Жаклин Кэри - Banewreaker

“Aye, sir!” Speros smiled, relishing the word. “Home.”

“Don’t look.”

Blaise Caveros’ voice was low as he attempted to interpose his mount between her and the sight of the fallen dragon. It was a futile courtesy. Calandor’s bulk loomed beyond the gap in Beshtanag’s wall like a second mountain. There was no way Lilias could avoid seeing him as the train of Haomane’s Allies made their way down the slope, passing through the broken wall.

It was true, what the old legends claimed. In death, the dragon had turned to stone. The glittering scales had faded to dull grey, veined with a reddish ore. Already, the clean, sinuous lines of his form had grown weathered and vague. Lilias’ hands trembled on the reins as she tried to trace his shape with her gaze.

There, she thought; the smaller ridge is his tail, and those are his haunches. How did he land? Oh Shapers, that crumpled part underneath is a wing! It must have broken in the fall.

Without thinking, Lilias drew rein and dismounted, tugging blindly at robes that caught and tore on the buckle of her mount’s girth. “Sorceress!” Blaise’s call seemed distant and unimportant. She stumbled across the battlefield into the shadow of Calandor’s body, hands outstretched. There. That was his shoulder, that was one of his forelegs against which she had so often leaned, feeling the warmth of his mighty heart radiating against her skin.

“Calandor,” she whispered, laying her hands on the harsh grey stone. It was sun-warmed. If she closed her eyes, she could almost pretend. The long ridge of his neck slanted along the ground, ending in the dim outline of his noble head, chin resting on the earth. Only knobs of dead stone remained where his green-gilt eyes had shone. Oblivious to the waiting train, Lilias embraced as much of the fallen dragon as her arms could encompass, and wept.

Hoofbeats rattled on the stony ground behind her, and leather tack creaked. “Sorceress,” Blaise said. “It’s time to go.”

Lilias rested her brow against the sun-warmed rock. If she tried, she could almost imagine the pulse beating in her own veins was the steady throb of the dragon’s heart. “Can you not allow me even a moment of grief?”

“No. Not here. Not now.”

She turned slowly to face him, squinting through tearswollen eyes. He sat impassively in the saddle, leading her mount by the reins. Beyond him, Haomane’s Allies waited in shining, impatient panoply. At the head of the column, Aracus Altorus was frowning, the Soumanië bright on his brow. A coterie of Ellylon and a handful of Borderguard surrounded him. The woman Archer was watching her with distrust, an arrow loosely nocked in Oronin’s Bow. A long line of soldiery—Pelmarans, Midlanders, Vedasians—stretched behind them, mounted and on foot, all regarding her with triumphant contempt.

It was too much to bear.

Averting her head, Lilias left the dragon’s side and fumbled for the stirrup. Someone laughed aloud as she struggled to mount without the aid of a block. Blaise reached over and hauled her unceremoniously into the saddle. He kept control of her reins, leading her back toward the train. Aracus gave the signal and progress resumed.

Behind them, a cheer arose as a Pelmaran foot-soldier passing in the ranks jabbed at the ridge of Calandor’s tail with the butt-end of his spear. It set a trend. Sick at heart, Lilias twisted in the saddle to watch as each passing man ventured a thrust or a kick, bits of stone crumbling under their blows. One of them spat.

“Darden.” Blaise beckoned to one of the dun-cloaked Borderguardsmen. “Tell them to stop.”

The man nodded, turning his horse’s head and riding back down the line. The order was received with grumbling, but it was obeyed. After the battle, few of Haomane’s Allies would venture to disobey one of the Borderguard.

“Thank you.” Lilias spoke the words without looking at him.

Blaise shrugged, shifting his grip on the twin sets of reins. “He was one of the Eldest. If nothing else, that is worthy of a measure of respect.”

The train continued, passing over the well-trodden ground of its own encampment. The vast city of tents had been struck and folded, but the ravages of their occupation remained. Trees had been clear-cut for siege-engines and battering rams, leaving raw stumps and scattered debris. Ashes and bones littered the sites of a hundred campfires. Gazing at it, Lilias shook her head. “He was only trying to protect his home,” she said. “To protect me. ”

Blaise gave her a hard look. “Tell that to the mothers and widows of the men he roasted alive in their armor.”

In the forefront of the vanguard, their column narrowed as Aracus Altorus entered the verge of the forest. The pine shadows muted his red-gold hair and gave a watery green tint to the silver armor of the Rivenlost who surrounded him.

“You could have withdrawn,” Lilias said quietly. “It would have been enough.”

“And you could have surrendered!” A muscle worked in Blaise’s jaw. “What do you want from me, Sorceress? Pity? You chose to take part in the Sunderer’s scheme. You could have surrendered when it failed, and pleaded for honest clemency.”

She laughed mirthlessly. “Would my fate be different, Borderguardsman?”

“Yours?” He raised his brows. “No.”

“So.” She rubbed her cheeks, stiff with the salt of drying tears. “It doesn’t matter, does it? Nothing matters, in the end. Let us leave it at that, Borderguardsman. If you would speak, speak of something else.”

He shrugged as they entered the shadow of the pines. “Aracus entrusted me with the task of warding you. I have no need to speak.”

The horses’ hooves thudded softly on the broad, beaten path, gaining speed as Aracus Altorus stepped up the pace to a slow trot. Soon, the vanguard would pull ahead of the foot-soldiers, leaving them behind. An occupying force of Regent Martinek’s men remained to oversee Beshtanag’s affairs. The remaining Pelmarans would assemble a council of Regents to determine what aid they could send westward; in the south, the Vedasian knights would seek to rally their own overlords. Duke Bornin of Seahold would gather the forces of the Midlands. As for the rest of them, they were bound for the Rivenlost haven of Meronil and the counsel of Ingolin the Wise; to seek news of Malthus, to attempt to unlock the power of the Soumanië, to plan an assault upon Darkhaven.

And their prisoner, Lilias of Beshtanag, who held the answers to two of these matters, would be carried along with them like a twig in a flood.

Turning in the saddle, Lilias glanced behind her one last time. Already the fortress was invisible from this angle. She caught a glimpse of the dull grey hummock of Calandor’s remains before low pine branches swept across her field of vision, closing like a curtain upon Beshtanag.

“Good-bye,” she whispered. “Good-bye, my love.”

In her quarters, Cerelinde balked.

“Thank you, Lord Vorax,” she said stiffly. “I pray you tell his Lordship I decline his invitation.”

The madling Meara hissed with alarm in the comer. Vorax the Glutton grimaced, planting his heavy hands on the gilded belt that encircled his girth; which had, in fairness, grown considerably less than it had been when he greeted her at the gates of Darkhaven. “Do you think I fancy being his errand-boy, Lady? I have more important duties. Nonetheless, his Lordship’s invitations are not optional.”

“Very well.” She laid aside the lace-work with which she had been occupying her hours. “As his Lordship commands.”

Vorax held open the door to her chambers with a sardonic bow, smiling in such a way as showed his sturdy teeth above his beard. Small scabs stippled his brow and cheeks. Cerelinde repressed a shudder at having to pass close enough to feel the heat of his body. “You are too kind, Lady.”