In the moment that followed, Raj Ahten's Invincibles finished their swordplay, slaughtering those who resisted, dragging those who surrendered down into the courtyard.
When the defenders of Longmont were disarmed, their armor taken, fewer than four hundred men remained. To Raj Ahten's pleasure, the others had all died, either in battle or from his shout.
On the castle walls, the salamanders stood a moment, gazing longingly at the prisoners. But with the battle won and no more prey to be had, they began to waver, until their fiery forms became a mere shimmering heat, and were gone back to the netherworld from whence they had been drawn.
For a long moment, Raj Ahten merely stood, surveying the scene, tasting his victory.
He addressed the survivors simply. "I need information. To the man who supplies an answer first, I'll grant life. The rest of you shall die. Here is my question: Where are my forcibles?"
To their credit, most of the knights refused to answer. Some shouted curses, but half a dozen shouted variations of "Gone! Orden sent them away!"
Six men tried to purchase their lives. Some had blood trickling from ears. Some wept. Some were young men who had never faced danger. Others were family men, perhaps, who worried for the welfare of wives and children. Raj Ahten recognized a captain who had been made a Dedicate just days before, but he did not know the captain's name. One silver-haired old fellow, Raj Ahten imagined, was just a coward.
Raj Ahten called them forward, led them to the drawbridge while his Invincibles moved in for the slaughter.
"You six men," Raj Ahten said. "One of you has saved your life, but I do not know yet who among you shall live. Perhaps one shall live, perhaps all..." He knew full well who had spoken first--the old coward. But he dared not admit it. He needed them all to answer, needed to learn if his source spoke truthfully. "So, I must ask you another question. Where did he send my forcibles?"
"We don't know. His guards rode off without telling," the men answered in unison.
Two men had been slow to answer. Raj Ahten lunged forward with his saber, cut them down, perhaps with too much enthusiasm. He'd feared that the forcibles would be gone, that this attack had been a waste of his time.
"The odds narrow," he whispered viciously. The four remaining men watched in terror. Beads of sweat formed on their brows. "Tell me, when did the forcibles leave?"
Two more men hesitated. The captain said, "Just after Orden's men arrived."
A fourth man nodded silent agreement, eyes blazing, becoming suddenly disheartened. The older fellow, the coward. He'd been too late to speak, he knew.
Raj Ahten slaughtered two more men, left only the last two soldiers. The captain still wore the colors of Longmont. Perhaps the man would make a valuable spy. The older coward was dressed in pigskins, a gamy fellow of the woods. Raj Ahten suspected that he did not really know his answers firsthand, and so was forced to merely concur.
"Where is Gaborn Orden?" Raj Ahten asked. The man in pigskins had no answer. Raj Ahten could see it in his face.
"He rode into the castle at dawn, then rode out again just after," the captain of Longmont answered.
From the castle, the last agonized cries of dying prisoners sounded, the grunting and screams. The old man in pigskins cringed, knowing he would be next, while the captain sweated heavily, panting.
The captain had that inward gaze that men of conscience get when doing evil. Raj Ahten did not trust him to answer another question honestly. You could only push a man so far.
Raj Ahten stepped forward, slashed the old fellow who wore pigskins in half.
He considered killing the captain of Longmont. He had not wanted to leave any witness to tell the secret of his magic powders, or to reveal his battle tactics. It would be a small matter to gut the fellow.
Yet the captain might serve a greater purpose. By telling how Raj Ahten had destroyed the walls of Longmont with a mere battle cry, this lone survivor would spread fear across the kingdoms of the North.
All the Northern castles, all the proud fortresses that had stood for thousands of years as men battled the Toth and the nomen and each other--all were useless now. Death traps.
The men of the North should know. They should be prepared to surrender.
"I'm most grateful," Raj Ahten told the captain. "You've won your life. You served as my Dedicate once. Now you shall serve me again. I want you to tell others what happened here. When men ask how you survived the battle, tell them: Raj Ahten left me to testify of his power."
The soldier nodded weakly. His legs shook. The captain wouldn't be able to stand much longer. Raj Ahten put a hand on his shoulder, and asked casually, "Do you have a family, children?"
