Where would he have gotten so much metal? Borenson wondered, and then recalled the tens of thousands of knight gigs and blades that the reavers had lost here a week ago.
Borenson rode toward the city. A few dull rays of dying sun still man-aged to penetrate the smoke. All along the city wall, people gazed out at the newcomers—men in bright helms; old women with jaws set in determination, their faces framed by graying hair; young boys pale with fear—so many wan faces like scattered leaves cast upon a field of soot.
The castle gates were still down, along with some of the towers, but the rubble had been shifted, forming barricades of stone that bristled with reaver blades all along the causeway. Such barricades were not meant to stop reavers, only to slow them so that archers and artillerymen could have time to take aim.
Wooden platforms had been set along the wallwalks, and rafts floated in the lake, and on these and on the towers sat an array of ballistas and catapults that perhaps had not been matched in all of Rofehavan's history. In the lee of each artillery piece crouched a pair of archers from Heredon with bows of spring steel. Farther back, those who had not steel bows were armed with Indhopal's horn bows. And archers with longbows perched along the castle walls.
“Look at that!” Myrrima said. “Chondler must have gathered artillery from every castle within a hundred miles.”
“Two hundred,” Sarka Kaul said, “though little good it will do him.”
Borenson's heart was full of foreboding.
Why did Gabom tell his people to gather here? Borenson wondered. The city had not fared well in the first attack. Only a miracle had saved it. Only the Earth King, summoning a world worm in its defense, had man-aged to free the city. The mound of dirt around the worm's hole still rose up like a crater, several hundred yards to the north.
Perhaps, Borenson wondered, Gaborn hopes for another miracle.
He reached the city “gate,” an open space between two tiers of rubble, and found Marshal Chondler there, atop one pile, gazing off toward the south. At his feet lay a pile of stinking philia, and Borenson could see more loathsome pieces of flesh hanging like talismans of doom from the castle walls.
“Hail, Sir Borenson, Lady Myrrima, and… your friend?” Chondler said mirthlessly. “Any news from the south?” His voice was oddly high, and he moved swiftly. Borenson could tell that he had taken several endowments of metabolism, and that he could only slow his speech with great concentration.
“The reavers are coming,” Borenson said. “But that you can see for yourself.”
“No sight of the Earth King?” Chondler's voice was husky, as if he sought to mask his fear.
“None,” Borenson said, “or of any other comfort.”
“You have your endowments intact,” Chondler said. He eyed Borenson in particular. “I had your facilitator vector more to you yesterday, hoping that you would return.”
“I got them,” Borenson said, “and none too soon. Are you telling me that my Dedicates are still here, in Carris?” The news unsettled him. A million reavers were marching on the city, and his Dedicates would be helpless before them.
“Aye,” Chondler said. “We'd hoped to get them out, but we'd sent our boats downstream to ferry out the sick, the women, and the children. There have been none to spare for Dedicates. So we will guard Carris, as is the duty of Runelords, and if the reavers take our Dedicates, they will have to do so over our dead bodies.”
“This place is a death trap, you know,” Borenson said.
Chondler challenged, “Name a better castle to defend in all of Mystarria.”
Borenson couldn't. “Do you have any lances? Perhaps we could make one last charge on the open field.”
“I wish we had a few. But our lances are gone. We'll rely now upon arrows and warhammers and whatever other weapons we have at hand.”
“I found Sir Pitts riding south,” Borenson said. “He told me that you were full of more tricks than a trained bear. I do hope you have more than a firewall and ballistas to show for your trouble.”
“We have ten thousand ballista bolts, besides balls for the catapults,” Chondler said. “We can shoot the reavers from behind the safety of the firewall. Once those fail, we'll rely upon our archers. They'll fire into the reavers from the castle walls as our men engage them at the gate. We have three million arrows and five hundred good force archers who can hit what they're aiming at.”
“Three million arrows may not be nearly enough,” Borenson said. “Those horn bows might pierce reaver hide, but I've never heard of a longbow that could do it.”
