Brotherhood of the Wolf

by David Farland

  “Sera,” he whispered, “take care of yourself. Perhaps someday we will meet again.”

  Baron Poll wakened him. “Good morning to you all!”

  Roland looked up. The sun was well over the hill, and Baron Poll stared down at him with a playful grin. He had a day-old loaf of bread in his hands, and he tore a piece off and munched contentedly.

  Averan came awake, wrapped in the green woman’s arms. She turned over, gazed at the green woman. “What’s she been eating?”

  Roland rose up half an inch. Earlier, in the predawn light, he’d not noticed the dried blood smeared liberally all over the green woman’s chin.

  “It looks like she caught something,” Roland said.

  “Not our horses,” Averan intoned with relief. The mounts were lying beneath the windfall.

  “She didn’t catch a something,” Baron Poll said with evident gusto. “She caught a who. I’d say she waylaid him quite well. Come and see the evidence.”

  “Some traveler?” Averan cried in dismay.

  Baron Poll did not answer, merely turned and led them downhill. Roland leapt up, as did Averan, and they followed Baron Poll over the top of the hill. The green woman strode behind, apparently curious about the excitement.

  “How did you find him?” Averan asked.

  “I was searching for some fortunate sapling upon which to empty my bladder,” Baron Poll offered, “when I stumbled upon the remains.”

  At just that moment, they reached a slight depression. The grisly sight that awaited them would be forever indelibly impressed upon Roland’s mind.

  Averan did not cry out in horror as other children might have done. Instead, she went up to the remains and studied them with morbid fascination.

  “He was creeping up on us, I’d say,” Baron Poll conjectured, “when she pounced on him from behind. See here, he had an arrow nocked, and a long knife. But it’s broken now.”

  Roland had been the King’s butcher. He knew knives, and had bought one like this in the market once. “A khivar,” he corrected. The man had worn a black cotton burnoose under his robe. A broken necklace near his ragged throat was decorated with gold trade rings. “One of Raj Ahten’s assassins?”

  “He had a little purse full of human ears,” Baron Poll confirmed. “I doubt he was a surgeon.”

  Roland bent over and pulled the necklace of trade rings free, slipped them into his pocket. He glanced up at Baron Poll. The Baron grinned. “Now you’re learning, man. No use leaving them for the scavengers.”

  “Blood,” the green woman said. Then she said more softly, “Blood—no.”

  At that, Averan grinned wickedly and said in a loud voice, “Blood—yes!” She walked over to the corpse, pretended to wipe her finger in the mess, and said, “Good blood! Mmm … blood—yes!”

  The green woman stared, the dawn of comprehension glowing in her eyes. She went over to the body, sniffed it. “Blood—yes.” But apparently she wanted none of it.

  “She likes them fresh,” Roland suggested.

  “Are you sure that’s a good idea?” Baron Poll asked Averan. “Teaching her to kill people?”

  “I’m not teaching her to kill,” Averan said. “I just don’t want her to feel guilty about what she did. She saved us. She didn’t do anything wrong!”

  “Right, and because she’s got the blood lust out of her system, I’m sure she’ll be of cheery temperament all day,” Baron Poll said. “But of course, next time she’s hungry, she’ll just grab someone by the roadside.”

  “No she won’t,” Averan said. “She’s very smart. I’m sure she knows more than you think.” She reached out and scratched the green woman’s head, as if she were a dog.

  “Oh, she’s smart all right,” Baron Poll said. “And the next time the High King levies taxes, I’ll have her right over to figure my dues.”

  Averan glared at the Baron. “Baron Globbet, have you ever thought that maybe she could be of use to us? What if she killed this man because she knew he was trouble? What if there are more assassins on the road? She could kill them for us. She seems to have a strong nose, and they all smell like ginger and curry. She might smell them out. Don’t you think so, Roland?”

  Roland merely shrugged.

  “I like a bit of curry myself,” Baron Poll argued. “And I don’t fancy the notion of having my innards ripped out because some inn chooses to serve it for dinner.

