Wizardborn, page 24
Parts of a magnificent castle still stood. Its towers had been blasted by lightning and strong winds; some of the walls had tumbled down over the ages. Ivy climbed the walls of the castle, and where once a city had stood, oaks raised their magnificent branches. Its courtyards had become the abode of owls.
But the image of Mangan himself stood facing north, some ninety feet high. Two dogs of war flanked him. At one time, it was said that he bore a huge bronze spear in his right hand, but now the hand was gone. Still, he stared to the north, ever vigilant.
The road winding up to the castle had suffered most of all. Landslides had borne it away in places.
The reavers did not mind.
As Myrrima and Borenson rode toward Mangan’s Rock, the reavers scrabbled up the cliff face as easily as a cat would climb a tree.
They clambered up to the castle walls, perched in crevasses like massive dark gargoyles. They took posts along the sheer cliff, and all of them raised their heads and stood waving their philia.
Gaborn, his Days, and the child Averan were among the last to leave the battlefield. Even the frowth had gone before them. They rode together with Iome, Binnesman, Jureem, and Feykaald.
“I’d not have thought that they would run to ground so easily,” Gaborn was saying. He studied the reavers, mystified.
“Maybe they’re going to hold a tournament,” Averan suggested. “We killed their leader. They may have to fight to pick a new one.”
But Gaborn squinted up at the reavers, shook his head in bafflement. “That’s not it. They’re planning something … more sinister.”
“Your Highness,” Borenson broke in. “May I have a word?” Gaborn gave him his attention. “I’ll be taking my leave now.”
Gaborn reined his horse to a halt, sat looking at Borenson for a long moment, as if to simply hold the image in his memory.
Myrrima felt deeply aware of the fact that she might never see these people again. In only a few days she’d become a fast friend with Iome.
“May the Earth Powers guide you,” Gaborn said at last, “and may the Bright Ones light your way.”
Iome said quickly, “Sir Borenson, I repent of the quest I laid upon you. You are a man of honor, sir, and I was wrong to question it.”
But Gaborn raised his hand, begging Iome to be silent. She’d laid the quest upon his head in front of ten thousand men, and there could be no recalling the words. Borenson would go to Inkarra and search for Daylan Hammer, the Sum of All Men whom legend said had so many endowments that he could not die. Iome hoped that he could help Gaborn defend his people against the perils to come. More than that, Borenson had killed Iome’s father and had slain some two thousand Dedicates. For the sake of his own soul, he needed to redeem himself.
And Gaborn truly did need help. Whether it came from Zandaros, or whether Borenson found Daylan Hammer, or he got it from Raj Ahten himself, Gaborn needed help.
“I have the letter here,” Gaborn said, reaching back into his bags, “for the Storm King. It explains your mission and begs his aid.
“And there is another small favor I would ask—” Gaborn broke off suddenly and whirled on his mount, as if someone had shouted an alarm.
Up ahead a couple of miles, the tail end of the reavers’ forces were still marching toward the rock. They traveled as they had before, in a file seven reavers across. Nothing had changed in their configuration.
But fifty Knights Equitable with lances raced up behind, veering from the east.
“Damn the fools,” Gaborn muttered. He reached for the warhorn slung over his saddlebags, blew a retreat.
Several knights glanced toward him, then looked away and sped their charge.
“Humph,” Borenson grunted in amusement.
Instantly, Myrrima sensed that men were about to die.
Gaborn blew the retreat more vigorously. All along his lines, knights turned and raced to Gaborn, as if the summons were meant for them. But the fifty lancers held their course.
Gaborn blew more frantically.
At two miles, the men were tiny figures on the slope. Sunlight gleamed on white lances, on helm and armor. Myrrima watched as they raced up to the reavers’ lines.
The charge did not go as had the previous one. The reavers were not blindsided.
Instead as lancers approached, the blade-bearers on the eastern flank did something totally unexpected. The huge monsters each spun and shoved their shovel-shaped heads into the topsoil, then stood flailing their great battle arms.
