Жаклин Кэри - Banewreaker

Desert, parched desert, beneath the lowering sun.

Tanaros and his company seen from above.

“Oh, Fetch!” His dry eyes stung. “Have you seen this? Can you show me?”

“Kaugh!” Bobbing and chuckling, the raven launched itself from Tanaros’ arm, setting a northward trajectory.

“Follow him!” Marshaling his strength, Tanaros forced himself in the direction of the raven’s flight, departing from his heart’s compass. With mighty groans and dragging steps, the Gulnagel followed. Speros, unconscious, jounced on Freg’s back, ungainly as a sack of millet and thrice as heavy.

It was not a long journey, as Men reckon such things. How long does it take for the sun to set once the outermost rim of its disk has touched the horizon? A thousand beats of a straining heart; three thousand, perhaps, here where the desert lay flat and measureless. With the distance halfclosed, Tanaros saw the silhouettes of the drought-eaters, stark and black against the burning sky. Hope surged in his heart. He set a steady pace, exhorting the Gulnagel with praise and curses. If they had stuck to their course, they would have passed them by to the south, unseen.

But there was water ahead, water! The plants held it in abundance.

For a hundred steps, two hundred, the drought-eaters appeared to recede, taunting, ever out of reach. And then they were there, and Fetch settled atop a thick trunk, making a contented sound. The raven ruffled his feathers. A dwindling sliver of flame lit the western horizon and the scent of moisture seeped into the arid air. With rekindled strength, Tanaros strode ahead, drawing his sword to sever a greenripe fruit from its fibrous mooring and holding it aloft.

“Here!” he cried in triumph. “Water!”

One by one the Gulnagel staggered into his presence, each burdened with a piece of his armor. Each laid his burden on the sand with reverence; all save the last.

With heavy steps, Freg of the Gulnagel Fjel entered the stand of drought-eaters, a loose-limbed Speros draped over his back like a pelt. Freg’s taloned hands held the Midlander’s arms in place where they were clasped about his neck. His dragging tread gouged crumbling furrows in the dry earth. One step, then another and another, following Tanaros’ example. The drought-eaters cast long shadows across his path. Freg’s face split in a proud, weary smile.

“General,” he croaked, pitching forward.

“Freg!”

In the dying wash of light, Tanaros crouched beside the Gulnagel and rolled him onto his back. He spread his hands on the broad expanse of the Fjel’s torso, feeling for the beat of his sturdy heart. There was nothing. Only dry hide, harsh and rough to the touch. The heart that beat beneath it had failed. Freg’s chipped grin and empty eyes stared at the desert sky. Tanaros bowed his head. The other Gulnagel murmured in tones of quiet respect, and Fetch ducked his head to preen, picking at his breast-feathers.

Thrown free by Freg’s fall, Speros stirred his limbs and made a faint noise.

“Water,” Tanaros murmured, extending one hand without looking. A severed drought-fruit was placed in it. He tipped it and drank; one swallow, two, three. Enough. He placed it to the Midlander’s parched lips. “Drink.” Water spilled into Speros’ mouth, dribbled out of the corners to puddle on the dry earth. Tanaros lifted his head and gazed at the watching Gulnagel. “What are you waiting for?” he asked them, blinking against the inexplicable burn of tears. “It’s water. Drink! As you love his Lordship, drink.”

Stripping the plants, they hoisted drought-fruit and drank.

It was a mighty stand, and an old one. The plants seldom grew in pairs, let alone three at once. The Yarru must have told stories about such a thing. There was enough water here to quench their thirst, enough water here to carry. Tanaros fed it in slow sips to Speros until the Midlander’s eyes opened and consciousness returned, and he shivered and winced at the cramps that gripped his gut. Under starlight he scanned the remaining Fjel with a fevered gaze, and asked about Freg. His voice sounded like something brought up from the bottom of a well.

Tanaros told him.

The Midlander bent over with a dry, retching sob.

Tanaros left him alone, then, and walked under the stars. This time he did not brood on the red one that rose in the west, but on the thousands upon thousands that outnumbered it. There were so many visible, here in the Unknown Desert! Arahila’s Gift against the darkness, flung like diamonds across the black canopy of night. Nowhere else was it so evident. There was a terrible beauty in it.

It made him think of Ngurra’s calm voice.

It made him think of Cerelinde, and her terrible, luminous beauty.

It made him think of his wife.

Alone, he pressed the heels of his hands against his closed lids. Her eyes had shone like that at the babe’s birth. Like stars; like diamonds. Her eyes had shone like that when he killed her, too, glistening with terror as his hands closed about her throat. And yet … and yet. When he sought her face in his memory, it was that of the Lady of the Ellylon he saw instead. And there was no terror in her eyes, only a bright and deadly compassion.

“My Lord!” he cried aloud. “Guide me!”

Something rustled, and a familiar weight settled on his shoulder, talons pricking through his undertunic. A horny beak swiped at his cheek; once, twice. “Kaugh?”

“Fetch.” It was not the answer he sought, but it was an answer. Tanaros’ thoughts calmed as he stroked the raven’s feathers; calmed, and spiraled outward. “How did you know to find me, my friend? How did you penetrate the barrier of my thoughts? Was it the Dreamspinner who taught you thusly?”

“Kaugh,” the raven said apologetically, shuffling from foot to foot.

An image seeped into Tanaros’ mind; a grey, shadowy figure, lunging, jaws open, to avenge an ancient debt. Always, there were her slain cubs, weltering in their blood. A sword upraised between them, and Aracus Altorus’ face, weeping with futile rage as her weight bore him down, halfglimpsed as Tanaros wheeled his mount to flee and the Lady Cerelinde’s hair spilled like cornsilk over his thighs. The Grey Dam of the Were had died that day, spending her life for a greater gain.

“Ah.”

Ushahin’s words rang in his memory. Do you know, cousin, my dam afforded you a gift? You will know it, one day .

“Yes, cousin,” Tanaros whispered. “I know it.” And he stroked the raven’s feathers until Fetch sidled alongside his neck, sheltering beneath his dark hair, and remembered the broken-winged fledgling he had raised; the mess in his quarters, all the small, bright objects gone missing. And yet, never had he known the raven’s thoughts. A small gift, but it had saved lives. On his shoulder, Fetch gave a sleepy chortle. Tanaros clenched his fist and pressed it to his heart in the old manner, saluting the Grey Dam Sorash. “Thank you,” he said aloud. “Thank you, old mother.”

Vengeance. Loyalty. Sacrifice.

Such were the lodestones by which his existence was charted, and if it was not the answer he sought, it was answer enough. Thrusting away the thoughts that plagued him, Tanaros turned back toward the drought-eaters, walking slowly, the raven huddled on his shoulder.

There were not enough stones to build a cairn, so the Fjel were digging. Shadows gathered in the mouth of the grave. Dim figures looming in the starlight, the Gulnagel glanced up as he entered the encampment, continuing without cease to shift mounds of dry sand and pebbles. Tanaros nodded acknowledgment. No need for speech; he knew their ways.

The unsteady figure of Speros of Haimhault labored alongside them. “Lord General,” he rasped, straightening at Tanaros’ approach.