"It doesn't matter," Gaborn said. "I'll not kill friends."
Borenson held a moment, trying to contain the rage building in him. Can even a prince afford such generosity? he wanted to shout. Yet he dared not give that insult. He reasoned instead. "They're friends no longer. They serve Raj Ahten."
Gaborn said, "They may serve as vectors, but they chose to live, so that by living, they can serve their own people."
"By letting Raj Ahten destroy Mystarria? Don't delude yourself. They serve your enemy, milord. Your enemy, and your father's and Mystarria's--and my enemies! It is a passive service--true--but they serve him no less than if they were warriors."
Oh, how Borenson sometimes envied them--the Dedicates who lived like fat cattle on their lord's wealth, pampered.
Certainly Gaborn must see that Borenson served his lord no less fully, gave his all, night and day. Borenson sweated and bled and suffered. He'd taken an endowment of metabolism, so that he aged two years for every other man's one. Though he was but twenty years old chronologically, little older than Gaborn, the hair on his head was falling out, and streaks of gray bled into his beard. For him, life rushed past as if he were adrift on a boat, watching the shore forever slipping by, unable to grasp anything, unable to hold on to anything.
Meanwhile, people admired Dedicates for their "sacrifice." Borenson's own father had given an endowment of metabolism to one of the King's soldiers before Borenson was born, and had thus lain in an enchanted slumber these past twenty years. It seemed to Borenson a cheat, the way his father stayed young, the way he suffered nothing while the man he endowed grew old and faded. What did his father sacrifice?
No, it was men like Borenson who suffered most for their lords, not some damned Dedicate, afraid to live his life.
"You must kill them," Borenson urged.
"I cannot," Gaborn answered.
"Then, by all the awful Powers, you'll make me do it!" Borenson growled. He reached to pull his axe from its sheath, glanced toward King Sylvarresta. Iome had heard the scrape of the axe handle against leather, jerked at the sound, staring at Borenson.
"Hold," Gaborn said softly. "I order you. They are under my protection. My sworn protection."
A gust of wind sent ash skittering across the ground.
"And I'm under order to kill Raj Ahten's Dedicates."
"I countermand that order," Gaborn said firmly.
"You can't!" Borenson said, tensing. "They're your father's orders, and yours cannot supersede his! Your father has given an order--a hard one that no man could envy. But I must carry it out. I will serve King Orden, even if you will not!"
Borenson did not want to argue. He loved Gaborn as a brother. But Borenson could not see how he could ever be faithful to House Orden if the Prince and the King did not agree on this issue.
In the distance, toward Castle Sylvarresta, the high call of Southern battle trumpets sounded--Raj Ahten marshaling his troops. Borenson's heart pounded. His men were supposed to delay the army, and even now were racing to Boar's Ford, where they would do little good.
Borenson shoved his axe back into its sheath, drew his own horn, sounded two long blasts, two short. The call to prepare arms. Raj Ahten's troops would not hurry to Longmont if they had to watch for an ambush every moment. Almost, Borenson wished his troops were still here, that he had the men to fight.
Borenson felt exposed at the edge of the woods. Gaborn took the helm off dead Torin, put it on his own head.
Gaborn looked up. "Listen, Borenson: If we have forty thousand forcibles, my father has no need to kill his friends. He can slay Raj Ahten, then place Sylvarresta back on the throne where he belongs."
"That is a frightening if" Borenson said. "Can we risk it? What if Raj Ahten kills your father? By sparing Sylvarresta, you may consign your father to death."
Gaborn's face paled. Certainly the boy had seen this danger. Certainly he knew the stakes in this battle. But no, Borenson realized, the boy was too innocent. Gaborn promised, "I wouldn't let that happen."
Borenson rolled his eyes, clenched his teeth.
"Nor would I," Iome answered from where her horse stood beside the stream. "I'd rather kill myself than see another come to harm on my account."
Borenson had tried to keep his voice down so she would not hear, but of course his voice had been rising in anger. He considered. At this moment, King Orden was racing to Longmont with fifteen hundred warriors. Messages had been sent to other castles, calling for aid. Perhaps three or four thousand might meet at Longmont before dawn.
