thought, had called upon the Souma and brought the sun so near to earth it scorched the land and brought into being the Unknown Desert, the Fjeltroll had sheltered Satoris and pledged their loyalty to him. After his Counselors had been defeated, Haomane First-Born uttered his Prophecy into the ears of his allies. The Prophecy was not shared with the Fjel.

  Instead, it doomed them.

  “And yet you still honor Neheris,” Tanaros said, fingering the rhios in his pocket. “Who sided with Haomane, with the Six, against his Lordship. Why, Hyrgolf?”

  “It’s Shapers’ business,” Hyrgolf said simply, setting down his axe. “I don’t pretend to understand it. We made a pact with his Lordship and he has honored it, generation after generation. He never asked us to stop loving Neheris who Shaped us.”

  “No,” Tanaros said, remembering his Lord’s cry. Oh, Arahila! “He wouldn’t.”

  And he fingered the rhios in his pocket again, and longed for the simplicity of a Fjeltroll’s faith. It was not granted to Men, who had been given too many gifts to bear with ease. Oh, Arahila! Second-Born among Shapers, Arahila the Fair, Born-of-the-Heart. Would that you had made us less.

  “How do your people tell it?” Hyrgolf asked. “The Prophecy, that is.”

  Tanaros relinquished the rhios, his hands fisted in his pockets as he turned to face his field marshal. “In Altoria,” he said, and his voice was harsh, “when I was a boy, it was told thus. ‘When the unknown is made known, when the lost weapon is found, when the marrow-fire is quenched and Godslayer is freed, when a daughter of Elterrion weds a son of Altorus, when the Spear of Light is brought forth and the Helm of Shadows is broken, the Fjeltroll shall fall, the Were shall be defeated ere they rise, and the Sunderer shall be no more, the Souma shall be restored and the Sundered World made whole and Haomane’s Children shall endure.’”

  It grieved him to say it, as if the Fjeltroll might hold him in some way responsible. After all, if he had killed the babe … if he had killed the babe. The House of Altorus would have ended, then, and there would have been no Prophecy.

  Blue eyes, milky and wondering. Red-gold hair plastered to a damp skull.

  He hadn’t been able to do it. The babe, the child of his cuckolded marriage bed, had succeeded Roscus in the House of Altorus.

  “Aye,” Hyrgolf said, nodding. “That’s as I heard it. The Sundered World made whole, but the cost of it our lives. Well, then, that’s only a piece of it, this wedding. There’s a good deal more needs happen before the Prophecy is fulfilled, and who knows what the half of it means?”

  “His Lordship knows,” Tanaros said. “And Malthus.”

  Their eyes met, then; Man and Fjel, hearing a common enemy named.

  “Malthus,” Hyrgolf rumbled, deep in his chest. The Wise Counselor, Wielder of the Soumanië, last of three, last and greatest of Haomane’s Shapings. “Well, there is Malthus, General, I don’t deny you that. But he is only one, now, and we have among us the Three.”

  Tanaros, Vorax, Ushahin.

  “Pray that we are enough,” Tanaros said.

  “That I do, General,” said the Fjeltroll. “That I do.”

  Tanaros Blacksword, Commander General of the Army of Darkhaven, walked alone to his quarters, a stone the size of an egg in his pocket.

  From time to time, he touched it for reassurance.

  ELSEWHERE IN THE LAND OF Urulat, flames burnt low and dwindled in their lamps in the archives of Meronil, housed in the Hall of Ingolin, where an elderly figure in scholar’s robes bent over a hide-bound tome, muttering. The lamplight caught in his grey, tangled beard, cast shadows in the deep lines of his face, marking them in contrast to the splendid treasures that gleamed about him, housed in the archives for safekeeping.

  Footsteps, slow and measured, quiet on the elegant carpets.

  “Old friend,” said Ingolin, the last Lord of the Ellylon. “You should rest.”

  The head lifted, sharp nose pointing, eyes fierce under heavy brows. “You know why I do not.”

  “It is a day for rejoicing, old friend,” the Ellyl reminded him.

  Malthus the Counselor laughed without mirth. “Can you tell me how to quench the marrow-fire, Ingolin the Wise? Can you render the unknown known?”

