Brotherhood of the Wolf
Page 52
Beyond these forces, the walls of Carris were bolstered with over three hundred thousand common soldiers out of Mystarria, Indhopal, and Fleeds. Indeed, men crowded the wall-walks and were stuffed in every tower like meat in sausage skins. The baileys and streets of the city were replete with spearmen.
A force so large would have seemed enough to repel any attack. Yet Roland realized that if the reavers attacked, all the men in the castle would not be enough.
As he watched the small flotilla of twenty boats row east, he earnestly hoped that they would return soon, that the evacuation would begin. He considered his own best route into the water if the need arose.
Reavers blackened the land and continued marching from the south all morning. The number around Carris was impossible to count, but surely tens of thousands raced over the countryside, toiling feverishly.
No man alive had ever seen a reaver work, had ever seen their cunning or efficiency or astonishing speed.
The wind blew fiercely, and a thin rain began pouring two hours after dawn. A watery sheen covered the reavers’ leathery hides. The rain and clouds above offered the people of Carris some hope, for all men knew that if lightning began to flash, the reavers would likely depart.
Howlers grubbed about everywhere, throwing up defenses in the muck. Burrowing holes. They excavated trenches to the south and west, flooding them with waters from Lake Donnestgree, forming a series of four oddly winding moats.
The sounds that arose from the fields west of Carris were odd, alien: the rumbling and rasping of reavers, the apparently unprovoked and inexplicable bawls of the howlers, the smacking sounds that glue mums made as they worked. Beneath it all was a tittering, like the squeaking of bones, that emanated from gree flying among the horde. The sounds made Roland feel as if he’d been transported to another world.
To the north, reaver mages and glue mums worked at Bone Hill, molding ridges of rock to form an arcane design in bas-relief, a design that was strange and sinuous and somehow evil. As they worked, the mages sprayed certain knobs and protrusions on their sculpture with fluids from their bungholes, creating a nauseating stench of decay like something from rotting corpses.
Meanwhile, a mile to the south of Carris, the reavers began to form an odd tower—black and twisted, like a nar-whale’s horn, yet tilted at an odd angle, as if pointing toward Bone Hill.
Beside the tower on the shore of the lake they built several huge domes made of stone bound with glue-mum resin. Some conjectured that these were egg-laying chambers or some sort of hothouses.
But the reavers did not attack Carris.
They dismantled hamlets that had grown over the centuries. They plundered fortresses and converted the stones to their own purpose. They tore up roads and gardens.
But the reavers did not attack. So long as the blade-bearers blocked the only road in and out of Carris, no man could hope to flee that way or sally forth to attack. But then so long as the reavers did not storm the castle gates Roland felt… mollified by the arrangement.
As the day wore on, he was able to forget the creeping sense of menace and horror of the morning, the cries of Raj Ahten’s foot soldiers as they were carried to their deaths. He dared hope. For long hours as the day wore on, the men on the walls held remarkably silent. By noon they began talking animatedly, easily.
The shore party had been gone for hours, and would surely return soon. Who could blame the men if they did not hurry back to Carris?
But minute by minute, hour after hour, men scanned the waters, and saw no boats return from the east.
45
FRAIL KING LOWICKER
Until a week ago, Myrrima had never been more than ten miles from home, and as she rode through Fleeds, she felt as if everything she’d known were slipping away.
Myrrima had left behind her family, her country. The land was changing subtly as she rode south. First she passed through the plains of southern Heredon, into the canyon lands of northern Fleeds, and now she was moving farther south. Here, the plains were richer and more fertile than back home, a bit more wet. She did not recognize some of the trees at the roadside, and even the people were different. The sheep men of Fleeds were often shorter and darker than people at home, the horse clans taller and more fair. Cottages were no longer made of mud and wattle, but of stone. Even the air smelled different, she thought, though it was hard to tell, given that she had an endowment of scent from a dog.
Most of all, Myrrima had left herself behind. She had the strength of three men in her arms now, the grace of four, the stamina of her dogs, the speed of five.
