Banewreaker

  Tanaros thundered past, ignoring them.

  There … there.

  Before the bower, wrought with Ellylon craftsmanship, enwrapped with flowers—there. A man, bare-headed, danced with death in a bridegroom’s finery, and the sunlight gleamed on his red-gold hair and the naked steel of his blade. A grey, shadowy figure lunged at his throat, teeth snapping in a hunger that had honed itself for centuries. Around and around they went in a deadly pavane. After a thousand years, the Grey Dam of the Were sought to avenge the deaths of her mate and cubs. And all around them, the Altorians stood in a ring, the Borderguard of Curonan, holding their blades for fear of striking awry, shouting fierce encouragement to their king-in-exile, so grievously assaulted on his wedding day.

  Not there. No.

  To the left, where an Ellyl woman stood, clad in bridal silks. There was fear in her face, and pride. Oh yes, Haomane knew, there was pride! She shone like a flame, lending courage to the women who attended her and cowered at her side, strengthening the hearts of her Rivenlost guards who bristled about her, swords and spears at the ready.

  It took all his strength not to howl his Lord’s name, betraying the origin of their attack; though in truth, it would not have mattered if he did, for at that moment the Dreamspinner’s subtle influence began to manifest, warping sight and sound, and Men turned in confusion toward imagined attackers where there were none. Such was Ushahin’s illusion, augmented by the Helm of Shadows, that even the Ellylon believed with utter certitude that an involuntary Beshtanagi warcry was uttered in the mêlée.

  “Now!” Tanaros shouted to his men. “Now!”

  They followed as he led them in a charge against the personal guard of Cerelinde, granddaughter of Elterrion the Bold, Lord of the Rivenlost. Young men—boys, some of them—sworn to fat Vorax. Why? He didn’t dare ask, but must trust them to be there, fighting on horseback at his side as his sword rose and fell, rose and fell, dripping with Ellyl blood. The cries of the dying rang in his ears, his and theirs. Proud Ellyl faces, eyes bright with Haomane’s favor, swam in his vision; he cut them down, cleaving a path through them, again and again and again, until his sword-arm grew tired.

  And then …

  Only fear, in her beautiful face; fear and disbelief.

  “Lady, come!” he gasped, discarding his buckler and hauling her across his pommel with one strong arm.

  The weight of her—oh Lord, oh my Lord Satoris!

  Tanaros gritted his teeth, feeling her struggle, her flesh against his; Ellyl flesh, a woman’s flesh, warm and living. Her hair spilled like gleaming silk over his left knee, tangling in his Pelmaran greaves, his stirrup. Pale, her hair, like cornsilk. The surviving Staccians closed around him, swords flashing as they fought, checking their mounts broadside into the bodies of her defenders. Across the Dale, cavalry units scrambled to assemble and an Ellyl horn blew, a sound of silvery defiance, summoning the Host

  “Lady, forgive me,” Tanaros muttered and, raising his sword, brought the hilt down sharply on the base of her skull. Her weight went still and limp, quiescent.

  A cry of rage and fury shattered the air.

  “Cerelinde! CERELINDE!”

  Tanaros turned his head and met Aracus Altorus’ gaze.

  In that instant, the Grey Dam of the Were made her final lunge; one last, desperate attack, carrying the onus of the battle to her opponent, spending her life upon it. Altorus’ sword came up between them, spitting her, and he wept with futile anger as her weight bore him down, jaws seeking his throat even as her eyes filmed.

  “Go!” Tanaros shouted, wheeling the black. “Go!”

  TANAROS CLUNG TO HIS MOUNT like grim death, one hand on the reins, one clutching the limp burden athwart his pommel, the Staccians surrounding him as they raced for the treeline. The greensward of Lindanen Dale was churned to mud beneath the pounding hooves of the horses of Darkhaven.

  And behind them, Haomane’s allies were closing fast, astride and racing, and in the vanguard was the cavalry of Ingolin the Wise, Lord of the Rivenlost, moved to hot-blooded wrath for the first time in centuries; and close at their heels were the Borderguard of Curonan in their dun-colored cloaks. Thirty paces to the forest, twenty …

  With Cerelinde to carry, he couldn’t outrun them.

  “Now, Dreamspinner,” Tanaros whispered under his breath. “Now!”

  Madness broke.

  Like a wave, a vast black wave, it crashed down upon them, and the sound in his skull was an atonal howl of grief, as if the whole of Oronin’s Children mourned at once, as if every Were in Urulat opened throat in lament. And so it was, in a fashion, for Ushahin Dreamspinner unleashed the full force of his power and gave voice to the grief of them all, and the form of his grief was madness, given shape by the Helm of Shadows.

  It halted the armies of Haomane; horses balking, throwing riders, Men clapping hands over ears and falling to writhe on the ground, while the Ellylon sought in vain to control mortal steeds that plunged and pitched in terror. Only the horses of Darkhaven, tended from their foaling by the hands of madlings, were untouched by it.

  “Ride, damn you!” Carfax, the Staccian lieutenant, exhorted his troops, almost weeping. “Ride, you sons of whores!”

  A flurry of ravens arose as they entered the forest

  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.

  “Yeld, 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 mêlée.

  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.

  SEVEN

  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, dismoun
ted 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.