  “You know I cannot.” There was calm acceptance in the Ellyl’s reply. In the manner of his people he had lived a long time, and knew the limits of his own knowledge. “Still, Cerelinde has unbent at long last, and Aracus Altorus has bowed his House’s ancient pride. Love, it seems, has found them. A piece of the Prophecy shall be fulfilled, and the Rivenlost endure. May we not rejoice in it?”

  “It is not enough.”

  “No.” Ingolin glanced unthinking to the west, where Dergail’s Soumanië had arisen. “Old friend,” he asked, and his voice trembled for the first time in centuries. “Do you hold the answers to these questions you ask?”

  “I might,” Malthus the Counselor said slowly, and pinched the bridge of his nose, fixing the Lord of the Ellylon with a hawk’s stare. “I might. But the way will be long and difficult, and there are many things of which I am unsure.”

  Ingolin spread his hands. “The aid of the Rivenlost is yours, Malthus. Only tell us how we might serve.”

  “You can’t, old friend,” said Malthus the Counselor. “That’s the problem.”

  IN ANOTHER WING OF THE Hall of Ingolin, a fire burned low in the great hearth. Cerelinde, the granddaughter of Elterrion, gazed at it with unseeing eyes and thought about the deed to which she had committed herself this day.

  She was the Lady of the Ellylon, the last scion of the House of Elterrion. By the reckoning of her people, she was young, born after the Sundering of the world, after the grieving Ellylon had taken the name Rivenlost unto themselves. Her mother had been Erilonde, daughter of Elterrion the Bold, Lord of the Ellylon, and she had died in childbirth. Her father had been Celendril of the House of Numireth the Fleet, and he had fallen in battle against Satoris Banewreaker in the Fourth Age of the Sundered World.

  If the courage of Men had not faltered that day, her father might have lived. Haomane’s Allies might have triumphed that day, and the world been made whole.

  She had never known the glory of the Souma and Haomane’s presence, only the deep, enduring ache of their absence.

  That bitter knowledge had dwelled in her while generations were born and died, for, by the reckoning of Men, she was timeless. She had watched, century upon century, the proud Kings of Altoria; Altorus’ sons, as they grew to manhood and took their thrones, made love and war and boasts, withered and died. She had watched as they disdained their ancient friendship with the Ellylon, watched as Satoris Banewreaker calculated his vengeance and shattered their kingdom. She had stopped watching, then, as the remnants of a once-mighty dynasty dwindled into the Borderguard of Curonan.

  Then Aracus had come; Aracus Altorus, who had been tutored by Malthus the Counselor since he was a lad. Like her, he was the last of his line.

  And he was different from those who had come before him.

  She had known it the moment she laid eyes upon him. Unlike the others, the Kings of Altoria in all their glory, Aracus was aware of the brevity of his allotted time; had measured it against the scope of the Sunderer’s plan and determined to spend it to the greatest effect. She had seen it in his face, in the wide-set, demanding gaze.

  He understood the price both of them would have to pay.

  And something in her had … quickened.


  In the hall outside the hearth chamber she heard the sound of his bootheels striking the white marble floors, echoing louder than any Ellyl’s tread. She heard the quiet murmur of words exchanged with Lord Ingolin’s guards. And then he was there, standing before the hearth, the scent of horses and leather and night air clinging to his dun-grey cloak. He had ridden hard to return to her side. His voice, when he spoke, was hoarse with weariness.

  “Cerelinde.”

  “Aracus.”

  She stood to greet him. He was tall for a Man and their eyes were on a level. She searched his face. In the dim firelight, it was strange to see the glint of red-gold stubble on his chin. He was Arahila’s Child, and not of her kind.

  “Is it done?” she asked.

  “Aye,” he said. “The Borderguard carry word of our betrothal.”

  Cerelinde looked away. “How long before it reaches the Sunderer’s ears?”

  “It has done so.” He took her hand. “Cerelinde,” he said. “The Sunderer flaunts his defiance. The red star of war has risen. I saw it as I rode.”

  Her fingers trembled in his grasp. “So quickly!”

  His voice grew softer. “You know what is said, my lady. One of the Three stalks the dreams of mortal Men.”