“Nevertheless, we will try,” Chondler said. “I've ordered the men to refrain from shooting until the enemy engages at ten yards.”
Borenson bit his lip, wondering if it could work.
“I've had the facilitators here working night and day,” Chondler said. “They reforged all of the forcibles that we could lay hands on. I've got three dozen men to act as champions, each with twenty endowments of metabolism. Working together, they should be able to hold the gate for a good long time. As it so happens, we still need another champion. How about it?” Chondler asked with a wicked smile. “Want to die young?”
Borenson glanced sidelong at Myrrima. Had someone asked him the same question a week ago, he would not have hesitated. But now he was not living just for himself. Taking such endowments meant that even if he lived through the battle, he would never be a real husband to Myrrima. He would die a solitary creature, isolated from all mankind by his speed.
Myrrima seemed to read his mind. She glanced back at the approaching horde, spilling down from the mountains. The darkness had deepened, and all that Borenson could see was a line of fire raging up there. But suddenly the flames took a whole pine, lighting it up like a vast torch, and in its light he saw the dreaded foe, red light reflecting from their dull backs. At the rate that they ran, they'd be here within the hour.
“It will take more than a few champions to save you,” Sarka Kaul said, speaking up at last.
“We have hopes of reinforcements, sir,” Chondler said. “Lowicker's daughter is leading a good army south, and at last word was less than a dozen miles away.”
“And Raj Ahten has an army hidden in the hills to the east,” Sarka Kaul said. “But neither of them wish you well. They come like crows, hoping only to take the spoils once you have fallen. They will enter the fray only when you are dead.”
“And how could you possibly know this?” Chondler asked with worry on his brow.
Sarka Kaul drew back his black hood, revealing skin whiter than bone. “Because I have been privy to their councils,” he said. “Grant me your twenty endowments of metabolism so that I can fight, and I think I can show you how to win this battle.”
Chondler eyed the Inkarran suspiciously, glanced toward Sir Borenson.
Borenson gave him the nod.
“Very well,” Chondler said. “We could use a man who knows how to fight in the dark.”
As Borenson, Myrrima, and Sarka Kaul entered Carris, riding along the causeway, the evening sun dipped below the teeth of the world and plunged the city into blackest night.
34
A BRIDGE IN TIME
Signs and wonders follow those of whom the Powers approve.
—from A Child's Book of Wizardry
Erin Connal rode south over the muddy fields of Beldinook that morning, heading to war in the retinue of King Anders. On swift force horses followed nearly six thousand knights.
They held their black lances in the air so that they bristled like a gloaming wood. The ground rumbled from the pounding of hooves. Horses snorted and neighed, and the knights raised their voices in grim song.
The strange storm had passed, and the morning dawned bright and clear. Erin felt betrayed by the weather. The storm had paced her all day yesterday, and though clear weather was good for riding, it was not good enough. The ground was as muddy through the morning as if the rain were still falling, so the sun gave them little benefit. She'd rather hav
e had the storm. There would be reavers at Carris, tens of thousands of them, and reavers feared lightning. The creatures could only see the force electric, so a bolt of lightning blinded the monsters, as if they were staring into the white-hot sun.
But the skies dawned clear over Beldinook.
Anders's troops rode south over the Fields of the Moon, where the ancients had carved a huge basalt boulder into the shape of the moon and set it upon the peak of a volcanic cone. One could see mountains and craters carved into the moon, but the features had long since worn away. The plain all around was relatively flat and featureless, with sparse clumps of grass. Volcanic gravel had rained down upon it in ages past, killing all plant life. All across the fields for hundreds of miles, half-sunken in the gravel, lay large strange stones carved in such a way as to represent stars, with rays bursting from them. Ancient paths led from one star to another, forming a map of the heavens.
“But a map to where?” one rider in the king's retinue asked.
“To the First Star, and thence to the netherworld,” Anders told him with a smirk. “The ancients longed to return there after death, and so they would practice walking a path through the stars, to learn the way.”
