Banewreaker

  Ravens would carry it and Were would answer. The Grey Dam herself would answer. Of that, he had no doubt. It was a rare gift, a rare trust, that Sorash had given her adopted son before she died. Her successor Vashuka had no choice but to honor it.

  Oh, Mother!

  His eyes stung, remembering. No one’s son, the dragon had called him, but he had loved her like a son; loved her enough to know he could not stay among the Were. For the great sacrifice Lord Satoris had asked of her, he had gone as a supplicant. He had asked, praying all the while she would refuse. But she had not, had chosen to find an honorable death in the request, though his heart grieved at it.

  In this, there was no honor.

  The sun sank below the stony ridge, and shadows crept across the ground. Near the oasis, cooking-fires were lit and the smell of lamb roasted on the grill wafted in the air. Dry, warm air, it made his bones ache less. Lamps were kindled as Ushahin watched, tallow candles lit inside lacquered bladders and hung from the openings of tents. By the shouting and raucous bursts of song, the Rukhari might have been on holiday, awaiting the arrival of the army of Darkhaven. Having walked in their dreams, he knew what a harsh and difficult living there was to be eked out on the skirts of the Unknown Desert, in what fearful contempt the Pelmarans held them, what potential lay in the promise of a Staccian alliance.

  Hoofbeats clattered between the tents, and lamplight gleamed on polished horseflesh as a pony rounded the tent, muscles surging as it was drawn up short in a scatter of pebbles. A swarthy face; Zaki, Makneen’s second-in-command, peered down at his feet, studiously avoiding eye contact.

  “Meat ready, Dream-stalker,” the Rukhar offered in broken common. “You eat?”

  “No.” Sitting straight-backed, Ushahin did not rise. “Thank you, Zaki.”

  After a moment, the Rukhar shrugged. “Makneen offer. Is good, yes? You are pleased? Not to trouble sleep?”

  “It is well done, Zaki. We are allies. I will not trouble your dreams.” Ushahin watched as the Rukhar shrugged again, then lashed his pony’s rump with trailing reins, startling it into a galloping spurt. The Rukhari feared him. Well and good; they should. He resumed his vigil, watching the darkening verge of the forest.

  Time passed.

  A half moon rose and the stars emerged, and brightest of them was the red one, high above the horizon.

  “Brother.”

  A grey voice, emerging from darkness. It named him in the tongue of Oronin’s Children, which he had spoken seldom since childhood. Ushahin rose, straightening his stiffening joints and inclining his head. “Brother,” he replied in kind. “Well met by moonlight.”

  There was a gleam, as of bared teeth. “I do not think so. Follow.”

  Follow he did, leaving the illuminated tents behind, traveling on foot over the stony soil. Ahead of him, a grey shadow moved low to the ground, silent but for the occasional click of claw on stone. On and onward they traveled, until the lamps of Jakar were distant sparks and the forest enveloped them.

  Into the tall pines his guide led him, leaving behind the beaten paths and treading on soft pine mast, to a glade where moonlight spilled on silvery fur, and one awaited in a circle of many. By this alone, by the honor the pack accorded her, he knew her.

  “Old mother.” Ushahin bowed low. “I give you honor.”

  “Son of my self.” Ritual words, devoid of affection. Vashuka the Grey Dam stood upright and her amber eyes were narrowed in the moonlight, A score of dim figures crouched around her, hackled and wary. “The Grey Dam Sorash gave you a sacred trust. Why have you used it to summon me here, so near to a place of Men?”

  “Honored one, forgive me.” He felt sick, the brand on his chest a searing pain. “Oronin’s Children are my kin, but I have sworn a deeper oath.”

  Her lip wrinkled, exposing her canines, still white. “Satoris.”

  “To my Lord Satoris, yes” Ushahin drew a deep breath. trying to loosen his chest. Where were the ravens? The trees should be full of them; were empty instead. He reached out with his thoughts, and a low, concerted growl came from the crouching circle of Were. “Brethren! Has it come to this?”

  Vashuka raised a clenched, clawed hand, and the circle fell silent. Her gaze never left him. “Tell us, Ushahin-who-walks-between-dusk-and-dawn. What has it come to?”