The man nodded, burst into tears, and turned away.
"What is your name?"
"Cedrick Tempest," the young man cried.
Raj Ahten smiled. "How many children, Cedrick?"
"Three...girls and a boy."
Raj Ahten nodded appreciatively. "You think yourself a coward, Cedrick Tempest. You think yourself disloyal. But today, you were loyal to your children, yes? 'Children are gems, and he who has many is rich indeed.' You will live for them?"
Cedrick nodded vigorously.
"There are many kinds of heroes, many forms of loyalty," Raj Ahten said. "Do not regret your decision."
He turned to walk back to his pavilion on the hill, stopped to clean the gore from the blade of his scimitar on a dead man's cape. He considered his next move. His forcibles were gone--to Mystarria, perhaps, or any of a hundred keeps. His reinforcements were late. An army was marching on him.
Yet he had a new weapon, one that might yet win the day, beyond all hope or expectation.
The men closest to Raj Ahten had taken great damage from his cry, as did men with but a few endowments of stamina. Raj Ahten dared not use his weapon too near his own men. Which meant that if he sought to kill Gaborn by the power of his Voice, he'd have to stand alone.
A few small flakes of snow began to fall from the leaden skies, swirling at his feet. He had not noticed how cold it had become.
He studied the damage to Castle Longmont from outside. Cracks had broken the walls, splitting the stone in numerous places. Massive walls of black stone nearly a hundred feet tall still loomed above him. The foundation stones were thirty feet thick, fourteen feet wide, twelve feet tall. Each stone weighed thousands of tons. This fortress had stood for centuries, indomitable. He'd seen the wards of earth-binding on its gates.
His flameweavers' most powerful spells could hardly pierce the walls. His catapults hadn't chipped them. Yet his voice had rent some of the massive foundation stones.
Even Raj Ahten marveled. It was not clear yet what he was becoming. He'd taken Castle Sylvarresta with nothing more than the power of his glamour. Now he found that his Voice was becoming a potent, dazzling weapon.
In his realms to the south, Dedicates died from moment to moment, while new ones were recruited. The configuration of his attributes was always in flux. But of one thing he felt certain: More endowments were being added than were lost. He was being added upon. Becoming the Sum of All Men.
Perhaps now was the time to face this young fool--the Earth King and his armies. Raj Ahten glowered.
He turned and gave a great roar, threw his voice against the near wall. "I am mightier than the earth!"
Longmont cracked--the whole southern wall shuddered. Cedrick Tempest fell, too, running from the gate, clutching his helm, curling in on himself when he could run no more.
To Raj Ahten's dismay, the upper half of the Duke's Keep crumbled to the left. Some of his men screamed within the castle as the building collapsed on them. It was as if the wards of earth power that bound the castle crumbled, leaving the keep in ruin.
At the same time, on the hill behind him, Raj Ahten heard a branch crack.
He turned, glimpsed the great oak by his pavilion. The trunk of the great oak snapped...and half of the tree crashed through the roof of his Dedicates' wagon.
In that moment, Raj Ahten felt a dozen small deaths, the dizzying breathlessness that accompanied the loss of virtue.
The world slowed terrifyingly. For long years, Raj Ahten had brought his wagon with him. In it he bore Dervin Feyl, a man who had bequeathed Raj Ahten an endowment of metabolism many years back, had become a vector.
Dervin had just died, along with the Dedicate who vectored glamour to Raj Ahten, and several other minor men.
Raj Ahten marveled at his sudden sluggishness. Did my Voice smite the tree, or does Earth seek to punish me? he wondered.
Did the earth strike at me? He had no way to answer the question. Yet it mattered a great deal. The wizard Binnesman had cursed him, seemingly with no effect. Had the wizard's curse weakened that tree?
Or had his own Voice been his downfall?
Such a small blow. Yet so profoundly effective.
Raj Ahten wondered, but at that moment, it no longer mattered. Raj Ahten, despite his victory at Longmont, stood defeated. Though he had the wit and grace and brawn of thousands, without his speed he'd become a "warrior of unfortunate proportion." Even a common soldier, some boy without endowments, might be able to slaughter him.