  “The Misbegotten.” Cerelinde shuddered.

  Aracus nodded. “Aye.”

  Cerelinde gazed at their joined hands. His fingers were warm and calloused, rough against her soft skin. It seemed she could feel his lifeblood pulse through them, urgent and mortal, calling to her. She tried not to think of Ushahin the Misbegotten, and failed.

  “Our children …” she murmured.

  “No!” Aracus breathed the word, quick and fierce. His grip tightened, almost painful. Lifting her head, she met his eyes. “They will not be like that one,” he said. “Wrenched forth from violence and hatred, cast out and warped. We honor the Prophecy. Our children will be conceived in love, in accordance with Haomane’s will, and Arahila’s.”

  She laid her free hand upon his chest. “Love.”

  “Aye, lady.” He covered her hand with his own, gazing at her. “Never less. I swear it to you. Though my heart beats to a swift and mortal tune, it beats true. And until I die, it lies in your keeping.”

  “Ah, Aracus!” His name caught in her throat. “We have so little time!”

  “I know,” he murmured. “All too well, I know.”

  ELSEWHERE ON URULAT, NIGHT CREPT westward.

  Slowly, it progressed, a gilt edge fading to the blue of twilight, drawing a cloak of darkness behind it. Where it passed—over the fields and orchards of Vedasia, over the dank marshes of the Delta, over Harrington Inlet, across the Unknown Desert and Staccia and Seahold and Curonan—the stars emerged in its wake.

  It came to the high mountains of Pelmar, where a woman stood on the steep edge of a cavern, and a gem bound in a circlet at her brow shone like the red star that flickered low, low on the far western horizon.

  Her name was Lilias, though Men and Ellylon called her the Sorceress of the East. She had been a mortal woman, once; the daughter of a wealthy Pelmaran earl. The east was the land of Oronin Last-Born, in whose train death rode, and his lingering touch lay on those Men, Arahila’s Children, who settled in Pelmar as their ever-increasing numbers covered the earth. It was said those of noble birth could hear Oronin’s Horn summon them to their deaths.

  Lilias feared death. She had seen it, once, in the eyes of a young man to whom her father would have betrothed her. He was a duke’s son, well made and gently spoken, but she had seen in his eyes the inevitability of her fate, old age and generations of children yet unborn, and she had heard the echo of Oronin’s Horn. Such was the lot of Arahila’s Children, and the mighty Chain of Being held her fast in its inescapable grip.

  And so she had fled into the mountains. Up, she went, higher than any of her brothers had ever dared climb, scaling the height of Beshtanag Mountain and hiding herself in its caverns. It was there that she had encountered the dragon.

  His name was Calandor, and he was immortal after his kind. If he had hungered, he might have swallowed her whole, but since he did not, he asked her instead why she wept.

  Weeping, she told him.

  Twin jets of smoke had risen from his nostrils, for such was the laughter of dragons. And it was there that he gave a great treasure into her keeping: One of the lost Soumanië, Ardrath’s gem that had been missing for many centuries. It had been plucked from the battlefield by a simple soldier who thought it a mere ruby. From thence its trail was lost until it ended in the hoard of a dragon, who made it a gift to a mortal woman who did not wish to die.

  Such was the caprice of dragons, whose knowledge was vast and unfathomable. Calandor taught her many things, the first of which was how to use the Soumanië to stretch the Chain of Being, keeping mortality at bay.

  She was no longer afraid.

  It had been a long time ago. Lilias’ family was long dead, her lineage forgotten. She was the Sorceress of the East and possessed great power, which she used with neither great wisdom nor folly. She allowed Oronin’s Children, the Were, to hunt freely in the forests of Beshtanag, though elsewhere they were reviled for aiding Satoris the Sunderer in the last great war. The regents of Pelmar feared her and left her in peace, which was her sole desire.

  And, until now, the Six Shapers had done the same.

  Lilias regarded the red star on the horizon and felt uneasiness stir in her soul for the first time in many centuries. Dergail’s Soumanië had risen, and change was afoot. Behind her in the mammoth darkness a vast shadow loomed.

  “What does it mean, Calandor?” she asked in a low voice.