  “A favor.” It was harder than he had imagined to hold his ground before her. His very flesh was vulnerable. For all that he was one of the Three, he was no warrior like Tanaros or Vorax. His crippled hands could scarce grip a sword, and such powers as he had would avail him little against the Were, who were themselves the stuff of which Men’s nightmares were made. “Death.”

  “War!” she growled, and the pack echoed her.

  “No.” Ushahin shook his head. “You have refused to commit Oronin’s Children to war, honored one, and Satoris Third-Born respects this. It is death he asks of you; a hunt, far from the battlefield. There is a company, a small company, that enters the forests of Pelmar, These, my Lord wishes slain.”

  “Wishes.” The Grey Dam’s voice was dry. “Asks. Who are we to slay?”

  “Malthus the Counselor,”he whispered. “And all who accompany him.”

  At that, she threw back her head, loosing a howl. It echoed forlorn throughout the forest, and the Were who accompanied her crouched and quivered.

  “Old mother,” Ushahin said to her. “Has Malthus the Counselor been a friend to our kind? Have the Sons of Men? Have the Ellylon? No! Only Lord Satoris. Seven deaths is not so much to ask.”

  Closing her jaws with a snap, Vashuka snarled. “Have we not given as much?” She jerked her chin toward the red star above the tree-line of the glade. “There, Ushahin-who-walks-between-dusk-and-dawn! The Counselor Dergail’s Soumanië, that we wrested from him! For this, Men and Ellylon name us enemy and hunt us without mercy.” She folded her arms across her gaunt bosom. “I am the Grey Dam; I remember. I am the Grey Dam; I say, no more.”

  “And I say,” Ushahin said softly, with infinite regret, “that do you refuse, Lord Satoris will name you his enemy. And there is an army coming, old mother. An army of Fjeltroll with hides like leather and the strength to move mountains, commanded by General Tanaros Blacksword himself. Right now, there is a force—” he pointed, “—of two hundred Rukhari warriors on that plain, and their swords are whetted. Who will you turn to if Lord Satoris turns against you? The Pelmaran Regents, who have sought to stamp out your kind? Aracus Altorus?” He shook his head. “I do not think so. My mother-who-was spent her life’s last blood seeking Altorus’ throat. He will not be quick to forgive.”

  She snarled again, and the moonlight glittered on her sharp teeth. “Ask! You ask nothing and demand everything!”

  Heavy with sorrow, he nodded. “Yes, old mother. Childhood must end, even for immortals. Will you abide or refuse?”

  Lifting her muzzle, the Grey Dam gazed at the night sky. “If I refuse,” she mused aloud, “who will obey? The Counselor Malthus wields the Soumanië. Who among you can look upon it? Oronin’s Children alone can withstand it, we whom the Glad Hunter Shaped, we who can veil our eyes and hunt by scent alone.”

  “Yes,”he said. “It is so. But Oronin’s Children are few, and Lord Satoris’ armies are many.” Thinking of the raging storm of fury emanating from Darkhaven, Ushahin shuddered. In the depths of his shattered bones, it was a madness he understood. “Make no mistake, old mother. One way or another, he will triumph. And if you refuse him, he will have his vengeance.”

  “Aaaarrhhhh!” A raw cry, half howl. Her furred hands rose to cover her face, and the Were Brethren surrounding her keened. “Selves of myself,” she whispered to her predecessors’ memories, “why did you make an ally of he who Sundered the world?” Lowering clenched hands, she hardened her voice. “So be it.” The Grey Dam spun, pointing. “You,” she said harshly. “You. You and you, you, you and you! Seven Brethren for seven deaths.” Her amber eyes shone hard and cold, and her voice imparted hatred to her words. “Will it su
ffice, son of my self?”

  “Yes, honored one.” Ushahin bowed low. “It will.”

  She turned her back to him, speaking over her shoulder. “Show them.”

  This he did, opening his mind to them in the ancient tradition of the Were, showing them in pictures the Company as he had witnessed it upon the marshlands of Vedasia: The Counselor, the Ellyl, the Borderguardsman, the Archer, the Vedasian, the Yarru boy and his guardian uncle. He showed them the death that must be, the rent flesh and life’s blood seeping into the forest’s floor, the red gem of the Soumanië to be kept for Lord Satoris, the clay flask containing the Water of Life that must be broken and spilled. And he showed them the pictures that had filtered through the fractured shards of the Ravensmirror, the rumor of gulls and a ship setting anchor on Pelmaran soil.