  “Besides, she’s not smart,” Baron Poll continued. “I’ve seen crows that mimic your words as well as she does!”

  Averan’s belief in the green woman seemed far-fetched, Roland thought, but the green woman had learned a lot of words this morning. Given a day or two, they might teach her to hunt.

  More to the point, he wasn’t quite sure what they could do about her. He hadn’t had any luck at killing her yesterday.

  They’d tried to outrun her, leave her after last night, and the green woman had merely loped after their mounts, shouting for blood.

  No, the green woman was a problem, maybe one that only the King and his counselors could fathom. She was Averan’s charge for the moment, and Roland didn’t have any fancy notions about how to handle her.

  14

  DEYAZZ

  Dawn found Sir Borenson far from Heredon. He’d spent most of the night riding south to Fleeds, and then to the Raven’s Pass.

  Now he was racing Gaborn’s dun-colored mare through the red foothills above Deyazz, heading down roads that Jureem had named, but still unsure of his destination. The name Obran was a contraction of two Indhopalese words: obir, to age, and ran, city of the king. It was best translated as “City of the Ancient King.” It sounded like the name for the capital of a province. But Borenson had never heard of the damned place, and Jureem’s directions would lead him only to the northern borders of the Great Salt Desert, a home to Muttayin nomads. It seemed an unlikely place to find a palace.

  Jureem assured him that he would need a guide to show him the palace’s location; the guide would have to be a minor lord himself. Borenson carried a standard in his left hand—the green pennant of truce above the Sylvarresta boar.

  The morning air was bracing, invigorating. His steed ran long and far between each stop for rest. The breath came cold from Borenson’s mouth, and his armor rang with each hoofbeat of his mount. The horse worked its lungs like a bellows. The roads hereabout were narrow and treacherous. Rocks sometimes rolled downhill from above.

  Despite the danger, Borenson raced his mount at speeds of up to fifty miles per hour.

  The landscape below him was a vast savanna dotted with drab olive-green trees. The grasses were the color of sand where the red clay did not show through. A single broad river silvered the landscape on the edge of the horizon, and cities of tents and adobe glittered at its border, with fields of wheat and orchards of oranges and almonds all along the watercourse. He had not yet passed a village. The citizens of Deyazz lived only along its great rivers.

  He’d passed through the mountains during the night with surprisingly little resistance. Several times he’d met small caravans filled with merchants heading north. Yet it was too late in the season for them to be coming for trade. He could think of only one reason they would trek north: They were refugees fleeing Indhopal, eager to see the Earth King.

  Once he’d circled a large army bivouacked in a mountain pass. Though he’d borne a torch on the pole of his standard, so that all might see that he flew the colors of truce, three assassins had chased him.

  But Borenson rode a kingly mount, one that this week had been given two more endowments of metabolism and two of sight, so that it would run swiftly and with clear vision, even by starlight. He’d outraced his pursuers with nothing more than an arrow that snapped off in his mail to show for the trouble.

  Yet even Borenson could not outrace the doubts that nagged him.

  He worried that he had been too harsh when he’d said goodbye to Myrrima. She may have been right when she said that he punished both himself and her for
his murders.

  The road ahead to Inkarra and his mission in Obran were also cause for apprehension.

  He worried most of all for Gaborn. The lad was naive to think that he could sue for peace or seek to bribe Raj Ahten. King Orwynne had been right. Gaborn could have better spent his time using his forcibles to prepare for war.

  Borenson had always imagined that when an Earth King appeared, he would be a stately fellow with the wisdom of the ages on his brow. He’d be as strong as the hills, with muscles as gnarled and as powerful as tree roots. He’d have the respect of all, and a certain implacable demeanor.

  The Earth King he’d always imagined bore absolutely no resemblance to Gaborn.

  Gaborn had no great skill in battle, no vast stores of wisdom. He was but an unskilled lad who loved his people.

  But he had an asset that Borenson had seldom considered. He recalled the words of Gaborn’s father in discussing what would happen if he ever went to battle with a certain duke in Beldinook who was giving him trouble. He’d said, “Duke Trevorsworthy I can handle. It’s his wife and that damned Sergeant Arrants who terrify me.”