She’d never been so cognizant of her own power.
Yet she felt an unsettling sameness to her. In her heart she still loved in the same way, still felt her own inadequacies. Even with her new endowments, Myrrima felt impotent. Though she was a wolf lord, she felt all too common still.
She did not know whether Borenson would welcome her on his quest south, but by nightfall she hoped to reach Carris and present herself to him. She hoped he’d think she’d earned the right to accompany him to Inkarra, though she could not pretend to have his skills in battle.
But her encounter with Lord Pilwyn had left her shaken, uncertain. What kind of enemies would she find in Inkarra? How could she hope to fight them? Endowments would not be enough to fight wizards like the Storm Lord and his kin.
At Tor Doohan, Myrrima found everything in disarray. Gaborn’s knights were strung out for miles. Some were just reaching Tor Doohan, while a passerby told them that Gaborn himself had ridden south an hour ago.
A knight rode out of the shadows of the great white stones that circled the crimson pavilion and addressed Iome. “Your Highness, His Majesty King Orden bade me inform you that he has had to ride on to Carris in great haste. He left this letter in my care.”
Iome read the letter, sniffed the paper to make sure that Gaborn’s scent was upon it, then wadded it angrily and stuffed it in her pocket.
“Bad news?” Sir Hoswell asked. “Can I do anything to help?”
Iome glanced at him distractedly.
“No,” she answered. “My lord is in great haste to reach Carris. He bids us hurry. We won’t be able to rest the horses long if we are to catch him before nightfall.”
“Is it wise even to try, milady?” Sir Hoswell inquired. “You’ve ridden over four hundred miles since dawn yesterday. Even your fine mount cannot easily bear such punishment!”
It was true. Sir Borenson’s force horse had been plump when Myrrima set off for the south, but in the past two days it had lost seventy or eighty pounds of fat.
The lords of Rofehavan fed their force horses special diets when traveling in haste, using a mixture called “miln.” Miln consisted of rolled oats and barley coated with dried molasses, often with alfalfa or melilot thrown into the mix. For a horse, miln was a heady pleasure, and a force horse fed well on it could run for hours, while a horse fed on grass alone was said to have “legs of straw,” for they would not hold the mount long.
But even miln would not allow a force horse to race endlessly. Myrrima’s mount had three endowments of metabolism. With so many endowments, a few hours of rest would seem like a day to the beast, allowing it to recuperate.
“Gaborn is racing his horse,” Iome objected to Hoswell.
Hoswell shook his head. “It’s not my place to counsel the Earth King,” Hoswell said, “but Gaborn knows the danger he’s riding into. Half of the mounts he’s driving to Carris will die at this pace.”
“We’ll take two hours’ rest,” Iome said to Hoswell. “We can feed the horses here, and carry extra miln to keep them along the way until we reach Beldinook.”
Hoswell looked at his own mount. It was in far worse shape than Iome’s mount or Myrrima’s. The beast had been skinnier than these in the first place, and so had been hard-pressed to keep pace with the stouter mounts. Myrrima knew full well that when Hoswell objected to the pace of the ride, he objected mostly for the sake of his own beast.
“So be it,” he said heavily. He leapt from the mount and led his horse to the stables, intending to give it as much rest as he could. With it he took the palfrey from the Inkarran assassin.
Myrrima watched Hoswell go.
“Why do you give him such a black look?” Iome asked. “Is there something between you?”
“Nothing,” Myrrima said. Hoswell was Lord of the Royal Society of Archers, a master bowier who had spent years in the south, studying the making of hornbows. He was a man of sound reputation, in the good graces of the King. Myrrima did not want to have to confess that she detested the man.
Myrrima sat astride Borenson’s big warhorse and fought the urge to continue south now. Iome must have noted her mood.
“Gaborn begged me to stay here in his note,” Iome confessed weakly. “He does not think the road ahead will be safe. He says that he fears that ‘Doom lies upon Carris,’ and even now the Earth bids him to strike and flee with equal fervor. He’s confused. I thought I should warn you.”
