Wizardborn, page 22
Half a dozen archers died outright.
A boulder struck a knight of Heredon nearly two hundred yards from the reavers’ front. The stone slammed into his shoulder and knocked him from his horse.
For a heart-stopping second, Averan imagined that he was dead. But he crawled to his feet and staggered up, right arm hanging limp. In the fall he must have injured his hip, for he barely managed to stand. He looked about on the ground briefly, as if he’d lost something but could not recall what, then grabbed his bow.
His horse had run ahead. The archer limped for cover, using his bow as a crutch.
Around Averan, hard-faced Runelords clenched their weapons, steeled themselves for a charge.
But Averan knew that there would be no charge.
Blood on Stone’s successor wasn’t here. Less than a tenth of the reavers had made a stand. Her successor was fleeing with the main body of the horde.
Even as Averan watched, the blade-bearers turned to Blood on Stone’s corpse and began to pry at the sweet triangle on her skull. The bony plates ripped open, and the reavers tore out her precious brains, while others sought the glands beneath her legs.
The knight of Heredon limped back to safety, heading straight for Gaborn. When he reached his own lines, Averan saw his face. Blood streamed from his nose and mouth, and he gasped for every breath. His face was leached as white as linen.
“Sir Hoswell!” Iome said.
Some warriors helped Sir Hoswell to the ground, shouting that his lungs were burst. They laid him on a blanket. Iome got down from her own mount and held his hand. Myrrima rode back from the charge, and had retrieved his horse. Now she sat in the saddle, staring down at him.
At Averan’s back, Binnesman climbed from the saddle, knelt over the dying man. He reached into his pocket, pulled out an herb.
“Chew this,” Binnesman said. “It will make your passing easier.”
But Hoswell shook his head, refusing the herb. “I’m sorry,” Hoswell said between gasping breaths. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry!”
His back arched, and he stared up at Myrrima.
“It’s all right,” Iome said. “You served well. You’ve nothing to be sorry for.”
Sir Hoswell gasped and coughed up some red flecks. He held his bow up, offered it to Myrrima. “Take it. It’s the finest in Heredon.”
Averan had never seen a bow like it. Hoswell held it at arm’s length. The wings of the bow were forged from Heredon’s famed spring steel, but rather than a simple wide band of steel, this bow was made of a long, narrow piece. Many steel bows were short, the better for firing from horseback. But this was two-thirds the length of a longbow. The belly of the bow had a wooden handle bolted through it, ornately carved from oak, and the tips where the bow was strung were capped with similar pieces of oak.
Myrrima reached out hesitantly and took the bow. She did not seem glad, nor did she smile. She stared evenly at the dying knight.
Sir Hoswell began to cough, and blood foamed out of him. Averan turned away.
Beside Averan, Baron Waggit sat on his mount. He had not participated in the charge, had held back with Averan, Binnesman, and Gaborn’s Days. He choked back a sob, and Averan glanced up at him.
She saw horror naked in his eyes. “He—he’s dying? Forever?”
She’d never seen that expression in the face of a man before. She remembered years ago, when her own mother had died, and Brand had come and held her tenderly and told her what had happened. He’d warned her then that it happened to everyone, that there was no escape.
She’d felt that terror then.
She suddenly realized that in some ways, she was older than Waggit. She’d learned about death long ago, as a girl of three. But Waggit had always been incapable of comprehending that death was the end, inescapable and interminable. Lucky Waggit.
“I’m afraid so,” Binnesman said softly, trying to comfort the young man.
Waggit shook his head, as if he could not accept it.
A cheer erupted from Gaborn’s knights.
At first Averan thought they cheered Hoswell, but the cheer had erupted everywhere at once.
She looked across the battlefield.
The reaver horde was turning. The great monsters loped away in their strange rocking gait, running south. Even as they did, there was a subtle change. They formed into seven columns, with mages taking the center.
The warriors around Averan began to mutter. They’d never seen reavers march that way. Averan could remember nothing like it even in reaver experience.