  Borenson had laughed at the idea of a king being terrified of a woman and a mere sergeant, but the King had cut him short. “The wife is a brilliant tactician, and Sergeant Arrants is perhaps the most inspired artilleryman I’ve ever seen. He could build a catapult out of a butter churn that would knock down a castle wall or put an iron ball between your eyes at four hundred yards.”

  Then he’d taught Borenson this lesson: “Remember, a lord is never a single man. He is the sum of all the men in his retinue. When you fight a lord, you must consider the strengths of each man that he commands before you can get a true measure of his stature.”

  Borenson therefore had to consider Gaborn’s human assets. There were thousands of gentlemen of various rank and title in Mystarria, everything from petty lords to Gaborn’s wise great-uncle Paldane. Some were sailors or builders, men who commanded great hordes of peasants in the field, men who trained horses or hammered shields. A nation’s strength had to be measured by more than its warriors.

  And if one measured a lord by the strengths of the men that he commanded, the Earth could have done no better than to choose Gaborn. Mystarria was the largest, wealthiest nation in Rofehavan.

  Perhaps the Earth had chosen Gaborn, in part, because of the strength of his people.

  If that was true, then the Earth had not merely chosen Gaborn to be Earth King on his own merits, it had chosen Gaborn because it knew that Borenson could be counted on to be the Earth King’s protector.

  That notion startled Borenson, and humbled him. For it meant that he might be more tightly entangled in this whole affair than he’d imagined.

  It meant also that perhaps the Earth required his best efforts. It might even mean that Borenson needed to protect Gaborn from himself.

  Borenson considered the kind of man he ought to be. Gaborn would need a man who would stand up to the reavers when they issued from their caves. He’d need a man who knew Gaborn’s weaknesses, and who would not despise him for being only a young man, instead of a proper Earth King.

  Such thoughts drove Borenson as he rode into Deyazz, racing along the narrow mountain trails. He rounded a bend as a flock of crows flew up from the road. Suddenly, on the hairpin turn before him, a troop of soldiers a hundred strong came riding.

  The road to the right was too steep to climb. To the left it was nearly a vertical fall. His horse was wise enough to skid to a halt before Borenson thought to draw in the reins.

  Yet the animal had been trained to hate the colors of Raj Ahten’s troops. It pawed a hoof in the air and stamped and snorted and fought at the bit upon seeing so many golden surcoats sporting the crimson trio of wolf heads.

  The captain of the troop was an Invincible, a big man with a crooked nose, pocked skin, and glowering dark eyes. He carried a long-handled horseman’s mace. At his back, several men drew bows.

  Behind him, Borenson suddenly heard the beat of horses’ hooves. He glanced back up the road. Another troop of lancers rode in behind him. They must have come down off the hill above. He’d never even seen their scout.

  Trapped. He was trapped.

  “Where do you go, red hair?” the Invincible asked.

  “I carry a message from the Earth King, and come under the banner of truce.”

  “Raj Ahten is not here in Indhopal, as you well know,” the big fellow said. “He is in Mystarria. You would trouble yourself less to ride back to your own lands.”

  Borenson nodded in acquiescence, eyes half-closed in sign of respect.

  “My message is not for Raj Ahten,” Borenson said. “I carry a message to the Palace of Concubines in Obran, to a woman named Saffira, the daughter of the Emir of Tuulistan.”

  The Invincible tilted his head in thought. He clearly was not prepared for such news. Behind him, an old man in a fine gray silk burnoose, beneath a yellow traveling robe, whispered to the captain’s ear, “Sabbis etolo! Verissa oan.” Kill him! He seeks forbidden fruit.

  Borenson fastened his eyes on the old man. He was obviously not a soldier, merchant, or traveler, but a sort of counselor to Raj Ahten. Most probably he held the rank of kaif—which would be translated as “old man” or “elder.” More importantly, he seemed to be Borenson’s adversary.