“He’s probably right,” Myrrima agreed. Iome sounded as if she felt unsure what to do. “Milady,” Myrrima said. “If you wish to stay here, I understand…. But I’m not riding to war at Carris. I hope to accompany my husband to Inkarra. I must take the road south.”
“You sound driven,” Iome said warily. “I fear that you will never forgive me.”
“Forgive you, milady?” Myrrima asked, surprised by the Queen’s tone.
“I’m the one who sentenced your husband to perform his Act Penitent,” Iome said. “Had I known that I was driving you south, too, I’d not have done it. Perhaps I should lay aside the quest. … It’s a hard thing I’ve done.”
“No,” Myrrima said. “It was a generous thing. You’ve given him a way to earn forgiveness, and in Mystarria I’ve heard that there is a maxim: ‘Forgiveness should never be given—it must be earned.’ I fear that in my husband’s case, he cannot even forgive himself until he has earned it.”
“Then I hope he can earn it, with you at his side,” Iome said. “You have a warrior’s spirit. I’m surprised that no one noticed it sooner.”
Myrrima shook her head, glad to change the subject. She’d always been strong of will, but she’d never seen herself as a warrior—not until a little over a week ago.
“It’s said that when the Earth King Erden Geboren was crowned, he Chose his warriors. I know full well that Gaborn Chose me in the market of Bannisferre on that first day we met. Even though neither he nor I knew that he was the Earth King. He thought me brash and said he wanted me in his court, but he was really Choosing me.
“But do you know what I was thinking when he Chose me?”
“What?” Iome asked.
Myrrima hesitated, for she’d not told this to anyone, had not even recalled the thought until now. “I was thinking, even when I saw him standing there at the tinker’s booth, all dressed like some fop of a merchant prince, that I would fight for that man. I would die for him.
“I’d never thought that about a man before. The notion gave me the courage to take his hand, though he was a total stranger.”
Iome was bemused. “Gaborn told me how you met, how you took his hand there in the market. He saw it as only an attempt at seduction, a poor woman looking for a good marriage.”
That was true, but now Myrrima recognized that there was also something more. Myrrima tried to express the odd notion that was growing in her. “Maybe Gaborn did not Choose me, so much as we Chose each other. Last week, you mentioned that one could not be so near his creative powers without wanting a child. I … there’s more to him than that. Ever since we’ve met, I look at the earth, and time and again I’m stunned by its beauty—by the yellow of a daisy, or the blue shadows cast by rounded stones, or the rich smell of moss. He makes me feel more awake and alive than ever before. But there’s something else: He makes me want to fight.”
“You’re a frightening woman, Myrrima.”
“I told you that I’d understand if you wanted to stay here. I know that it will be dangerous in Carris. But I want to go,” Myrrima said, hoping Iome would understand.
“Neither you nor I have enough training to go into battle—yet,” Iome warned. “It wouldn’t be wise.”
“I know,” Myrrima said. “But that doesn’t stop the craving.”
Iome bit her lip, spoke thoughtfully. “I think … that your intentions are good. As a Runelord, you should act upon them. With your stamina you can work ceaselessly; with your brawn, you can strike mighty blows. Our people deserve our best efforts.
“But it frightens me, Myrrima. You have been given so much so quickly. I would not want to see you get killed.”
Myrrima’s mount bent low. The ground here below Tor Doohan was beaten, hardly a blade of grass left, but Myrrima’s mount snatched at a few blades of clover close to the ground.
“We’ll ride fast,” Iome promised. “Maybe we can reach Carris before sundown.”
“You’re too kind, milady,” Myrrima said, climbing down from her mount. She stood a moment, stretching her legs.
Two hours later, as they were having a meal at an inn, a courier brought word from the south: Lowicker of Beldinook had sought to ambush the Earth King, and had been defeated at Beldinook’s border.
Iome reeled from this ill news.
Lowicker had promised to ally himself with Gaborn, had promised to send knights to ride at his side. Lowicker had promised to lead his own troops against Raj Ahten, and to provide supplies for Gaborn and his knights.
