Жаклин Кэри - Banewreaker

Skragdal sighed.

It was a gift.

Lord Satoris was right, had always been right. How wise were the Elders who had seen it! Did the Fjel not slumber in peace while Men whimpered in their dreams?

It was so, it had always been so.

“Are we going to die here, Lord General?” Speros’ voice cracked on the question, and his eyes rolled in his head, showing dry white crescents below the brown iris. The noonday sun stood motionless overhead. His footsteps had begun to stagger, leaving a meandering trail in the sand. Their water supply had been gone since last night, and hours of trekking had taken their toll.

“No.” Tanaros gritted his teeth, grabbing the Midlander’s arm and hauling it across his shoulders. Lowering his head, he trudged onward, taking up the weight that sagged against him. “Come on, lad. Just a little way further.”

Speros’ breath was hot and ragged against his ear. “You said that before.”

“And I will again,” he retorted, still trudging.

“General!” one of the Gulnagel shouted. “Water-hole!”

The staggering cavalcade made its way across the wasteland of the Unknown Desert. They fell to their knees and dug by hand in the scrubby underbrush, marking the signs the Yarru had taught them. There, where thorn-brush grew and the termites built their mounds. There was life, ounce by precious ounce. Moisture darkened the sand and collected, gleaming, where they dug. An inch of water, perhaps more. Sand flew as the Fjel widened the hole, then scooped assiduously at the gathering moisture with Tanaros’ helmet, husbanding every drop. They had carried the general’s armor on their backs, reckoning it too precious to leave.

A lucky thing, since it made a good bucket.

“Sir?” A Gulnagel held out his helmet. It looked small in his massive hands. An inch of water shone at the bottom. “Drink.”

Tanaros licked his dry lips, squinting at the sky. It was blue and unforgiving, the white sun blazing in it like Haomane’s Wrath. “Let him have it,” he said, nodding at Speros, whom he had laid gently in what scant shade the thorn-brush afforded. “What is left, take for yourselves.”

“All right, boss.” The Fjel squatted on the parched earth, cradling Speros’ head in his lap and tilting the helmet. “Drink,” he said, coaxing.

The Midlander drank, his throat working, then sighed.

What was left, the Gulnagel shared. It amounted to no more than a sip apiece. One of them approached the largest termite mound and thrust a thorny branch into the opening at the top, stirring and teasing. The others gathered around the dry tower as indignant insects emerged in a marching line, pinching with deft talons and popping them into their mouths, crunching antennae and legs and swollen thoraxes with relish.

“Eat, General.” Freg, grinning through his chipped eyetusks, approached him. His horny hands were cupped and filled with squirming bounty. “They’re good.”

Tanaros shook his head. “You have them, Freg. You’ve earned them.”

“You’re sure?” The Gulnagel seemed anxious.

“Aye.” He nodded.

Better that the Fjel should eat, and imbibe whatever moisture the termites held. It was not that Tanaros disdained the meal: They needed it; as much as Speros, though they reckoned it less. He knew. He knew Fjel. They were Neheris’ Children, born to a land of mountains and leaping rivers, not made for desert travel. The hides of the Gulnagel had grown desiccated and stark on this journey; leeched of color, dry and cracking.

Still, they would go and go and go, obedient to his orders, legs churning, never a complaint among them.

They ate until there were no more termites.

“We’re ready, General.” Freg stooped over the Midlander’s supine form. “You want I should carry him? I’ve strength enough for it.”

“Aye.” Tanaros drew a deep breath, feeling the arid air burn in his lungs. If his eyes had not been so dry, he might have wept. The lad had followed him out of a sense of belonging. He should never have been allowed to pledge his loyalty; he did not deserve to be left. “Aye, Freg. Carry him while you can.”

The Gulnagel did, hoisting Speros onto his own back. The Midlander’s limbs dangled, jostled by each wayward step. Onward they staggered, over the parched earth. Tanaros led the way. He knew it; knew it as the migrating swallow knows its way. His branded heart served as compass. There. There it was before him. Darkhaven. Home, where Lord Satoris sat on his Throne and Godslayer hung blazing in the marrow-fire. It exerted its own pull, guiding his faltering steps across the shortest route possible, no matter how inhospitable the land.

Alas, in the Unknown Desert, the shortest route was not always the best. The Yarru had known as much. The Unknown was crossed one water-hole at a time, one place of sustenance after another. They knew the way of it. If he had let them live, they might have guided him.

Better not to think about it.

Thus did they sojourn, onward and onward. The sun moved in immeasurably small increments across the sky. If there were shade, they would have traveled by night; but they had found no shade, not enough to shelter them. The Gulnagel panted like dogs, with open mouths and labored breathing. Even so, none would lay down his burden.

Tanaros forced his legs to move. One step, then another and another. After all, what did it cost him? He would not die in this place. It was like the Marasoumië. It might kill him, in time; it would take a long time. He could lie on the desert floor, dying of thirst, for ages. He had time. Let him set an example, instead. The black blade of his sword banged against his hip as he trudged onward through the empty desert, leading his staggering band.

The burning sun sank its leading edge below the horizon. Night would follow, with no water in sight. No chance of finding it by starlight; the signs were too subtle. He wondered, grimly, how many would live to see the dawn.

“Lord General!” One of the Gulnagel flung out a rough-hewn hand, pointing.

Wings, the shadow of wings, beating. They were cast large upon the parched earth and there was something familiar in the sound. Tanaros lifted a head grown heavy with exhaustion, raising an arm.

“Fetch!” he cried.

A familiar weight, settling. Talons pricked his arm, and a tufted head bobbed, cocking a beady eye at him. “ Kaugh! ”

“Fetch,” Tanaros murmured. A feeling in his heart swelled, painful and overlarge. It was foolish. It didn’t matter. He stroked the raven’s feathers with one forefinger, overwhelmed with gratitude. “How did you find me?”

Something nudged at his thoughts, a scrabbling sensation.

Surprised, he opened his mind.

A patchwork of images flooded his vision; sky, more sky, other ravens. A fecund swamp, leaves and bark and beetles. Ushahin Dreamspinner standing in the prow of a small boat, squinting through mismatched eyes. A dragon’s head reared against the sky, ancient and dripping. Darkness; darkness and light. The world seen from on high in all its vastness. Laughter. A dragon’s jaws, parting to breathe living fire.

“You saw this?” Tanaros asked.

“Kaugh!”

A green blur of passing swamp, bronze waters gleaming. Wings beating in a flying wedge; a pause, a caesura. Ushahin wiping sweat from his brow. A lofting, the downbeat of wings. Aloneness. Tilting earth, marsh and fertile plains, a shadow cast small below. It wavered, growing larger, then smaller. A blur of night and stars, pauses and launches. Blue, blue sky, and the desert floor.

The shadow held its size, held and held and held.

Greenness.

A drought-eater, no, three! Thick stalks, succulent leaves. Green-rinded fruits hung low, ripe with water. The shadow veered, growing large, then veered away again.