  “It is forbidden fruit to look upon the concubines,” Borenson said. “I had not heard that it is forbidden fruit to deliver a message.”

  The old fellow glared at Borenson and looked askance, as if to argue with one of his rank were an affront.

  “You speak truly,” the Invincible said. “Though I am surprised that you have heard of the palace at Obran. Among the hundred here, only the kaifba and I have ever heard it.”

  Kaifba. Great elder. “Then may I deliver my message?”

  “What need has a messenger for armor and weapons?” the Invincible asked.

  “The mountain passes are dangerous. Your assassins did not respect the banner of truce.”

  “Are you sure they were my assassins?” the Invincible asked, as if Borenson had affronted him. “The mountains are full of robbers, and men who are worse.” The Invincible knew damned well that they were his assassins. He looked pointedly at Borenson’s war axe and armor.

  Borenson dropped his shield. He unsheathed his axe, threw it to the roadside. Then he pulled off his helm and ring mail, dropped them also.

  “There, are you satisfied?” Borenson asked.

  “A messenger has no need of endowments,” the Invincible said. “Take off your tunic, so that I may see whose strengths you wear.”

  Borenson stripped off his tunic, showed the jagged white scars where the forcibles had kissed him thirty-two times. Stamina, brawn, grace, metabolism, wit. All were here.

  The Invincible grunted. “You say you are a messenger for a king, yet you bear a blank shield like a Knight Equitable. Often they come to kill my lord’s Dedicates. Yet I must ask myself, what Knight Equitable would be so stupid as to ride in plain sight like this? And now I must ask myself, what Knight Equitable has so many endowments?”

  “My name is Borenson, and I was once guard to the Earth King. Now I am a blank shield, free to do as I wish, and right now I wish to bring the Earth King’s message and sue for peace.” He sat in his saddle, breathing hard, defiant. Without arms or armor, he would be no match for even this one Invincible, much less the others. They had him at their mercy.

  “Assassin,” the men in the ranks muttered, and they eyed him darkly. One man said, “Take him to the precipice—teach him how to fly!”

  But the kaifba muttered, “You tell an interesting story, hard to prove, hard to disprove. You know of the Palace of the Concubines, when no man of your country has ever heard of it. And I have not heard of this Saffira, though I know that the Emir has many daughters.” He seemed secure in the knowledge that if she were a person of import, he would have known her name.

  “It is forbidden fruit to speak her n
ame in your land,” Borenson said. “I learned it from a man who once served as a counselor to the Great Light himself—Jureem. He now sits at the elbow of the Earth King and counsels him.” A kaifba would surely know Jureem, who had been Raj Ahten’s high counselor.

  “What is your message?” the kaifba asked. “Tell it to me, and perhaps I will give it to her.”

  Among the Deyazz, a message might easily be delivered by a second without giving affront to either the sender or receiver of the message. But Borenson knew that gifts had to be given in person. “I bear a gift, a favor, for Saffira,” Borenson said, “along with the message.”

  “Show me the gift,” the kaifba said. Among royalty, a gift of gold or perfume might have been an acceptable favor to offer before asking a boon. Borenson wondered if such items might not tempt these soldiers. The men shifted uneasily on their mounts.

  He reached into his saddlebags, picked up as many forcibles in one hand as he could. He held perhaps seventy. “It is the gift of beauty. Seven hundred forcibles of glamour. Three hundred of Voice.”

  The soldiers began to talk excitedly. Forcibles were worth far more than their weight in gold.

  “Silence!” the Invincible shouted sternly at his men.

  Then he turned a deadly glare upon Borenson and demanded, “Tell me the message.”

  “I am to say to her, ‘Though I hate my cousin, the enemy of my cousin is my enemy.’ And then I am to ask her to bear this message for us to Raj Ahten, in the name of the Earth King.”

  “Kill him,” the kaifba whispered. Some of the soldiers urged the same. Their horses stamped their feet, feeling the tension in the air, the electric thrill.

  Borenson steeled himself for a deathblow. He did not doubt that if the kaifba ordered his death, the others would fulfill that order.