But Raj Ahten would stand at the head of a massive army, once his reinforcements arrived from the South.
King Orden had to get those forcibles, and once he had them, he'd have to hole up in Castle Longmont. No castle in this realm could better withstand a siege.
Desperate times call for desperate measures. In all likelihood, Raj Ahten had so many endowments from his people in the South that if Borenson killed Sylvarresta and Iome, it would gain no benefit for King Orden. That is what Gaborn believed.
On the other hand, times were uncertain. Orden and other kings had sent assassins south. Perhaps even traitors in Raj Ahten's own lands would see his absence as a perfect time to bid for power. One could not discount the possibility that at any given moment, the endowments Raj Ahten had gained here in Heredon would become vital to him.
No, Borenson needed to kill these vectors. He sighed. With a heavy heart, he pulled his war axe. Urged his mount forward.
Gaborn caught the horse by the reins. "Stay away from them," he growled in a tone Borenson had never before heard from the Prince.
"I have a duty," Borenson said, regretfully. He did not want to do it, but he'd argued the point so convincingly that now he saw he must.
"And I'm obligated to protect Iome and her father," Gaborn said, "as one Oath-Bound Lord to another."
"Oath-Bound Lord?" Borenson gasped. "No! You fool!" Now he saw it. Gaborn had been distant these past two weeks as they journeyed into Heredon. For the first time in his life, he'd been secretive. "It's true," Gaborn said. "I spoke the oath to Iome." "Who witnessed?" Borenson asked the first question that came to mind, "Iome, and her Maids of Honor." Borenson wondered if news of this oath could be covered. Perhaps by killing the witnesses, he could undo the damage. "And her Days."
Borenson set his axe across the pommel of his saddle, looked hard at King Sylvarresta. Who knew how far this news had spread? From Iome's maids to the King's counselor, to all Heredon. He couldn't hide what Gaborn had done.
Gaborn had a fierceness in his eyes. What pluck! The little ass! Borenson thought. He plans to fight me. He'd really fight me over this?
Yet he knew it was true. To give the Oath of Protection was a serious matter, a sacred matter.
Borenson didn't dare raise his hand against the Prince. It was treason. Even if he carried out Orden's commands in every other matter, he could be executed for striking the Prince.
Gaborn had been watching Borenson's eyes, and now he ventured, "If you will not allow me to rescind my father's order, then I command you thus: Wait to carry it out. Wait until we reach Longmont, and I've spoken to my father."
Gaborn might well reach the castle before Borenson. There, the King would be able to settle this tangled matter.
Borenson closed his eyes and hung his head in sign of acquiescence. "As you command, milord," he said. Yet a horrible sense of guilt assailed. He'd been ordered to kill the Dedicates at Castle Sylvarresta, and if he slew the King and Iome now, he would thus spare other lives; he would spare all those who were vectored through these two.
Yet to kill Sylvarresta would be cruel. Borenson did not want to murder a friend, regardless of the cost. And he dared not raise a weapon against his own Prince.
Bits of arguments rushed at Borenson, fragmented. He looked up at King
Sylvarresta, who had stopped moaning in fear, just as a jay went flying over the King's head in a streak of blue.
But if I do not murder
these two now, how many others must I kill in the Dedicates' Keep? How many endowments has Sylvarresta taken? Are the lives of these two worth more than the lives of their Dedicates?
What harm has any of them done? Not one man in the keep would willingly toss a rotten apple at one of our people. Yet by their very existence, they lend power to Raj Ahten.
Borenson clenched his teeth, lost in thought. Tears began to water his eyes.
You will make me kill everyone vectored through these two, Borenson realized. That was his only choice. He loved his Prince, had always served faithfully.
I'll do it, Borenson thought, though I hate myself forever after. I'll do it for you.
No! some deep part of his mind shouted.
Borenson opened his eyes, stared hard at Gaborn.
Gaborn let go the reins of Borenson's mount, stood testily, as if he was still ready to try to pull Borenson from the saddle if the need arose.
"Take them in peace, milord," Borenson said, trying to hide the sadness in his voice. Immediately Gaborn relaxed.