Averan felt uneasy. The reavers had begun changing tactics, adjusting, she knew that reavers were clever creatures—perhaps even smarter than men. The moment seemed ominous.
Gaborn’s own warriors turned their mounts, heading away from the battlefield. Binnesman got back on his horse, behind Averan, and for a moment they rode in silence.
Gaborn gave Averan a sideways glance. He smiled. “Congratulations,” he said. “We have our second victory, and in great part we owe it to you.”
It felt gruesome to get such a commendation now, with dead men at their backs.
“I think I shall promote you,” Gaborn said. “Let it be known that Skyrider Averan is now a chancellor to the king.”
It was supposed to be a huge honor. As chancellor, she would be called upon to advise the king whenever he asked. At the age of nine, she was probably the youngest person ever bestowed the title. Averan should have been thrilled.
But she felt confused. The honor seemed hollow.
Averan looked at the fleeing reavers, at knights cheering in the battle line. Then she looked back out over the golden plains beneath the blue bowl of heaven, where reavers lay in mounds like gray stones.
She felt sad.
She realized belatedly that she did not care for a title. It was an honor that a man bestowed upon men, and she felt as if she were separating from mankind. Her calling was to serve the Earth.
27
IN THE CITY OF LIZARDS
The flame lizard of Djeban takes its name from the frill at its throat When expanded, the crimson frill makes the lizard appear larger and more terrifying than it is, and the bright red patches beneath the jaw look very much as if it has been feeding on the blood of its enemies. By night, the same frill can be made to fluoresce briefly, creating the illusion of a flickering fire.
In the early spring, males will display their frills nightly for the females, rivaling for attention. Hence each evening Djeban appears to catch fire.
In Inkarra the flame lizards are used like guard dogs, and called “draktferions,” which means “watchfires.” In Mystarria their name was shortened to “drakens.” In northern Rofehavan that name was changed to <(dragons.”
—Excerpt from Binnesman’s Bestiary: Reptiles of the World
For a long time after the baobab tree, Raj Ahten found no water. He raced his camels across the Wastes, sparing nothing in his attempt to catch up to Wuqaz.
There was sand, and more sand, and still sand, and sand piled upon the piled sand. That is how one described the Wastes.
Nothing crawled upon it but a few beetles and small web-footed geckos. All of the lizards had sand-colored backs to hide from predators and white bellies to reflect the desert sun. A few blind shrews lived beneath the sand and came out at night to hunt for scorpions, but there was little else.
Overhead, large sand-colored desert graaks flew in circles, a mile into the air, watching everything that moved. It was not uncommon for the monsters to swoop low and knock a man off his camel, leaving him to die as the camel raced for safety. But the graaks would not dare attack a party as large as this.
The camels had good runes of brawn, stamina, and metabolism burned into their flesh, but Raj Ahten soon grew to suspect that some of their Dedicate camels had died. One camel sat down halfway across the Waste, and would not get up, even when jabbed with a sharp camel prod.
Raj Ahten had no choice but to leave his man there until the camel felt ready to travel again. The invincible drew his warhammer and stood over his mount protectively, watching the sky for graaks.
The vast bed of the White Sea was dry at this time of year, except for a few miles where the water ran little deeper than a camel’s ankles. The receding sea left a salty crust that crunched under the camels’ feet with every step. The wind sweeping across the dry lakebed whipped bits of salt into the eyes of men and camels alike.
Raj Ahten wrapped a rag around his face, and was happy to reach the waters of the White Sea, so named because of the white crust all along its shore. The sparkling amethyst waters were shallow and too salty to drink. But the presence of any water was welcome. No more salt crystals whipped through the air here, and the journey was safe, if slow. Giant crocodiles infested the eastern shores of this inland sea, but here in the west it was too salty even for them.
As the mounts waded through miles of water, Raj Ahten spotted obbatas far in the distance—tall desert tribesmen on their ugly black camels. Whole families would ride together on one of the beasts, and the riders were as strange as their mounts, for the men and women wore little clothing. Instead, their shamans tattooed runes of water binding on the obbatas’ lower lips to protect them from the blistering sun. Yet such runes had undesirable effects. They closed the pores on the tribesmen’s lustrous black skin, leaving it colorless and flaky, as if covered in scales. Their fingernails and toenails became as dull as flint, while the whites of their eyes turned gray. In the south, in Umarish, the obbata tribesmen were called the “crocodile people,” for they no longer looked human.
