Banewreaker(56)

"I'll take you to your quarters, my lady." Without waiting for permission, Pietre scooped her into his arms and stood. To his credit, he only shivered a little at the dragon's amused regard.

Too weary to object, Lilias allowed it. Gergon snapped orders, his wardsmen falling in around them. It was a frightening thing, to be this weak, even with a Soumanië in her possession. Now, more than ever, Beshtanag needed her.

Rest, Lilias. Recover.

She nodded in silent answer, knowing the dragon understood. Beneath her cheek, the bare skin of Pietre's chest was warm and resilient. Such a heady elixir, youth! Lilias felt her thousand years of age. It came at a price, cheating death. If her flesh did not show it, still, she felt it in her bones, now as never before. Had she invoked Haomane's name in her agony? Yes, and there was something fearful in it. Pietre murmured endearments under his breath, walking as though he held something precious in his arms. I should let him go, Lilias thought. I should let them all go, before danger comes. But I am old, and I am afraid of being alone.

Calandor?

I am here, Lilias.

It was enough. It had to be enough. It was the bargain she had made, a thousand years ago. And it had always, always endured. As long as it did, nothing else mattered. The thing was done, the die cast. Why, then, this foreboding?

Calandor?

Lilias, you must rest.

Calandor, where are Lord Satoris' men?



"RIGHT." CARFAX SURVEYED HIS MEN with a sharp eye. "Vilbar, scrub your face again. Use marsh-root if you have to. You're still spatch-cocked with dye."

"That river water stinks, Lieutenant!"

"I don't care," he said ruthlessly. "Scrub it! Turin, Mantuas, Hunric�you understand your mission?" There was silence in answer. Mantuas, holding his mount's reins, kicked stubbornly at a clump of sedge grass. "You understand?"

"Don't worry, sir." Hunric leaned on his pommel. "I'll see 'em through the Delta and on to Beshtanag."

"Good. With luck, we'll be no more than a day behind you. But whatever happens here, you need to report what we've seen to the Sorceress of the East. Now,"—Carfax drew a deep breath—"are the rest of you ready?"

They shouted a resounding yes. With the last remnants of dye washed from their skin, and beards beginning to grow, they looked more like Staccians, members of the boldest nation on earth; Fjel-friends, frost-warriors, allies of the Banewreaker himself. Had they not slain scores of the enemy at Lindanen Dale? And if they could do this thing, if they could capture Malthus' Company and prevent the Prophecy from being fulfilled…

A grin stretched Carfax's face. Lord Satoris would be pleased, mightily pleased. Mayhap pleased enough to consider making the Three into Four. Immortality would be a fine thing, indeed.

He drew his sword. "For the honor of Darkhaven!"





* * *





TWELVE





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THE GARRISON HAD TURNED OUT for their return, rank upon rank of Fjel flanking the approach to Darkhaven, holding formation with military discipline, issuing crisp salutes.

It was an imposing sight. It was meant to be.

All the tribes were represented; Tungskulder, M�rkhar, Gulnagel, Tordenstem, Nåltannen, Kaldjager. Tanaros gazed over a sea of Fjel, with thick hides of smooth grey, of a pebbled greenish-brown, or black with bristles. His troops, his men. They wore their armor with pride, pounding the butts of their spears in steady rhythm. They kept their shields raised.

"So many!" Cerelinde whispered.

Tanaros bowed from the saddle. "Welcome to Darkhaven, Lady."

Before them loomed the edifice itself, twin towers rearing against an overcast sky, dwarfing the entrance until they drew near enough to see that the portal itself was massive; thrice the height of any Fjel. The bar had been raised and the brass-bound inner doors flung open.

In the entrance stood Vorax of Staccia, gleaming in ceremonial armor.

"Lady Cerelinde of the Rivenlost!" he called. "Lord Satoris welcomes you."

At his words, a stream of madlings spewed forth from the interior of the fortress, surging into their midst to lay hands on the bridles of their horses. Tanaros dismounted, and helped the Lady down. He felt her trembling underneath his touch.

Her gaze was locked with the Staccian's. "This hospitality is a gift unwanted, Lord Glutton."

Vorax shrugged. "It is a gift nonetheless, Lady. Do not disdain it. Hey! Dreamspinner!" He clapped Ushahin on the shoulder. "Still sky-gazing? I hear you did well in the Dale, wielding the Helm of Shadows."

The half-breed muttered some reply, moving away from the Stac-cian's touch, the helm's case clutched under his arm. Tanaros frowned. Why were the ravens circling? He spared a thought for Fetch as he approached the entrance, hoping the scapegrace was unharmed.