Banewreaker(103)

Lilias.

"Calandor," she whispered.

I am sorry.

With an effort she dragged herself to kneel in a puddle of her velvet robes, running her hands blindly over her face. There were murmurs all around; of anxiety, of sympathy, of mutiny. None of them mattered. Her little brother was centuries in the grave and her choice had been made a long time ago. "Calandor, what happened in the Marasoumië?"

Malthus.

Lilias blinked. Her vision was clearing. Sarika's face swam before her gaze, tear-stained as she knelt before her mistress, fumbling with a goblet of mulled wine as she sought to press it into her mistress' hands. This was her home, after all. For a thousand years, Beshtanag had been hers. "Calandor." Lilias swallowed, tasting fear. "Is Satoris' army coming?"

No.



SOMEWHERE IN THE NIGHT IT had ceased to matter that they had not begun their journey as comrades. In the headlong flight through the forest there were neither prisoners nor captors, only allies seeking a common cause: Survival.

Hobard had given his life for them. For him, Carfax thought, numb and awed. Over and over he saw it; the Vedasian knight going down, the dark wave of fur closing over him. It had bought them time. Not much, but enough. By the time the Were pursued, they were in flight.

Trees, trees and more trees; an endless labyrinth of forest, dampened by skeins of rain. A storm broke, driving their flight with increasing urgency. It lashed their faces, rendering them water-blind. Trunks loomed out of the darkness and branches reached, slashing at unprotected skin, lashing the horses' flanks. They shouldn't have been able to outrun the Were, if not for the Ellyl.

Peldras drew deep on the ancient lore of Haomane's Children, using the Shaper's Gifts to master the horses' fear, mastering all their fear. Such was the skill of the Rivenlost, first among the Lesser Shapers. It lent courage to their hearts, speed to their mounts' heels. Onward and onward they followed him, a slender figure on horseback, lit with a faint silvery luminosity, forging a path through the impossible tangle.

Pursuit came, of course; the Were bounding at their sides, leaping and snapping. Not as many, no; only three. A deadly three. And they came with muzzles red with blood, howling for their slain Brethren, a keening sorrow tinged with the rage of betrayal.

Carfax, unarmed, could only follow blindly in the Ellyl's wake, trying to protect Fianna with the simple bulk of his presence, turning his mount broadside and flailing in the saddle in a vain effort to fend off their attackers. It was Blaise who defended them, who brought up the rear; Blaise of the Borderguard. And he fought with a deadly, tireless efficiency, whirling time and time again to face the onslaught, his sodden hair lashing his cheeks. There was bitterness there, and fury; oh, yes! He was the appointed Protector of Malthus' Company, now shattered. If he had to spend his last breath protecting what remained of it, he would do it. Again and again his sword rose and fell, rain-washed and running with dark fluids, until the clouds broke and the grey light of dawn showed it ruddy, and the four of them alive.

When had Blaise slain the last of the Were?

Carfax could not say. Only that dawn had found them alone.

He sat quiet in the saddle, dripping, marveling at the steady throb of blood in his veins, at his hands on the reins, only his knuckles scratched, listening to their quarreling voices mingle with the rising birdsong while his exhausted mount hung its head low, too weary to lip at the undergrowth.

"But where should we go?" Fianna's voice, tired and plaintive. "Blaise?"

"Beshtanag… Jakar…" The Borderguardsman gave a grim smile. "I cannot guess, Lady Archer. You heard him as well as I did, and as poorly. Peldras?"

Troubled, the Ellyl shook his head. "What I can do, I have done. The ways of the Counselor are the ways of Haomane, cousin, and even I cannot guess at them. It is for you to decide."

"So be it." Blaise drew a harsh breath, laying his sword across his pommel. Red blood dripped from its tip onto the forest floor. "We have lost Malthus—and the Bearer. The Company is broken, and we must go where we will best serve. Staccian?"

Startled, Carfax lifted his head. "My lord?" The words came unbidden.

"Where should we go?"

He averted his face from the Borderguardsman's steady gaze, which said all his words did not. Hobard had given his life. A debt was owed. On a nearby tree a lone raven sat, cocking its head. Carfax swallowed hard and looked back at Blaise. "Beshtanag is a trap."

Was that his voice that had spoken? The words sounded so flat, lacking emotion, nothing to do with his tongue, thick in his mouth. But Blaise Caveros only nodded, as if hearing confirmation of a long-held suspicion.