If Gaborn came against him with the speed of even five men and endowments of stamina from another five, Raj Ahten could not prevail against him.
Raj Ahten cast his eyes about in desperation. His flameweavers had burned themselves out. His forcibles were gone. The salamanders had returned to the netherworld, and would not be summoned easily for a long while. His arcane explosive powders were all used up.
I came to destroy Orden and Sylvarresta, he thought, and that much I've accomplished. But in doing this, I've created a greater enemy.
It was time to flee Longmont, flee Heredon and all the Kingdoms of Rofehavan while he reconsidered his tactics. At this moment, despite whatever other victories his men might win here in the North, he could feel the Kingdoms of Rofehavan all slipping from his grasp.
Raj Ahten had his endowments, thousands upon thousands of them. But his mines were petering out, and his forcibles were in the hands of his enemy. Whatever gifts he had now, the young king might soon match.
Raj Ahten felt utterly dismayed.
The snow was blowing. The first snow Raj Ahten would see this winter. In a few weeks, the passes in the mountains would be blocked.
He could continue this contest later, he reasoned. Shocked. He dreaded the thought of waiting until spring.
He shouted orders for his men to begin the retreat, leaving no time to loot the castle.
He stood for several long minutes as his soldiers scrambled to obey, pulling down pavilions, harnessing the horses, loading wagons.
The Frowth giants emerged from the castle, bearing corpses of defenders in their paws to eat on the way home. Along the western hills, wolves howled mournfully, as if in loss at the sight of Longmont in ruins.
Raj Ahten's counselor, Feykaald, shouted in a high voice, "Move, you sluggards! Leave the dead! You, there--help load those wagons!"
The snow thickened. In moments it piled two inches deep at Raj Ahten's feet. He only stood, gazing at Castle Longmont. He wondered how he had failed here, considered how Jureem had betrayed him to King Orden.
When he finished musing, Castle Longmont lay dead. No fires burned in it, no men cried out in pain.
Cedrick Tempest wandered before the gates, the lone soldier holding his bleeding ear, cursing and muttering under his breath. Perhaps his mind had gone.
Raj Ahten took a horse, considered again how the wizard Binnesman had stolen his, and rode over the hills.
* * *
Chapter 56
THE GREETING
By the time Gaborn reached Longmont, the land lay empty of troops, the ruins of the castle covered beneath a layer of new-fallen snow.
Most of Gaborn's army was still far behind. Only some fifty knights rode mounts swift enough to keep up. In the woods to the west, wolves howled forlornly, their voices rising and falling in eerie cadences.
Binnesman had ridden ahead, rummaged near the ruins of the Dedicates' Keep, searching among the rubble.
Everywhere lay carnage and destruction--walls and towers of Longmont in ruin, the soldiers of Orden crumpled under stone. Only a dozen or so of Raj Ahten's troops lay dead outside the castle, riddled with arrows.
Raj Ahten had carried off a great victory here, a mind-numbing victory, almost unparalleled in any chronicle Gaborn had ever read. For the past hour, Gaborn had tried to deny his feelings, his suspicion that his father had died. Now he feared the worst.
Only one warrior stood alive on the battleground, a captain who wore the colors of Longmont.
Gaborn rode up to him. The soldier's face was pale, his eyes full of horror. Blood dribbled under his helmet from his right ear and had crusted in the dark hair of his sideburns.
"Captain Tempest," Gaborn asked, recalling the man's name from earlier in the day, "where is my father, King Orden?"
"Dead, mi-milord," the captain said, then sat down in the snow, his head hanging. "They're all dead."
Gaborn had expected it. Yet the news punched him. He put one hand over his belly, found himself breathing hard. I was no help, he thought. Everything I've done has been in vain.
He surveyed the damage, his shock and horror growing more profound. He'd never seen a castle so destroyed--not in a matter of hours.
"How is it that you survived?" Gaborn asked weakly.
The captain shook his head, as if searching for an answer. "Raj Ahten took some of us prisoners. He--killed the others. He left me alive, to bear witness."
