Жаклин Кэри - Banewreaker

Inside the inner walls of the sanctuary, Tanaros made his way to the stables, dismounting with a groan. He had grown stiff in the saddle, stiff in the service of his Lord. A young stablehand came for the stallion, shadowy and deft, eyes gleaming behind the thatch of his forelock. One of Ushahin’s madlings. The lad bobbed a crooked bow, then crooned to the stallion. It arched its neck, flaring its nostrils and huffing in gentle response.

“You needn’t walk him long,” Tanaros said in the common tongue, laying a hand on the stallion’s glossy hide and finding it cool. “He’s had his ease since the skirmish.”

The madling sketched him a second bow, eyes bright with knowing.

What did he hear, Tanaros wondered; what did he understand? One never knew, with the Dreamspinner’s foundlings. This one understood the common tongue, of that he was sure. Most of them did. A few did not. The madling led his mount away, still crooning; the stallion bent his head as if to listen, sleek black hide rippling under the light of the emerging stars. This one, Tanaros thought, loved horses. So much he knew, and no more. Only Ushahin, who walked in their dreams, knew them all.

With stiff fingers, Tanaros unbuckled his helm and approached the postern gate.

“General Tanaros!” The pair of Fjeltroll on duty saluted smartly, slapping the butts of their spears on the marble stair. “We heard the exercise went well,” one added cunningly. “Too bad the Havenguard weren’t there, eh?”

Pulling off his helm and tucking it under his arm, Tanaros smiled at the ploy. “I’ll match Lord Vorax’s offer, lads. A measure of svartblod to all who stood duty, and see it sent round to the lads on the wall, a full skin to each sentry-post. Send word to the quartermaster that it’s on my orders.”

They cheered at that, standing aside to let him pass. In some ways, the Fjel were like children, simple and easy to please. Loyalty was given, and loyalty was rewarded. No more could be asked, no more could answer.

Indeed, Tanaros thought as he entered Darkhaven proper, what more is there? He ran his hand through his dark hair, damp with sweat from confinement in his padded helm. Once, he had given his loyalty for the asking. Given it to Roscus Altorus, blood-sworn comrade and liege-lord, he of the red-gold hair and ready grin, the extended hand.

Given it to Calista, his wife, whose throat was white like the swan’s, whose doe-eyes had bulged at the end, beseeching him; oh love, forgive me, forgive me!

Wary madlings skittered along the hallways, scattering at his passage, reforming behind to trail in his wake. Tanaros, lost in his memories, swung his helm from its leather strap and ignored them. There was food cooking in the great kitchens of Darkhaven, its savory odor teasing the hallways. He ignored that, too. They would serve the barracks, bringing platter upon platter heaped high with mutton, steaming in grey slabs. What Lord Vorax demanded in his quarters was anyone’s guess. Tanaros did not care.

Fjeltroll mate for life, Hyrgolf had told him. Always.

He thought about that, sometimes.

“Lord General, Lord General!”

A lone madling, more daring than the rest, accosted him at the doors to his quarters. Tangled hair falling over her face, peering where her work-reddened hands pushed it away to reveal a darting eye.

“Yes, Meara?” Tanaros knew her, made his voice gentle.

She cringed nonetheless, then flexed, arching the lines of her body. “Lord General,” she asked with satisfaction, “will you dine this evening? There is mutton and tubers, and Lord Vorax ordered wine from Pelmar.”

The madlings behind her sighed, envying her boldness.

“That would be pleasant,” he said, inclining his head. “Thank you.”

“Tubers!” cried one of the madlings, a hulking figure with a guileless boy’s eyes in a man’s homely face, hopping up and down. “Tubers!”

Meara simpered, tossing her tangled hair. “I will bring a tray, Lord General.”

“Thank you, Meara,” he said gravely.

In a rush they left him, following now in Meara’s wake, their voices whispering from the walls. Left in peace, Tanaros entered his own quarters.

It was quiet here, in the vast rooms he inhabited. A few lamps burned low, flickering on the gleaming black walls and picking out veins of marrow-fire. Tanaros turned up the wicks until the warm illumination offset the blue-white glimmer of the marrow-fire, lending a human touch to his quarters. Thick Rukhari carpets muffled his footsteps, their intricately woven patterns muted by lamplight. One of his few concessions to luxury. He undid the buckles on his corselet, removed his armor piece by piece, awkward without assistance, hanging it upon its stand. Sitting on a low stool, Tanaros sighed, tugging off his boots, the point of his scabbard catching on the carpet as he bent, the sword’s hilt digging into his side.

War. It means war .

Standing and straightening, Tanaros unbuckled his swordbelt. He held it in his hands, bowing his head. Even sheathed, he felt the blade’s power, the scar over his heart aching at it. Black it was, that blade, tempered in the marrow-fire and quenched in the ichor of Satoris himself. It was the gift he had received at the pact of his branding, and it had no equal.

Tanaros Blacksword, he thought, and placed the weapon in its stand.

Without it, he felt naked.

There was a scratching at the door. Padding in stocking feet across the carpets, Tanaros opened it. The madling Meara cringed, then proffered a silver tray, other madlings peeping from behind her. Fragrant aromas seeped from beneath the covered dishes.

“Thank you, Meara,” he said to her. “Put it on the table, please.”

Hunched over her burden, she slunk into the room, setting the gleaming tray on the ebony dining-table with a clatter. Triumphant, she straightened, beckoning to the others. Whispering to one another, they crept into his quarters like shadows, taking with reverent hands his dusty, sweated armor, his dirty boots. In the morning these would be returned, polished and gleaming, the buckles cleaned of grime, straps fresh-oiled, boots buffed to a high gloss.

Tanaros, who had beheld this drama many, many times over, watched with pity. “No,” he said gently when one, scarce more than a lad, reached for the black sword. “That I tend myself.”

“I touch?” The boy threw him a hopeful glance.

“You may touch it in its scabbard, see?” The Commander General of the Army of Darkhaven went to one knee beside the madling lad, guiding his trembling hand. “There.”

The boy’s fingers touched the scabbard and he groaned deep in his throat, his mouth soft with ecstasy. “My Lord! My Lord’s blood!”

“Yes,” Tanaros said softly, as he had done many times before, with this lad and others. “It was tempered in the marrow-fire, and cooled in his blood.”

The madling cradled the hand that had touched it. “His blood!” he crowed.

“His blood,” Tanaros agreed, rising to his feet, kneejoints popping at the effort. Always, it was so; the young men, the youths, drawn to the blade.

“Enough!” Emboldened by the success of her mission, Meara put her hands upon her hips, surveying Tanaros’ quarters, finding nothing amiss. “Will you want a bath, Lord General?”

“Later,” Tanaros said. The odor of mutton roast teased the air and his stomach rumbled at it. “Later will suffice.”

She gave a firm nod. “Ludo will bring it.”

“Thank you, Meara.” Tanaros made her a courtly halfbow. She shuddered, a rictus contorting her face, then whirled, summoning the others.

“Come! You and you, and you. Algar, pick up the Lord General’s greaves. Come, quickly, and let the Lord General eat!”