  “There,” he whispered. “Find them and slay them.”

  In their minds there opened a dry gully of thirst that only red blood could slake. As one, the seven Brethren bowed, obedient to the will of the Grey Dam, and death was their every thought. As one, they crouched low and sprang into motion, seven shadows moving swift and grey through the Pelmaran forests. Only the barest rustle of pine needles marked their passing. Oronin’s Children, direst of hunters.

  “Go.” It was the Were who had guided him who spoke, rising from the shadows to stand upright, his voice harsh and choked. “Go now, no one’s son!”

  “Old mother …” Helpless, Ushahin reached out a hand toward the motionless figure of the Grey Dam, remembering Sorash-who-was, remembering the touch of her rough pelt as she cradled his broken limbs. His boyhood self, and the only mother he had ever known. The Grey Dam is dead. The Grey Dam lives. The keen wire of pain that defined him grew tighter, madness pressing in close and a sound rising in his mind, rising and rising, a howl unuttered in his branded chest. “Oh, mother! I am sorry …”

  “Go!”

  TWENTY

  “LADY.” TANAROS CAUGHT HIS BREATH at the sight of her. In the confines of her chambers, clad in the robes of her ancestors, she shone like a candle-flame. It made his heart ache, and he bowed low. “I come to bid you farewell.”

  Cerelinde’s hand rose unbidden to her throat. “You depart?”

  “On the morrow.” He straightened. “I will return.”

  “You will kill him,” she whispered, eyes wide and fearful. “Aracus.”

  For a long time he did not answer, remembering the battle in Lindanen Dale and Aracus Altorus struggling with the Grey Dam of the Were on the end of his blade; remembering another, Roscus. His king, his foster-brother. A ready grin, an extended hand. A babe with red-gold hair, and his wife’s guilt-ridden gaze. At the end, Roscus had looked surprised. It would end, with Aracus. It would be done.

  “Yes,” he said. “I am sorry.”

  She turned her back to him, her pale hair a shining river. “Go,” she said, her voice taut and shaking. “Go! Go then, and kill, Tanaros Blacksword! It is what you do. It is all you are good for!”

  “Lady.” He took a step forward, yearning to comfort her and angry at it. “Do you understand so little, even now? Haomane has declared war upon us. We are fighting for our lives here!”

  “I understand only grief.” Turning, she gazed at him. “Must it be so, Tanaros? Must it truly be so? Is there no room for compassion in your understanding of the world? Haomane would forgive, if you relented.”

  “Would he?” he asked, taking another step. “Would you?”

  Cerelinde shrank from his approach.

  “You see.” He felt his lips move in a grim smile. “Limits, always limits. You would forgive us, if we kept to our place. Ah, my Lady. I did keep to my place, once upon a time. I was Tanaros Caveros, Commander of the King’s Guard in Altoria. I honored my liege-lord and served him well; I honored my wife and loved her well.” He opened his arms. “You see, do you not, what it earned me?”

  She did not answer, only looked at his spread hands and trembled.

  He had throttled his wife with those hands.

  “So be it.” Gathering himself, Tanaros executed one last bow, crisp and correct. “Lady, you will be well cared for in my absence. I have sworn it so. I bid you farewell.” Spinning on his heel, he took his leave of her. No matter that her luminous eyes haunted him; it was satisfying, hearing the door slam upon his departure.

  She did not know.

  She did not understand.

  Cerelinde was Haomane’s Child, Shaped of rational thought. She would never understand the passion with which he had loved his wife and his liege-lord alike, and how deeply their betrayal had wounded him. No more could she comprehend Lord Satoris, who had dared defy his Elder Brother in order that his Gift should not be wrested from Men, that thought should not be forever uncoupled from desire.

  Things were not always as simple as they seemed.

  But Haomane’s Children could not think in shades of grey.

  Even now, with the old rage still simmering in his heart, it grieved Tanaros to think upon all he had lost, all he had cast aside. How much more so, he wondered, must it grieve his Lordship? And yet Cerelinde refused to see it.

  Though he wished that she would.

