Banewreaker(97)

"Yes," Malthus had said with finality. "Let him stay."

So it had been decided, and when it was done, Carfax wished they had killed him after all. It would, at least, be swift. The itch in Blaise's fingers as they strayed over his sword-hilt promised as much. It would put an end to his knowing. Malthus the Counselor traveled the Ways into a trap, that much he knew. Carfax thought upon it with guilt and grim satisfaction as he labored to shift rocks on the wizard's behalf. Oh, Malthus might hope to defeat the Sorceress with her Soumanië—but it would take a mighty effort. When General Tanaros and the Army of Darkhaven fell upon Haomane's Allies, the wizard would have naught left to give in their defense.

And yet… and yet.

The Company would struggle onward. How doomed were their efforts, if Darkhaven prevailed? It would become a game of cat and mouse, with Lord Satoris' paw poised to strike. He would tell them, if he dared. He would spare them. Not all, no; not the surly Vedasian, nor Blaise Caveros—but the others, yes. Dani, at the least. Poor Dani, who was beginning to feel the weight of his burden, and the cost of protecting it. He belonged in the Unknown Desert, he and his uncle, at peace and unaware of the Shapers' War being waged over Urulat.

Better I should die, Carfax thought, than see this through.

Only I am afraid to die.

And so, alone, he tended the fire and dwelled with his tongue-locked thoughts, while their stores were shared out and everyone ate. And then, in the small hours, Peldras the Ellyl stayed awake with him, with his drawn sword over his knees, watching the moon's course. They had become comrades in these small hours. Even the wizard snored. And as before, it was the Ellyl who spoke first, turning his luminous gaze on the Staccian. "You have given thought to Arahila's mercy, have you not?"

"Mayhap." Carfax kept his gaze fixed on the embers. "Does it matter?"

"It does."

"Why?"

There was a long silence.

"Where to begin?" Peldras sighed, a sound like the wind through pine needles. "I am Rivenlost, Carfax of Staccia. I am one of Haomane's Children; Haomane First-Born, who alone knew the will of Uru-Alat. The world as He Shaped it was a bright and shining thing. I am Ellyl, and I remember. I grieve for what was Sundered from me."

Carfax lifted his head. "Lord Satoris did not—"

"Satoris Banewreaker would cover the world in darkness!" The Ellyl cut him off, his tone grim. "A tide is rising, Staccian. In Darkhaven, it rises. The Fjeltroll are seen in numbers, and the Helm of Shadows has been worn once more. What passes in Beshtanag is merely an opening gambit. Look, there." He pointed to the red star, riding high above the horizon. "There is Dergail's Soumanië, that the Sunderer wrested from him. It is a sign, a challenge. And it is one the Six Shapers cannot answer, for they are trapped beyond the shores of the Sundered World, islanded in their might. It falls to us, Son of Man. We are the last, best hope; each one of us. Do you matter?" He softened his voice. "Yes, Staccian. You matter. You are the twig that may turn a flood. If you choose a path of redemption, who is to say how many will follow?"

"No." Carfax stared aghast at the Ellyl, shaking his head in denial. "No! You don't understand! Lord Satoris didn't raise the red star; it was a warning sent by Arahila herself that Haomane First-Born—" Over the Ellyl's shoulder, he glimpsed movement, half-seen shadows moving in the forest's verges, and fear strangled his unspoken words.

Reading his expression, Peldras went motionless. "What is it?"

"There," he whispered, pointing. "Oh, Peldras!"

"The Were are upon us!"

The Ellyl's shout rang clarion in the glade. Already he was on his feet, a naked blade in his hand, his bright gaze piercing the shadows. Already Malthus' Company sprang awake, leaping to the defense. Already it was too late.

From everywhere and nowhere came the attack, for Oronin's Hunters had encircled the glade. Seven hunters for the seven Allies, coming low and fast as they surged from the surrounding darkness. Firecast shadows rippled along their pelts. Oronin Last-Born had Shaped them, and Death rode in his train. Grey and dire, they closed in for the kill with lean ferocity, snarling a song of blood-thirst. Seven throats they sought, and the eighth they ignored, leaving him a helpless witness.

"No," Carfax said dumbly. "Oh, no."

There was Malthus the Counselor in his tattered scholar's robes, the Soumanië blazing in his hand. It lit the glade in a piercing wash of scarlet light; to no avail, for the eyes of the Were were bound with grey cloth. Oronin's Children hunted blind. Their muzzles were raised, nostrils twitching, following scent as keen as sight.