"To what?" Gaborn asked.
Tempest pointed numbly at the towers. "His flameweavers struck first. They summoned creatures from the netherworld and hit the castle with spells that burned iron--and a fireball that burst in the air above the gates, tossing men about like sticks.
"But that was not the worst of it, for then Raj Ahten himself came and shattered the castle's foundations with the cry of his Voice. He killed hundreds more of us!
"I...my helm has thick leather pads, but I can't hear from my right ear, and my left is still ringing."
Gaborn stared at the castle, numb.
He'd imagined that Raj Ahten had brought some terrible engines to bear on those walls, or had his flameweavers conjure some unspeakable spell.
He'd seen that great mushroom of fire rise in the air. But he'd never imagined that the walls could crumble from a mere shout.
The soldiers behind him had spread out, were slowly riding over the battleground, to seek for signs of life among the ruins.
"Where is--where can I find my father?"
Tempest pointed up a trail. "He ran that way, toward Tor Loman, chasing Raj Ahten, just before the battle commenced."
Gaborn turned his horse, but Captain Tempest rushed forward, dropped to his knees. "Forgive me!" he cried.
"For what, surviving?" Gaborn asked. Gaborn himself felt the guilt of those who live, unaccountably, while all around them die. It was heavy on him now. "I not only forgive you, I commend you."
He let his horse trot over the snowfield to the sound of Tempest's sobbing and the howls of wolves.
The rings in his mail rang as the horse broke into a gallop, and Gaborn rode up a muddy trail. At first he could not be certain he headed in the right direction. Snow covered the trail, and he could discern no tracks.
But after half a mile, as the trail moved under the aspens, he saw signs in the mud and fallen leaves--the huge strides of men with enormous metabolism racing through the woods. Tracks ten steps across.
After that the trail was easy to follow. The path to Tor Loman had been well maintained, the brush cut away. It made for an easy, almost pleasant ride.
Along the path, Gaborn watched for sign of his father, but found none.
At last he reached the bare peak of Tor Loman, found the meadow with the Duke's old observatory at its top. The snow had fallen heavy here, stood three inches deep, and Gab
orn found Raj Ahten's fine helm lying at the base of the observatory.
The helm itself was deeply embossed, with intricate silver designs like braided ropes or the braided fires a flameweaver pulled from heaven. These ran down the noseguard and over the eye slots. A single huge diamond fit between the eyes. Gaborn took it as a prize of war, tied its broken strap to his saddle, careful not to crush the white owl's wings on the helm.
As he tied it, he sniffed the cold air. The snow had cleansed the sky, carried away most of the scent, yet Gaborn could still discern the odor of his father's heavy samite cape, the oil he used to protect his armor. His father had been here. Might be nearby--alive and wounded, perhaps.
Gaborn climbed the observatory, gazed off into the distance. The snow had stopped falling ten minutes ago, so he could see fairly well, though with but two endowments of sight, he could not be called a far-seer. To the east, Iome and her people pushed across the heath, ten miles back. They had neared the Durkin Hills Road.
In the distance to the southwest, at Gaborn's limit of vision, Raj Ahten's troops retreated over the hills, the red and gold of their colors muted by distance.
He saw men stopping on their horses, gazing back toward him. Gaborn imagined that some far-seers watched him, wondering who now stood on the Eyes of Tor Loman. Perhaps even Raj Ahten himself watched.
Gaborn whispered, "I reject you, Raj Ahten. I will destroy you." Gaborn raised a fist in the sign of challenge. But if the men on the far hill made any gestures of their own, he could not see. They merely turned their mounts and galloped over the crest of the hill.
Even with an army, Gaborn realized, I couldn't catch Raj Ahten now.
Yet in his heart, Gaborn felt some relief. He loved this land, as his father had. They had wanted nothing more than to drive Raj Ahten from it, keep it beautiful and free. For a time, perhaps, they had succeeded.
But at what price?
Gaborn glanced down at his feet. The snow had fallen after Raj Ahten's descent. Yet the scent of both Gaborn's father and the Wolf Lord lingered here. The metallic tang of blood.
The RuneLords Page 54