The maneuver effectively covered their sweet triangles, giving the lancers no target but the reavers’ armored heads. In effect, the blade-bearers created a wall of flesh.
From behind that wall, other reavers hurled stones over the heads of their companions, as if from a flight of catapults. Scarlet sorceresses cast spells.
Thus, the reavers formed a shield wall and attacked in a way that had never been seen before.
In seconds the battle concluded. Thirty-two men and horses were cut down in an instant. Those who managed to survive the hail of stones fled, some wounded and barely clinging to their horses, others leaving fallen mounts behind.
Gaborn quit blowing retreat. He hung his head in anguish while the remaining reavers scaled Mangan’s Rock.
30
THE SHEPHERD
Of all the beasts of lore, the reavers remain among the most mysterious, for the few who observe their habits seldom manage to survive the encounter.
—Hearthmaster Valen, of the Room of Beasts
Averan felt as if she carried the world on her shoulders. Yesterday as she’d run for Carris fleeing the reavers, she’d imagined that life could never get harder or more desperate than she’d felt at that moment.
Now, she knew that she was wrong.
Gaborn needed another victory from her. He wanted answers to questions, but she had none.
Almost immediately after feeding on this reaver, she began to feel ill. At first, she thought the sickness was a product of her own worries, despair at her own failings.
She knew within moments of eating the gray matter of this reaver that it was not a Waymaker.
The reaver was called a Keeper and he was intimate with all facets of animal husbandry and butchery. He knew how to gut a carcass, prepare it for his masters.
Visions of the Underworld she’d never seen unfolded to her view: she saw caverns where weird plants grew. Some were tough as gristle and did their best to look like rocks. Others were spiny like sea urchins that thrived in open air, or hung from the cavetop like ropes.
The reavers carefully tended the plants in special chambers. But the reavers did not eat their own crops.
Instead, giant segmented worms grazed among the fields, along with strange animals that Averan would have taken hours to describe—spidery animals as a large as cottages, and horned beetles the size of bulls.
So the reavers raised their herds.
Keeper was filled with a jumble of intimate details about the life cycles of each animal. He knew how to prod a cottage-sized spider with an iron pole so that she would leave her cache of freshly laid eggs. He knew how to use a knight gig by feel, so that he hooked blindfish by the belly. He knew which parasites fed on giant worms, and which scents to use to rid the worms of such parasites.
Useless information flooded Averan’s young mind in a torrent, a jumble of images and thoughts and scents that left her dazed. She could glean almost nothing from it.
Yet the images were more coherent than before. Averan had eaten more of this creature than she had of the others. Maybe that was part of it. Or perhaps the difference was that she understood the context of this reaver’s thoughts better than she had the others’.
She was learning the reavers’ language, seeing as a reaver saw. The memories seemed not so much a tangle as they did intermittent journeys through the eyes of another.
Yet Averan felt a pang of despair as the visions began. After spending a long morning looking for the Waymaker, Averan had succeeded in eating a farmer.
So she began to think that her despair was the cause of her pains when they first began.
Gaborn had her ride his horse, his gauntleted hand wrapped protectively around her belly. Her stomach was full, cramping, as it seemed to do every time that she ate a reaver.
Gaborn’s men closed in on Mangan’s Rock, and he ordered various sentries and lords to form a picket all around the rock, to keep the reavers from escaping. But he kept his main force to the west, so that the prevailing wind would continue to blow their scent toward the horde.
He ordered his carters to go to Ballyton and return with supplies for a siege, and then he rode with Averan to a small brook a mile west of the rock.
The brook wound slowly through the grasslands. Cattails and willow grew thick on its banks, and a herd of deer bounded from the brush as the lords approached.
Gaborn took her to an oak tree. Averan brushed away the acorns on the ground and sat in the shade.
Iome sat beside her, wiped some sweat from Averan’s face, and whispered, “You don’t look well.”
“I don’t feel good,” Averan admitted.
“Just sit here, little one,” Iome offered, taking her hand. “I’ll take care of you.”