What would happen now that Gaborn had slain the King of Beldinook? One by one, Gaborn’s allies were fading away. It was nearly two in the afternoon. King Orwynne had died about this time yesterday while fighting the Darkling Glory. Now Lowicker had turned traitor and been slain.
With Lowicker dead, his daughter would either have to go to war with Gaborn or offer terms of surrender. Gaborn was in such a hurry that he would want neither.
Whether Lowicker’s daughter offered battle or reconciliation, Gaborn would merely have to ride through her lands.
It might be dangerous to continue on to Beldinook. Gaborn’s knights would be spread thin between here and Carris. Gaborn and a few hundred men were racing toward Carris, probably never more than a dozen in a group.
With his ranks spread thin, Gaborn’s men would be in no position to fight. Indeed, they offered fine targets for Beldinook’s wrath.
No, Iome suspected that Lowicker’s daughter would not surrender, but instead would press the attack. She might be on the hunt for anyone caught in her lands.
Gaborn had hoped that Lowicker would spend hundreds of thousands of troops in his defense. Now it looked as if Gaborn might have to fight through them.
Iome sighed, looked from Myrrima to Hoswell, and said in a firm tone, “We’ll need extra food for ourselves and our mounts.”
Myrrima was not prepared for what she saw when she reached Kriskaven Wall. The courier in Fleeds had said that Gaborn had defeated Lowicker’s ambush. He had not mentioned that the Earth King had cursed and blasted the wall.
Nor did Myrrima realize that Lowicker would still be alive. The three riders reached the wall and found Lowicker pinned to the ground a hundred yards on the other side, with a dozen of Gaborn’s knights in attendance.
A spear had been thrust through his belly, pinning his torso to the ground, and a banner affixed to the spear named Lowicker as a regicide. Lowicker’s arms and legs had been hewn off and dragged away, so that only the stump of a man, all still dressed in kingly apparel, lay in the hot sun.
But Lowicker had so many endowments of stamina that he had not yet died. Only a king or one of Raj Ahten’s Invincibles, a man with many endowments of stamina, could have survived such mutilation. Blood had pooled about him, and flies swirled around in a swarm. But with so many endowments of stamina, the
horrid wounds had begun to heal swiftly.
Myrrima felt astonished to see him lying in agony, still clinging to life. She doubted he could last long, knew for a fact that he must yearn to die.
Such was the penalty prescribed for those who had committed regicide. As they rode near the site, Myrrima gasped involuntarily, for she recalled that Sir Borenson was also a kingslayer, and by rights, Iome could have demanded this penalty from him.
The scent of blood in the air was cloying, now that Myrrima had an endowment of scent from a dog. It smelled surprisingly enticing.
As they reached the spot, King Lowicker turned his head and watched Iome, sweat dripping from his brow. He took one look at Iome, and King Lowicker began to laugh. “So, Spawn of Sylvarresta, have you come to gloat?” Lowicker asked. He spoke painfully.
Iome shook her head. “Give him a drink, at the very least,” she commanded one of the knights in attendance.
The Baron shook his head. “It would only prolong his suffering, Your Highness. Besides, a creature like this—he’d give none to you.”
She fixed the husk of King Lowicker with a gentle look. “Would you like water?”
“Ah, she feels sentiment for the damned,” Lowicker snarled. “Do not pity me. I want it less than your water.”
Myrrima could not believe that Lowicker could be so cold, so hard, even now when he faced death. Yet she’d seen that look of contempt on other faces. At Castle Sylvarresta, when the city guard had caught thieves looting as the Darkling Glory came, she’d seen such expressions on the faces of hardened criminals, men who had hidden from the Earth King lest he look into their hearts and know them for what they were.
Now she saw Lowicker’s dilemma. While many kings might search Gaborn out, hope to ally themselves with him and thus save themselves and their people, other kings would be like this—like Lowicker of Beldinook and Anders of South Crowthen—men so corrupt that they felt no choice but to strike out at Gaborn.