Banewreaker(24)

Calandor's head swung around, swiveling on that sinuous neck, green eyes fixing on the Soldier. "You were to have been my rightful prey, Man! You whose numbers have overrun the earth."

Tanaros shuddered and held fast. "I represent my Lord, not my race, Calandor."

Twin jets of smoke emerged in a laugh. "The Shaper."

"Yes," Tanaros said. "The Shaper."

The dragon lifted his massive head and stared westward, eyes slitting in the sun. "We aided Sssatoriss when the Sssouma was shattered, because he was a friend. Many of usss died for it, and Haomane became our Enemy. No more, we sssaid. But it was too late, and we too few, and I, I am one of the lasst. Do you asssk me now to die, Ssoldier?"

"No," Tanaros said. "No! Eldest Brother, we will lay a trail to the doorstep of Beshtanag, yes. And when the Ellylon follow it, and the sons of Altorus and whatever allies they might gather, we will fall upon them from behind, the army of Darkhaven in all its strength, and it shall be ended. This I swear to you. Do you doubt it?"

Why, Lilias wondered, did she want to weep?

Calandor blinked, slowly. "I am not the Eldessst, Kingsslayer."

"Nonetheless." Tanaros' voice hardened. "My lord Calandor, Dergail's Soumanie has risen, and the signs of the Prophecy have begun. In a week's time, Cerelinde of the Ellylon will plight her troth with Aracus Altorus, and across the land, Urulat prepares for war. Haomane himself only knows what mission Malthus the Counselor has undertaken. Where will you be, if Darkhaven falls? If Godslayer falls into the Counselor's hands, if Urulat is made whole on Haomane's terms? Do you think one mortal sorceress with a chip of the Souma can resist the Six Shapers? Where will you be then, Elder Brother?"

"Enough!" Lilias clapped her hands over her ears.

But the dragon only sighed.

"Then let them come, Kingssslayer," he said. "You sspeak the truth. If I will not ssserve your cause, neither will I oppose it. Lay your falssse trail. Let them come, and make of uss the anvil on which your hammer may ssstrike. Does this please you?"

"My lord Calandor," Tanaros said. "I am grateful. My Lord is grateful."

"Yesss," the dragon said. "Now go."





* * *





FIVE





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THE OLD MAN SQUATTED ON his haunches, gazing at the stars.

Even in the small hours of night, the rock held enough sun-captured heat to warm his buttocks, though the naked soles of his feet were calloused and immune to warmth or cold. He watched the stars wheel slowly through their nocturnal circuit, counting through the long telling of his ancestors. There was a smell of water in his nostrils, iron-rich and heavy. Something scrabbled in the spiny thorn-brush. It might have been a hopping-mouse or a hunting lizard, though it was not. He was an Elder of the Yarru-yami, and he knew every sound in the Unknown Desert.

"Can you not leave me in peace, old woman?" the old man grumbled.

"Peace!" She emerged from the night to place herself before his rock, folding arms over withered dugs, her long, grey-white hair illuminated by starlight. "You would squat on this rock all night, old man, chewing gamal and watching the stars. You call that peace?"

After all these years, she was as spirited as the day he had met her. He smiled into his beard. "I do, old woman. If you'll not let be, then join me."

With a snort of disapproval, she clambered up the rock to squat at his side, groaning a little as her hipbones popped and creaked. He shifted to make room for her, digging into the worn pouch that hung at his waist and passing her a pinch of gamal. Her jaws worked, softening the dried fibers, working her mouth's moisture into them. Eighty-three years old, and her teeth still strong, working the gamal into a moist wad to tuck into her cheek.

Side by side, they squatted and watched the stars.

Especially the red one low on the western horizon.

Her voice, when she spoke, was sombre. "It's the choosing-time, isn't it?"

He nodded. "Coming fast."

"The poor boy." She shook her head. "Poor boy! There's no fairness in it. He's not fit to make such a choice. Who is?"

He shrugged. "Doesn't stop it from coming."

She eyed him acerbically. "And how would you choose, old one?"

"Me?" He turned his hands over, examining his palms. Paler than the rest of his skin, they were leathery and creased, tanned like an old hide. Age had marked them, and wear, and the lines of mortality. Nothing else. "It's not mine to choose."

"I know," she whispered. "Poor boy! I pray he chooses aright."

The old man squatted and listened to the sounds of the desert, while the stars wheeled slowly overhead. He felt the slow, steady beat of his heart, winding down to its inevitable faltering, the blood coursing through his veins, as water coursed through the earth far, far below them. In the heart of the Unknown Desert, there was water, water from the deepest place, the oldest place.