Averan looked up into Iome’s face. The queen was watching her intently, full of concern.
She doesn’t know me, Averan thought. She couldn’t care about me. But Iome’s expression informed her otherwise. Some people cared more than others did. Some people were born to love others until it hurt.
The wizard Binnesman cleared the ground nearby, dragging away tree limbs. One of Gaborn’s captains, a grizzled old man with a scarred face, gave the green woman a staff. He taught her how to grip it, then began teaching her some basic combat stances and maneuvers—jabs, thrusts, and sweeps. Baron Waggit stood by, soon got a staff, and began trying to learn along with the green woman.
Averan watched them to keep her mind off her own problems. But suddenly her heart began to race in terror. Something was going terribly wrong.
“Help me,” Averan begged Iome.
Iome stared hard at Averan. Gaborn’s queen was a small woman, half Indhopalese. It was impossible to look at her and not to notice the penetrating eyes so brown that they were almost black, reflecting the light. In size and build, she was much like Saffira.
“Jureem,” Iome begged. “Get the child some water. She looks ill.”
“At once.” Jureem went to the stream to fill a skin.
“What’s wrong?” Iome asked.
Averan could hardly explain. At that moment, she was being assailed by a dozen memories at once—lessons in how to transplant a rock plant, how to catch a horn beetle, the chill of racing up the mountains through an icy river, and images of lightning flashing over the battle of Carris. Terror coursed through her in gut-wrenching waves.
“I don’t know … I feel like I’m drowning,” Averan said.
“Drowning?” Iome asked.
Averan couldn’t explain. Strange fears and cravings coursed through her. She struggled. “Maybe it’s the memories. It’s all these memories …”
Iome put her hand over Averan’s forehead. Sweat rolled off like drops of dew. Jureem returned with the waterskin. Iome placed it to Averan’s lips, gave her a cool drink.
Averan’s mouth and throat were so dry. She hadn’t felt this way before when she’d eaten reavers. Now she drank her fill until her stomach hurt, but the water didn’t quench her.
She started to cry.
“It’s all right,” Iome said. “You’ve taken in the memories of three reavers in three days. That must be a lot for a little girl who hasn’t even lived her own life yet.”
But Averan shook her head. That wasn’t it. Sweat poured off her more fiercely. Her heart was racing, and she took deep breaths. The cramping in the stomach had never hit Averan so hard. She’d never had sweat wring from her before.
She wondered if this reaver had poison in its blood.
“Everyone I know is dying,” Averan said. She didn’t dare say that she was afraid that she might die.
“Help me,” Averan begged.
To Averan’s surprise, Iome scooted down, wrapped one arm under her neck, the other over Averan’s chest. “I’ll help you,” Iome whispered. “Whenever you need me, whatever you ask, I’ll help you if I can.”
That assurance comforted Averan. She discovered that she craved a human touch.
A burst of memories welled up. Averan cried out.
“Binnesman,” Iome begged. “Can you spare a moment?”
The wizard came to minister to Averan. He had her open her mouth, checked her eyes. “There’s nothing wrong that I can see,” Binnesman declared in a mystified tone.
“She’s sweating with a fever, and she’s shivering in terror,” Iome said.
Binnesman argued, “Feel her head. She has no fever.”
Iome gave him a look that said she thought he must be daft. She checked Averan’s sweaty brow, shook her head in consternation.
Binnesman peered at Averan worriedly. He took some herbs from his pocket and treated her symptoms. He warned Iome, “Let me know if she worsens.”
So Averan lay in a torpid state, plagued by strange sensations. Pain cramped her feet and joints; dryness chafed her lungs; the consuming thirst ravaged her. She did her best to ignore the pain. She watched the green woman.
The wylde’s trainer put her through her paces. He was obviously astonished at how quickly she learned. Baron Waggit couldn’t keep up. The trainer quickly moved from teaching the wylde how to grip the staff and do basic maneuvers into full-body lunges, whirling attacks, spinning parries, and combination moves. “I’ve taught the staff in the Room of Arms for twenty years,” the big knight said to Binnesman at one point, “and never dreamed of a girl like this. When you’re done with her, can I take her to wife?”