  “Trouble.” The word emerged in a sulfurous breath, half lost in the heights of the vaulted cavern. Unafraid, she laid one hand on the taloned foot nearest her. The rough scales were warm to the touch; massive claws gleaming like hematite, gouging the stone floor. On either side, forelegs as vast and sturdy as columns. Somewhere above and behind her head, she could hear the dragon’s heart beating, slow and steady like the pulse of the earth.

  “For whom?”

  “Usssss.” High above, Calandor bent his sinuous neck to answer, the heat of his exhalation brushing her check. “Uss, Liliasss.” And there was sorrow, and regret, in the dragon’s voice.

  I will not be afraid, Lilias told herself. I will not be afraid!

  She touched the Soumanië, the red gem bound at her brow, and gazed westward, where its twin flickered on the horizon. “What shall we do, Calandor?”

  “Wait,” the dragon said, laying his thoughts open to her. “We wait, Liliasss.”

  And in that moment, she knew, knowledge a daughter of Men was never meant to bear. The sorceress Lilias shook with knowledge. “Oh, Calandor!” she cried, turning and hiding her face against the plate-armor of the dragon’s breast, warm as burnished bronze. “Calandor!”

  “All things must be as they are, little sister,” said the dragon. “All thingsss.”

  And the red star flickered in the west.

  TWO

  TENS OF THOUSANDS OF FJELTROLL awaited his command.

  It was the first full assembly since the troops had been recalled, and there were seasoned veterans and raw recruits alike in their ranks. All of them had labored hard through the winter at the drills he had ordered, day in and day out, put to the test this spring afternoon.

  Whatever reservations he had, Tanaros’ heart swelled to behold them. So many! How long had it been since so many had assembled under his Lord’s command? Since the fall of Altoria, centuries ago, when he had led a vast army across the plains of Curonan, breaking the rule of the House of Altorus forevermore in the southwest of Urulat, establishing the plains as no-man’s-land. If they could not hold it, neither would they cede it to the Enemy.

  Who threatened them once again.

  “Hear me!” he shouted, letting his voice echo from the hillsides. “A red star has risen in the west! Our Enemy threatens war! Shall they find us r
eady, my brothers?”

  A roar answered, and his mount danced sideways beneath him; black as pitch, a prince among stallions, frothing at the bit. The strong neck arched, hide sleek with sweat. At his side, Vorax chuckled deep in his chest, sitting comfortably in his deep-cantled saddle. Unlike Tanaros in his unadorned field armor, the Staccian wore full dress regalia, his gilded armor resplendent as a lesser sun beneath the heavy clouds.

  “Steady,” Tanaros murmured to his mount, shortening the reins. “Steady.” A breed apart, the horses of Darkhaven. The stallion calmed, and he raised his voice again. “Let us do, then, what we do, my brothers! Marshal Hyrgolf, on my orders!” And so saying, he gave the commands in common parlance. “Center, hold! Defensive formation! Left flank, advance and sweep! Right flank, wheel! Attack the rear!”

  Under a sullen sky, his orders were enacted. In the center, bannermen waved frantically, conveying his commands to the outer battalions, even as Hyrgolf roared orders, repeating them in common and in the rough tongue of the Fjeltroll, taken up and echoed by his lieutenants. The chain of command, clear-cut and effective.

  The central mass of the army swung into a defensive formation, a mighty square bristling with pikes and cudgels. The left flank strung itself out in a line, spears raised. There, to the right, the third unit swung away, retreating and regrouping, forming a wedge that drove into the rear of the central square, shouting Staccians at the fore. In his own tongue, Vorax exhorted his kinsmen with good-natured cries.

  Mock battle raged, with wooden swords and cork-tipped spears, and the hills resounded with the clash of armor and grunting effort, and the terrifying roars of the Fjel. Tanaros rode the length of the battle-lines, back and forth, approving of what he saw.

  There, he thought, the cavalry would go when they had them, augmenting the left flank; two units of Rukhari, the swift nomads who dwelt on the eastern outskirts of the desert. Long ago, when Men had begun to disperse across the face of Urulat, the Rukhari conceived a love of wandering and disdained the notion of settling in one place. As a result, other Men viewed them with distrust.