Whole tribes of obbatas were riding north, the sun flashing on the silver blades of their spears. Raj Ahten took their migration as a foreboding. The reticent obbatas seldom traveled by day, yet now myriads of them were driving their monstrous camels across the shallow White Sea.
They are fleeing, he realized. Could they have heard of the reaver invasion so far away?
The portent was chilling.
By early afternoon, he and his men had gained on the twelve Ah’kellah. He saw them in the distance from atop his camel, not ten miles off, and silently pleaded to the Powers, “Let Wuqaz be among them.”
Raj Ahten’s endowments let him spy the men as they prodded the camels up the high plateaus, toward the ancient ruins beneath the mountains at Djeban. The Ah’kellah rode with their backs to him, and Raj Ahten could not see if Wuqaz rode with them.
Raj Ahten, clutching his reins in his numb left hand, rode on.
Djeban, the “City of Lizards,” lay quiet as a crypt when he reached it. All along the cliffs above the city, statues of men with the heads of hawks stood poised, gazing with dead eyes.
No sparrow peeped in the thickets; no hawk wheeled in the sky. But upon every large stone crouched huge carnivorous flame lizards that hissed and fanned the bright red frills beneath their throats in warning as Raj Ahten’s men drew near.
Raj Ahten could smell his quarry strongly now. The men had stopped to water their camels at the first stream they crossed. Not far ahead was a hill, and beyond it a lush valley where the grass kept green throughout most of the year. Raj Ahten knew it well from previous journeys. The warriors would be feeding their camels there. Raj Ahten tasted for the scent of Wuqaz, but could not find it. There was a trace … of someone who might be Wuqaz. With so many endowments of scent, Raj Ahten felt that he ought to be more certain. He hoped that the odor of the man he sought was merely masked by the smells of other warriors.
He called a halt, and Raj Ahten’s hunters strung their bows. He warned, “Strike quickly, and take no prisoners.”
He had already thrown off his armor, which was the most recognizable part of his attire. Now he pulled his robe over a simple helm, rode with his face down.
“Bhopanastrat,” Raj Ahten called, “take the lead.” If the Ah’kellah realized that Raj Ahten himself was attacking, they would flee.
Raj Ahten knew that Gaborn had chosen Wuqaz and the Ah’kellah yesterday in the battle at Carris. Now he wondered at the wisdom of assailing Gaborn’s Chosen warriors. He’d managed to defeat some before—but just barely. None of those men were like Wuqaz Faharaqin. That old warlord had over two hundred endowments to his credit.
The men drew out their camel prods, urged the animals on mercilessly. Raj Ahten saw blood flow on the flanks of more than one beast.
The camels snorted and raced now, their huge feet thudding on the ground with a distinctive sound. In brush and rocks the camels were of little use, and plodded along in a gangling way. But here in this terrain the creatures galloped as fast as any horse, showing that they were capable of true grace. These were force camels with endowments of brawn and metabolism.
Raj Ahten’s mount topped the ridge at perhaps eighty miles per hour. He saw the dozen Ah’kellah sitting in a circle beside an oasis, cooking fry bread over a fire of dried camel dung. Their mounts were spread out along the fields, foraging on the grass.
The valley was devoid of trees and rocks, places where the Ah’kellah might seek shelter.
At the sight of Raj Ahten’s men, they leapt to their feet, peered toward the hilltop in curiosity. But when they saw a dozen men with strung bows racing toward them, they knew there would be battle. One man ran for his camel, his robes flapping wildly, but the others shouted, warning him to leave it.
The twelve warriors drew sabers and warhammers. Two men quickly strung their hornbows.
By that time, Raj Ahten’s men were streaming to either side, firing arrows into the cluster of mountless men.