After a while, Erin fell back behind the king's retinue.
The Nut Woman reined in her own mount to ride beside Myrrima. She was short and broad, dressed in drab rags. She held a sleeping squirrel curled in the palm of her left hand, and petted it softly as she rode.
“Is there something you want?” Erin asked.
“I've been thinking about you,” the Nut Woman said. “I've been thinking about you and King Anders. You've made no secret of the fact that you distrust him.” Erin did not deny it. “But I've been thinking. You know, a squirrel can always tell a bad acorn from a good, just by the smell. Did you know that?”
Erin shook her head no.
“They can,” the Nut Woman said, her eyes shining. “They can smell worm, and they can smell rot. They only bother to crack open the good nuts.”
“What does that have to do with King Anders?”
“Don't you understand?” the Nut Woman asked. “The squirrels would know if he had rot inside. But you see how they love him, don't you? They jump on his saddle; they climb in his pocket. They're not like that with bad folk.”
Erin peered ahead. A squirrel was riding on Anders's shoulder even now.
Erin studied the Nut Woman's eyes. They were filled with adoration for the king. But Erin saw something else. The woman didn't focus on any-thing. It was as if she peered beyond Erin, into some private vision.
“Yes,” Erin said. “I see your point.”
The Nut Woman smiled. “Good! Good. Most people don't understand. Most can never understand.”
Erin forced a smile. Celinor had suspected that his father was mad; and King Anders accused Erin of being crazed. At the moment, Erin felt certain of only one thing: the Nut Woman was madder than them all.
As the day wore on, they passed far south of the Great Rift and through tortured lands into the sweet fields of Beldinook where the grass grew tall and green, even in autumn. Nestled among valleys and low hills, castles and cities sprang up everywhere. Beldinook was the second largest kingdom in all Rofehavan, with nearly twelve million souls.
Erin clenched the reins of her mount as she rode through. She was a horse-sister of Fleeds, after all, and the folk of Beldinook were ancient enemies. Each time they neared a castle, she expected a mob of cavalry to issue from the gates and put up a fight.
But King Anders rode through without hindrance. Indeed, he had been expected, and several times through the morning, dukes and barons issued out of the castle gates only to swell his ranks.
Gaborn's call for aid had gone through every kingdom, and had been heard even here in Beldinook, and as each lord joined with King Anders, they would laugh and bark out some variation of, “So, Your Highness, what think you? Do we ride to save Carris, or to watch the reavers feed on our enemies?”
And each time the question was put, King Anders would frown at the men, and with the patience of a father with an errant child ask, “How could you think to laugh at the plight of another? We go to save Carris, and in so doing, save ourselves.”
Often then, he would raise his left hand and Choose the lord to aid him in his fight, and ever again Erin was forced to wonder: is Anders truly an Earth King, or does the Darkling Glory's locus sway him?
The travel went more slowly than Erin would have liked through the middle of Mystarria. Villages and cities clustered along the fertile banks of the River Rowan. The farms were the lushest that Erin had ever seen, and people choked the roads. With winter coming on, the villeins were herding pigs and cattle and sheep into town to be butchered. Indeed, Slaterfest was celebrated on the fifteenth of Leaves in these parts, only a ten-day from now, and at the fest the folk would celebrate the slaughter by eating huge amounts of sausages and hams, lamb ribs and sweetened meats, along with turnips and licorice root fried to a crisp in butter, and tarts and puddings and cakes, all washed down with dark Beldinook beer so rich that you could smell it in the sweat of your armpits for a week after you drank.
Erin rode close to King Anders and his son all morning. Anders spoke of little. His mind was on the road ahead, and often he would peer south with a worried brow and mutter beneath his breath, “We must hurry.”
Celinor tried to cheer him, and often he would lead the troops in song, as if in hopes of raising their spirits.
When they reached the River Langorn with its broad banks, the road ahead jogged far out of their way. To travel by road would have wasted hours, and some of King Anders men swore that it would be faster to swim the horses across. But to do so would force the knights to abandon their own armor along with that of the horses.