  With an effort, he thrust the thought away. A door closed; well and good. Nothing left, then, but what lay ahead. It had come down to it. All the variables, the plans within plans; what were they to him? Nothing. There was a war. War, he understood. At every corner, Tanaros passed sentries standing guard. Hulking shadows, armed to the eyetusks. They saluted him, each and every one, acknowledging the Commander General of Darkhaven.

  Yes. These were his people.

  “Admit no one,” he told the Fjel on guard outside his door. “I will rest.”

  In his quarters, everything was immaculate. The lamps had been trimmed, the bed-linens were crisp and clean. There were madlings who never left the laundry, taking a remorseless joy in toiling over boiling vats of suds and water, expunging filth. His armor of carbon-blackened steel was arrayed on its stand, each piece polished to a menacing gleam. Buckles and straps had been oiled and replaced. It waited for him to fill it, an empty suit, a warrior of shadows. In the corner, the black sword rested propped in its scabbard. Not even a madling would touch it without permission.

  His blood, thought Tanaros, my Lord’s blood.

  There was a tray laid unasked-for on the table, steam seeping beneath the covered dish-domes. Peering under one, he found a pair of quail in a honey glaze; another held wild rice, and yet another a mess of stewed greens. For dessert, a plate of cheeses and grapes sat uncovered. Candlelight danced over the table, illuminating the soft, misty bloom on the purple grapes.

  Drawing up a chair, Tanaros sat and ate, and tried not to think how lonely, how terribly lonely, his quarters were. He missed Fetch, but the raven was gone, the half-frozen fledgling grown into a full-fledged bird, another daring scout in Ushahin Dreamspinner’s strange army. Digging into his pocket, he found Hyrgolf’s rhios and set it on the table. The sight of it soothed him, the river sprite’s face laughing from its rounded curves.

  “Is it to your liking, my Lord General?”

  Tanaros started at the soft, unfamiliar voice, rising from his chair and half-drawing his dagger. Seeing Meara, he eased. “How did you get in here?”

  The madling sidled toward the table, tangled hair hiding her face as she nodded toward his bathing-chamber. “This is Darkhaven. There are ways and ways, Lord General. Is the meal to your liking?”

  “Yes,” he said gently, pushing away the plate of picked quail bones. “Meara, you should not be here. Is it not our Lord’s wish that you attend the Lady Cerelinde?”

  “The Lady Cerelinde:” Meara sidled closer, her features contorting in a whimper.”It hurts to serve her. She pities us, Lord General. And she grieves, in the manner of the Ellylon. She turns her face to the wall, and orders us away. It was never my wish to leave you, Lord Tanaros. Do you not know it?”

  Close, so close! In a paroxysm of courage, she reached him.
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  Touched him, descended on him.

  He could smell the heat of her flesh, of her womanhood. Her hands were on him, beneath the collar of his tunic, sliding against the hard flesh of his chest, the raised ridges of his brand. Tanaros gritted his teeth as her weight straddled him. “Meara …”

  “Oh, my lord, my lord!” Her face, so close to his, eyes wide.

  “Meara, no.”

  “He was the Sower, once.” Wide eyes, pupils fixed. Her breath was warm against his skin, unexpectedly sweet. “Do you not wonder, Tanaros, do you not know? It was his Gift, when he had one!”

  Her mouth touched his, her teeth nipping at his underlip, the tip of her tongue probing. Her weight, warm and welcome, encompassing him. Jolted by desire, he stood upright, his hands encircling her waist to dump her unceremoniously onto the floor, her skull jolting at the impact.

  “Meara, no!”

  She laughed, then. Limbs akimbo, she laughed, bitter and shrill. “General Tanaros Blacksword! Some hero, some man you are, Tanaros Wifeslayer! Did you offer your wife so little satisfaction? No wonder she found cold comfort in your bed! No wonder she turned to the Altorus to quicken her womb!”

  “ENOUGH!” Stooping, unthinking, he struck her across the face.

  She whimpered.

  “Meara, forgive me.” Filled with remorse, Tanaros knelt at her side, dabbing with the hem of his overtunic at a trickle of blood in the corner of her mouth. “Forgive me, I am sorry, I did not mean to hurt you.”

  “Poor General.” Her eyes were curiously limpid, as if the blow had cleared her wits. She touched his hand with gentle fingers, cupping it against her bruised cheek, caressing his knuckles. “Poor Tanaros. Does it hurt so much, even still?”