Binnesman laughed.
Averan felt jealous. Binnesman was desperate to get the wylde trained, and Averan thought of her as a friend. Averan didn’t like what the wizard was doing to the green woman, turning her into a weapon. She didn’t like it any more than she liked what Gaborn was making her do.
31
RIDERS BEFORE THE STORM
In no contest in life does the advantage accrue to the unprepared.
—Mendellas Val Orden
Gaborn could sense danger rising around Iome. The attack against her was very close.
For a day now, he’d felt it stirring.
He checked the perimeter of his guard. He’d quietly stationed eighty men around the camp. Most of them lounged about—squatting on logs to sharpen axes, or pretending to snooze. A hundred yards away, Sir Borenson and Myrrima made a big show of packing their goods, as if in a hurry to be off for Inkarra, yet, as asked, Borenson let his keen blue eyes stray to the trees along the creek bank, as alert as any five men.
But nothing Gaborn did seemed to allay the threat.
He wandered close to Skalbairn. He’d asked the man to stay near Iome, and the big knight did. But for the moment he had a staff and was sparring with Baron Waggit. It was rough work. Sweat coursed down the baron’s face, and soaked though his tunic. He’d ripped a sleeve in his sparring. His blue eyes gleamed with anticipation. He seemed to be enjoying himself immensely.
Skalbairn spoke amiably to the baron. “Ah, you should come with me to Internook,” he was saying as the baron tried in vain to bash him with his staff. “It’s not so damned civilized. A man like you would do well there, put his past behind him.”
“Keep sharp,” Gaborn whispered to Skalbairn.
“Always,” Skalbairn said under his breath.
Gaborn made one last search of his perimeter, sauntered over toward Iome and Averan, who sat together. Iome’s arm was wrapped around the child. Averan’s glazed eyes stared inward. The child looked deathly ill. Perspiration poured from her.
Gaborn squatted next to Averan and Iome. “Well?” he asked gently, expectantly. “Any word?”
“It wasn’t Waymaker that I ate,” Averan said. “It was only some …”—she searched for the right word—“worm herder.”
Gaborn squinted at her curiously. “Worm herder?”
“Like a shepherd or a farmer, only to worms and other animals,” she said. “I warned you that you’re fighting peasants.”
She spoke sincerely, but the reavers were up to something, whether Averan knew it or not.
Could the danger actually come from this child? he wondered.
He didn’t want to believe that. Averan was an apprentice Earth Warden after all, dedicated to preserving life. Yet right now he wondered if she wasn’t… deranged. He had to test the theory.
“Iome,” Gaborn asked. “Come here for a moment.” He purposely walked a hundred yards from Averan, stood with his back to her. He rested a foot on a lichen-covered stone, saw that there were small holes in the ground around it where mice made their burrows. A cricket sang nearby.
He briefly studied the reavers’ movements on the rock.
They’d climbed all over it, and now had begun to work. A couple dozen glue mums began chewing down the great trees at the center of the rock, while blade-bearers pushed over the walls of the ancient towers, sent them cascading from the cliffs in ruins. Gaborn was so busy watching the south face of the cliff that it took him by surprise when he heard a roar on the north face. The great statue of Mangan went tumbling four hundred yards to its ruin.
Danger was rising all around him. The deaths of certain men had come this morning as predicted. Iome’s moment was at hand. Tens of thousands in Carris would face their peril tomorrow. After that… the world. When would his enemy make the next strike? Three days? Four?
Gaborn felt desperate. Danger was everywhere. Binnesman had warned him a few days ago that Raj Ahten was not his ultimate enemy. Raj Ahten, the Inkarrans, Lowicker, and Anders—all of them were like masks that concealed some greater peril. There was a mystery here.
Sometimes, he felt that they all worked in concert, perhaps without even knowing it.