"I'll need a weapon," Gaborn said. "Can I borrow one of yours?" Other than the black spear in Torin's throat, nothing was handy.
The warhorse Borenson rode had a horseman's hammer sheathed from its previous owner. It was an inelegant weapon. Borenson knew that Gaborn preferred a saber, for he liked to slash and thrust quickly. But the hammer had its strengths: against an armored opponent, one could easily chop through chain mail or pierce a helm. The saber was as likely to snap in such a battle as to pierce a man's armor.
Borenson pulled the hammer, tossed it to Gaborn. He did not rest easy with his decisions. Even now, he barely restrained himself from attacking Sylvarresta. I am not death, Borenson told himself. I am not death. It is not my duty to fight my Prince, to kill kings.
"Hurry to Longmont," Borenson said at last with a sigh. "I smell a storm coming. It will hide your scent, make you harder to track. Take the main road south at first, but don't follow it all the way--the Hayworth bridge is burned. Go instead through the forest until you reach Ardamom's Ridge, then cut straight south to the Boar's Ford. Do you know where it is?"
Gaborn shook his head. Of course he did not know.
"I know," Iome said. Borenson studied her. Cool, confident, despite her ugliness. The Princess now showed no fear. At least she knew how to sit a horse.
Borenson urged his warhorse forward a step, pulled the longspear from poor Torin's neck, snapped it off, and threw the bladed end to the Princess. She caught it in one hand.
"Won't you escort us?" Gaborn asked.
Doesn't he understand what I must do? Borenson wondered. Borenson had not yet confided that he planned to slay every Dedicate in the castle.
No, Borenson decided. Gaborn didn't know what he planned. The lad was that innocent. Indeed, if the Prince had even the slightest notion what Borenson intended, Gaborn would try to stop him.
Yet Borenson couldn't allow that. I'll do this alone, he thought. I'll take this evil upon me, stain my hands with blood so that you don't have to.
"I've other duties," Borenson said, shaking his head. He soothed the Prince with a lie. "I'll shadow Raj Ahten's army, make certain he doesn't strike some unexpected target."
To tell the truth, part of him wanted to escort Gaborn, to see him safe through the woods. He knew the Prince would need help. But Borenson did not trust himself to lead Gaborn for even an hour. At any moment, he might feel the need to turn on Gaborn, to kill good King Sylvarresta.
"If it will make it easier for you," Gaborn said, "when I reach Longmont, I'll tell my father that I never saw you in the woods. He does not need to know."
Borenson nodded, numb.
* * *
Chapter 23
THE HUNT BEGINS
Raj Ahten stood above his dead Invincible, fists clenched. Downhill, his army marched for Longmont, archers running the winding road, their colored tunics making them look like a golden snake twisting through a black forest.
Chancellor Jureem knelt over the fallen soldier, robes smudged, studying tracks in the ashes. It took no skill to see what had happened: One man. One man slew his master's Invincible, then stole his horse, rode off with Gaborn, King Sylvarresta, and his daughter. Jureem recognized the dead mare on the ground nearby. It had been ridden by Orden's surly messenger.
The sight sickened him. If a few more soldiers had kept up the chase, Gaborn would surely have fallen into their hands.
"There are but five of them," Feykaald said. "Heading cross-country, rather than over the road. We could send trackers--a dozen or so, but with Orden's soldiers in the wood, perhaps we should just let them go..."
Raj Ahten licked his lips. Jureem saw that Feykaald couldn't even count. Only four people were heading over the trail. His master had lost two scouts to Gaborn already, along with war dogs, giants, a pyromancer--and now an Invincible. Prince Orden looked to be not much more than a boy, but Jureem began to wonder if he had secretly taken a great number of endowments.
Raj Ahten's men had misjudged King Orden's whelp far too often. From the mounts he'd chosen, it appeared Gaborn would head into the woods, shun the highway.
But why? Because he wanted to lead Raj Ahten into a trap? Did the boy have soldiers hidden in the forest?
Or did he merely fear to travel by road? Raj Ahten had a few powerful force horses left in his retinue. Fine horses, bred for the plains and the desert, each with a lineage that went back a thousand years. Perhaps the lad knew his mounts could not outrun the Wolf Lord's horses over even ground.
