Жаклин Кэри - Banewreaker

“Speros.” He looked at the fever-bright eyes in the gaunt face, the trembling hands with dirt caked under broken nails. “Enough. You need to rest.”

The Midlander wavered stubbornly on his feet. “So do they. And he died carrying me. ”

“Aye.” Tanaros sighed. The raven roused and shook its feathers, launching itself from its perch to land on the nearest drought-eater. “Aye, he did.” Casting about, he spotted his helmet amid the rest of his armor. It would hold sand as well as water, and serve death as well as life. One of the Gulnagel grunted, moving to make room for him. “Come on, then, lads,” Tanaros said, scooping at the grave, filling his helmet and tossing a load of sand over his shoulder. “Let’s lay poor Freg to rest.”

Side by side, Man and Fjeltroll, they labored beneath Arahila’s stars.

It was on the verges of Pelmar, a half day’s ride outside Kranac, that the Were was sighted. Until then, the journey had been uneventful.

The forest was scarce less dense near one of the capital cities, but the mounted vanguard had been moving with speed since leaving Martinek’s foot-soldiers behind, weaving in single-file columns among the trees. If she had not despised them, Lilias would have been impressed at the woodcraft of the Borderguardsmen. Plains-bred they might be, but they were at ease in the forest. The Ellylon, of course, were at home anywhere; Haomane’s Children, Shaped to rule over all Lesser Shapers. Although they acknowledged him as kin-in-waiting and King of the West, even Aracus Altorus treated them with a certain respect. Always, there was an otherness to their presence. Grime that worked its way into the clothing and skin of Men seemed not to touch them. The shine on their armor never dimmed and an ever-willing breeze kept their pennants aloft, revealing the delicate devices wrought thereon. Under the command of Lorenlasse of Valmaré, the company of Rivenlost rode without tiring, sat light in the saddle, clad in shining armor, guiding their mounts with gentle touches and gazing about them with fiercely luminous eyes, as if assessing the world of Urulat and finding it lacking.

In some ways, she despised them most of all.

And it was an Ellyl, of course, who spotted the scout.

“ Anlaith cysgoddyn! ” It was like an Ellylon curse, only sung, in his musical voice. He stood in the stirrups, one finely shaped hand outflung, pointing. “Were!”

She saw; they all did. A grey, slinking figure, ears flattened to its head, ducking behind a thick pine trunk. Once sighted, it moved in a blur, dropping low to the earth, fleeing in swift, leaping bounds. Patches of sunlight dappled the fur on its gaunt flanks as it lunged for deeper shadow.

Aracus Altorus gave a single, terse order. “Shoot it!”

“Wait!” Lilias cried out in instinctive protest, too late.

A half dozen bowstrings twanged in chorus. Most were Ellylon; one was not. Oronin’s Bow sounded a deep, anguished note, belling like a beast at bay. This time, it shot true against its maker’s Children. The same fierce light that suffused the eyes of the Rivenlost lit the Archer’s face as she turned sideways in the saddle, following her arrow’s flight with her gaze. Its path ended in a howl of pain, cut short in a whimper. The underbrush rustled where its victim writhed.

“Blaise,”Aracus said implacably. “See what we have caught.”

“Stay here,” Blaise muttered to Lilias, relinquishing the reins of her mount and dismounting in haste.

Since there was nowhere to go, she did. With a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach, she watched as he beckoned to other Borderguardsmen, as their dun cloaks faded into the underbrush. And, sitting in the saddle, she watched as they tracked down their prey and brought him back.

He was slung between them like a hunter’s quarry, a Borderguardsman attached to each outspread limb. It was a pathetic sight, a Were stripped of all his shifting glamour. The haft of a yellow-fletched arrow protruded from the right side of his narrow, hairy breast. His chest heaved with each shallow breath, the wound burbling. Where they passed, crimson droplets of blood clung to the pineneedles.

“Phraotes!” Lilias whispered.

The one-time Were ambassador was panting. He hung in his captors’ grip, jaws agape. His amber eyes, meeting hers, rolled. There were foam and blood on his muzzle. “Sorceress,” he gasped. “It seems, perhaps, I should not have fled.”

Aracus Altorus raised his eyebrows. “You know this creature?”

“Yes.” A tide of anger rose in her. “ Yes! ” she spat. “I know him, and I know he has done you no harm! He is the Grey Dam’s ambassador to Beshtanag, O King of the West, and he brought to me the news that his folk would do nothing to oppose your passage. Nothing. ” Lilias drew a breath. “What harm has he done you now, that you would slay him out of hand? Nothing!”

“Lilias,” Blaise said. One of four, he maintained a cruel grip on Phraotes’ right foreleg, keeping the Were’s hairy limbs stretched taut. “Enough.”

“What?” she asked sharply. “No, I will speak! For a thousand years the Were dwelled in Beshtanag in peace. What do I care for your old quarrels?” She stared at the faces of her captors, one by one. “What did he care? Is there to be no end to it?” Against her will, her voice broke. “Will Haomane order you to slay everything that lives and does not obey his command?”

For a moment, they stared back at her. The Ellylon were expressionless. Blaise’s face was grim. Fianna, the Archer of Arduan, turned away with a choked sound. Aracus Altorus sighed, rumpling his red-gold hair. “Sorceress—” he began.

“We were attacked,” a soft voice interjected; an Ellyl voice. It was Peldras, of Malthus’ Company, who alone among his kind traveled in worn attire. He gazed at her with deep sorrow. “I am sorry, Lady of Beshtanag, but it is so. Blaise and Fianna will attest to it. On the outskirts of Pelmar, in deepest night, the Were fell upon us. Thus was Malthus lost, and the Bearer, fleeing into the Ways of the Marasoumië. Thus did one of our number fall, giving his life so that we might flee.”

“Hobard of Malumdoorn,” Blaise murmured. “Let his name not be forgotten.”

“Even so.” Peldras bowed his head.

“Phraotes?” Lilias asked in a small voice. “Is it true?”

“What is truth?” The Were bared his bloodstained teeth. “A long time ago, we made a choice. Perhaps it was a bad one. This time, we were forced into a bad bargain. Yet, what else was offered us? Perhaps you made a bad bargain. I am only an ambassador. I would be one to this Son of Altorus did he will it.”

Aracus frowned. “Do you gainsay the testimony of my comrades? Your people attacked Malthus’ Company under cover of night, unprovoked. A valiant companion was slain, the wisest of our counselors was lost, the greatest of our hopes has vanished. You have shown no honor here, no remorse. Why should I hear your suit?”

“Why not?” The Were’s head lolled, eyes rolling to fix his gaze on him. “It was a favor extracted by threat, nothing more. We failed; it is finished. We did not make war upon you in Beshtanag, Arahila’s Child. The Grey Dam fears the wrath of Satoris Third-Born, but Haomane’s is more dire. We seek only to be exempted from the Shapers’ War. Yea, I feared to approach in good faith, and I have paid a price for it. Will you not listen before it is paid in full?”

Angry voices rose in reply; in the saddle, Aracus Altorus held up one hand. “Set him down.” He waited while Blaise and the others obeyed. Phraotes curled into a tight ball and lay panting on the pine mast. His ears were flat against his skull and the shaft of the arrow jerked with each breath, slow blood trickling down his grey fur, but his visible eye was watchful. The Were did not die easily. Aracus gazed down at him, his expression somber. “There remain many scores between us, not the least of which is Lindanen Dale. And yet you say you are an ambassador. What terms do you offer, Oronin’s Child?”