The Ah’kellah were trapped. They had no cover. Five men took arrows almost instantly, and stood their ground with arrows bristling from chests and legs. An enemy bowman put an arrow through the eye of a camel, so that one of Raj Ahten’s men went down in a sickening thud, bones crunching. Four others of the Ah’kellah raced out of the knot on either side, attacked with battle-axes and sabers, chopping at the unprotected necks and throats of passing camels.
Five camels tumbled in a spray of blood. Raj Ahten drew his warhammer and leapt from his own mount, buried a spike through the head of the first Ah’kellah he met. Another raced up at his back, and Raj Ahten spun the hammer instantly, swiping the man across the ribs with a blow that ripped out the bottoms of his lungs.
Blood spattered his face as he charged into the crowd of Ah’kellah, seeking Wuqaz. Arrows whizzed past his head, striking two more men.
None of the Ah’kellah prostrated themselves and begged for mercy, as a man of old Indhopal might have done. It was not in their nature to ask for mercy, not in their nature to give it.
He looked into the stern eyes of one old kaif who shouted, “Raj Ah—” as Raj Ahten’s warhammer tore out his throat.
The Ah’kellah became a dark swirling mass as they rushed to attack him. These were not common troops. For one heart-stopping second he imagined that Gaborn guided them.
But Raj Ahten was not to be trifled with. Even ailing from Binnesman’s curse, he had his endowments.
He kicked one man in the chest with the steel toe of his boots, crushing his heart. He dodged beneath a sword, slammed the head of his battle-ax into the man’s face. He drew a dagger in his numb left hand, drove it under the chin of a third attacker, leapt up and kicked a fourth man with both feet so hard that the man’s head came off.
It was too easy. He did not take even a glancing blow. This fight was nothing like the brawl he’d endured yesterday, when Gaborn guided his Chosen.
In moments it was over. Raj Ahten stood panting above the corpses of the Ah’kellah. Dust was thick in the air from racing camels. The smell of blood hung over the encampment. Camels bawled in pain, lying with their legs broken or missing.
Three of his own men were dead. Another was badly wounded—his right arm shattered and most of his face caved in.
Amid this, Raj Ahten walked back over to the small campfire, where the fry bread baked in a blackened skillet. The bread was lightly toasted on top, and he could smell pistachios and cumin cooking inside.
He flipped out a piece into his hand, chewed it thoughtfully. A movement on the hill caught his eye. Flame lizards had begun to creep down from the bluffs and rocks. They’d caught the scent of blood. They’d feed well on the corpses tonight.
Wuqaz is not here, Raj Ahten realized. Wuqaz was not a man prone to mistakes. He would never have stopped at this oasis, barren of cover. Raj Ahten should have known that when he crested the hill.
The thought of Wuqaz running free worried him. It meant that he had either gone north into Deyazz, or more likely to the western coast—to Dharmad, Jiz, or Kuhran … good places to cause trouble.
Raj Ahten had sent eighty men to ride Wuqaz down. He suspected that it would not be enough.
28
A HARVEST
A reaver’s sensory organs, its philia, circle the base of its skull and run beneath the jaws. Blade-bearers have been seen with as few as eighteen philia and as many as thirty-six. Whatever the number, they are always found in multiples of three.
Hearthmaster Magnus used to teach that the more philia a reaver had, the older it was. But I can see no evidence of this. By comparing the number of a reaver’s philia to its apparent size and age (as measured by tooth wear), I see no correlation between the number of philia and the reaver’s age.
Nor does a larger number of philia seem to convey any greater status to a reaver, as Hearthmaster Banes once surmised. Very powerful sorceresses have had relatively few philia, while small blade-bearers have been found with many.
Ultimately, the science of counting philia on a reaver in order to make any sort of deductions is pointless. It is analogous to trying to deduce whether a man is a farmer or fisherman by counting his nose hairs.
—Excerpt from A Comparison of Reports on Reavers, by Hearthmaster Dungiles
Gaborn turned from the fleeing reavers. They would not attack. His remaining Earth Powers let him feel confident of that much, at least.