But Gaborn's mountain hunters, running without armor, with their thick bones and strong hindquarters, would be almost impossible to catch in this terrain. Jureem suspected that Gaborn and Iome would know these woods far better than even the most informed spy.
Jureem drew a ragged breath, calculating how many men to send. Gaborn Val Orden would make a fine hostage, if the Wolf Lord found things at Longmont to be as he suspected.
Though the woods were silent, little more than an hour ago Jureem had heard Orden's war horns blow in the Dunnwood.
In all likelihood, Gaborn had already gained the company of Orden's soldiers, was surrounded by hundreds of guards. Yet...he could not just let Gaborn go. At the thought of Gaborn escaping, a rage burned in Jureem. Mindless, seething.
"We should send men to find the boy," Jureem counseled. "Perhaps a hundred of our best scouts?"
Raj Ahten straightened his back. "No. Get twenty of my best Invincibles, and strip their horses of armor. I'll also want twenty mastiffs to track the Prince."
"As you wish, milord," Jureem said, turning away, as if to shout the orders down to the army that marched below. But a thought hit him. "Which of your captains shall lead?"
"I'll be the captain," Raj Ahten, said. "Hunting the Prince should prove an interesting diversion."
Jureem glanced at him sideways, raising a single dark brow. He bowed slightly, in acquiescence. "Do you think it wise, milord? Others could hunt him. Even I will come." The thought of such a ride, of the pain his buttocks would have to endure, gave Jureem pause.
"Others might hunt him," Raj Ahten said, "but none as tenaciously as I."
* * *
Chapter 24
HOPE FOR A RAGGED PEOPLE
The road to Longmont turned muddy in the late morning as storms rolled across the sky. King Orden raced south all the way to the village of Hayworth, a distance of ninety-eight miles. It was a peaceful town spread along the banks of the River Dwindell, a village with a small mill. Green hills rolled as far south as one could see, each hill covered in broad oaks.
People here led a quiet life. Most were coopers who made barrels for wine and grain. In the spring, when the river swelled in flood, one could often see men on rafts made from hundreds of barrels all tied together, floating their goods down to market.
It displeased Mendellas Orden to have to burn the bridge. He'd stopped here often in his journeys, savoring the fine ale brewed in the Dwindell Inn, wh
ich sat beside the bridge on a promontory, overlooking the river.
But by the time Orden reached town, rain had soaked the bridge. Great rolling drops pelted his troops, dripped between the cracks of the four-inch planks. His men tried to light a fire where berry vines grew thick beneath the north end of the bridge. But the banks of the river were steep and the road sloped so that water draining down the street became a veritable creek.
Orden had supposed a couple of well-oiled torches would do the job, but even they proved to be of little use.
Orden was cursing his fortune when a couple of local boys pulled the innkeeper, old Stevedore Hark, out of the inn. Orden had been blessed by this man's hospitality many times.
"Here, here, Your Highness, what are you and your men about?" the innkeeper said in a belligerent tone, waddling down the street. Orden's fifteen hundred troops seemed not to alarm the innkeeper in the least. He was a heavy man in baggy pants, an apron over his broad belly. His fat face showed red beneath his graying beard, and rain streamed over his cheeks. "I fear we must burn your bridge," Orden answered. "Raj Ahten will come down the highway tonight. I can't have him on my tail. I'll gladly reimburse the town for the inconvenience."
"Oh, I don't think you'll burn that bridge any time soon," the innkeeper laughed. "Perhaps you'd better come in and have a drink. I can get you and some of your captains a nice stew, if you don't mind a thin broth."
"Why won't it burn?" King Orden asked.
"Magic," the innkeeper said. "Lightning struck it fifteen years back, burned it to the ground. So when we built it back again, we had a water wizard put a spell on it. Fire won't hold to that wood."
Orden stood in the pouring rain, and the innkeeper's words took the heart from him. If he had had his own water wizard, he could easily have countered the spell. But he had no water wizard here. The way the rain was falling, perhaps the bridge could not be burned anyway.
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