King Anders settled the argument by shouting, “Behold the Power of the Earth!”
He raised his sword as if it were a staff and pointed it to the heavens. He raised a cry and began to chant, but a great wind arose, circling the troops, screaming with a voice like dying eagles, swirling down from the sun. Whatever words he spoke were carried off by the wind.
Then he pointed his sword at a nearby knoll and the wind struck, blasting it into dust. Dirt and stoneflewup like a sheet, hundreds of feet into the air, raising a plume of soot in the sky. It was as if a great hand had taken hold of the hill and begun to stretch it, pulling it from its place. Lightningflewout of the ground and split the heavens, and the fields rattled beneath the impact of the wind. The horses snorted and shied away in a panic, and for a long minute Erin only fought with her mount, trying to keep it from fleeing.
Then the dirt and stones rained down into the River Langorn, making a broad road, like a crude peninsula.
“Hurry now to Carris!” King Anders shouted. “There is no time to waste!”
He spurred his horse down to the river and galloped across. His army followed after. The earthen dam was a crude thing, and as Erin's horse raced over it, its hooves sank in the loose clay and gravel. The soil rose only a few feet above the waterline. The dam would not hold for long. The river was slow moving and languid in the fall, but the water would soon back up. As pressure built, it would wash over the dam and send it downstream.
Still, King Anders's troops made it across on dry land, and his men began to cheer wildly, “All hail the Earth King! All hail Anders!”
The rest of the day, Erin rode as if in a dream. Whether it was from shock at what she'd seen or from a lack of sleep, she wasn't sure.
When the army halted for a short meal, Celinor rode up to meet her. “What do you think now?” he asked with the glazed eyes of a fanatic. “What do you think of my father now?”
“I do not doubt that he holds some great Power,” she admitted. “But what is its source? Did the Earth indeed grant him his gift, or does it come from elsewhere?”
“What do you mean?” Celinor asked. “Of course it comes from the Earth.”
“I did not see the Earth moving
so much as I saw the wind blowing,” Erin told him.
“You'll never believe,” Celinor countered. “Will you? No matter that you see with your own eyes, or hear with your own ears, you'll never believe.”
He sounded like a little boy convinced that he has the greatest father in the world, when along comes a doubter.
“I believe that you love him,” Erin said.
He walked off angrily.
Erin tried to find sleep as she rode, hoping to speak with the owl again in her dreams. But the road remained slick and treacherous, and she could not rest easy. Like the wind and the lightning, sleep abandoned her, left her feeling betrayed.
All too soon she found herself south of Beldinook, riding into Mystarria as darkness fell. The stars overhead burned brightly as they passed through the hills and meadows. The locusts serenaded the troops, buzzing in the scrub oak, while the crickets sang in harmony.
The ride seemed surreal. Erin felt as if she were riding home from a relaxing hunt rather than riding to face the end of the world.
Only the empty cottages and villages along the highway revealed that anything was amiss.
When she reached the road that led to Twynhaven, she wondered if the green flames still licked the ground, and if she rode into them, would she find herself in the netherworld? She glanced toward Celinor, and found her husband watching her as if he feared that she would make a run for it.
She held a steady course. Shortly, distant fires could be seen in the mountains beyond Carris. Tall pillars of fire-lit smoke roared into the sky. As King Anders's troops entered the blasted lands, the odor of rot replaced the perfume of summer fields.
Scouts forged ahead and returned bringing word: “Reavers are already swarming the fields west of Carris, and Queen Lowicker of Beldinook has drawn her troops up within three miles of their lines, just beyond the Barren's Wall:”
King Anders blew his trumpets and his men raised a cheer. All day long they had held their lances to the sky, making a black forest of their polished shafts. Now Celinor began a battle song and the lancers drew into lines, riding three abreast down the road. They prepared to drop their lances into a couched position, in preparation for a charge.
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