At the palace in Bel Nai, the markets were awash with morning light. White doves fluttered about the spires of the citadels, or strutted along rooftops, cooing contentedly.

  In the bazaar, a merchant cried as always, “Fresh roasted pistachios, still hot!”

  Camels lay in the street, chewing lazily.

  Here, a thousand miles north of Kartish, word had not yet reached the city of a reaver attack in far lands. Raj Ahten’s ministers had not wished to alarm the populace.

  Yet in the deepest heart of the Dedicates’ Keep, four men lay dying. Three were men who vectored stamina to Raj Ahten. The Emir Owatt knew them by voice. One was Korab Manthusar, a Dedicate who had acted as a vector for nearly twelve years. Another was Jinjafal Dissai, who had vectored stamina for less than five.

  Between them, they accounted for hundreds of endowments. They had been sipping tea as they played chess when the emir came upon them and jabbed each with his poisoned needle.

  The resin of the malefactor bush paralyzed the lungs, and would leave the men gasping on the floor. Without stamina, they would not resist death for long.

  But though the poison promised to make quick work of them, it did not do so soon enough. Both men managed to cry out a brief warning.

  The emir spun and stabbed a third dedicate.

  A nearby guard heard the noise, rushed into the common room, and sliced the emir in half.

  As the old king died, the guard held his hand.

  For a moment, the emir imagined the man sought to offer him comfort. But only in his final seconds did he realize that the guard held him to keep the poison needle from piercing another victim.

  Raj Ahten gasped outside the reavers’ stronghold, choking on the fetid air. Even now he could taste the great mage’s curse: “Breathe no more.”

  The power of it was undeniable.

  The curse reached into his lungs, its decimating grip clutching them like a vise. He fought it desperately, but all his remaining endowments of stamina would not keep him alive.

  Dedicates were dying, his vectors. His defenses were crumbling. Binnesman’s curse had undone him. He was not the Sum of All Men.

  He struggled for air, and his heart beat wildly. Moments before he had imagined the praise that would be his as savior of the world. Now, he lay beneath clouds of darkness, gasping in the pit.

  Over Raj Ahten’s head, a fireball hurtled toward the fortress, slammed into its side. Delicious heat spilled out in a hundred directions. Flames roared nearby.

  He felt the warmth like a soothing balm, recalled how delicious it had felt against his skin at the campfire high in the Hest Mountains.

  “I can heal you,” Az whispered in his memory.

  The skies went dark as Az enticed fire from the heavens again. It swirled down into his hands, a brilliant maelstrom, a webwork of light piercing the darkness.

  Unable to walk, Raj Ahten crawled toward it. His frame shook. Despite all his endowments of brawn, he trembled like an old woman, and gasped in the fetid air. He gained the lip of the pit, and looked up at the burning rune only three hundred yards away.

  A wave of nausea rushed over him. He gasped as if he felt his own heart had been ripped away. Another vector gone.

  There is an assassin at Bel Nai, he realized.

  I will never live to reap my reward. I will not hear the songs I have earned.

  He tottered up the lip of the pit, began stalking toward the great fire.

  Az stood at the heart of the Rune of Night, drawing flames to himself, stealing the very light from heaven.

  “Az!” Raj Ahten shouted with the last of his strengh. His voice rang over the battlefield. He collapsed to his knees, struggled to even hold up a hand, pleading.

  Az glanced down at him, saw his failing condition, and hurled the fireball.

  It expanded as it roared near, until it filled Raj Ahten’s vision.

  In one instant, the white silks on his back seared to ashes. The fire pierced him with a thousand burning fangs. The flesh of his face bubbled. Ears and eyelids roasted to nothingness.

  Old parts of him, unneeded parts, the dross of his humanity, melted away.

  An intense light burned into his mind, expanded his vision. In an instant he saw that he had been traveling toward this destination all his life. He had imagined that he fought to serve mankind by becoming the Sum of All Men, while others said that he only served himself.

  But at every juncture in the path of his life, he had chosen to serve Fire.

  Even as a young man, he had appropriated for himself the title Sun Lord.

  Now his master seized him and, like precious ore, purified him in the flames. The dross melted away, and that which remained was hardly flesh at all—only a vessel that veiled an immaculate light.

  Raj Ahten was no longer human. He was the power that he had served so faithfully, and now, all of the lesser flameweavers of this world would bow before him and call him by his secret name.

  Burned, naked, transformed, and trailing glorious clouds of smoke, he climbed to his feet. The flames hissed his new name: Scathain.

  57

  FELDONSHIRE

  I crave peace. I would that all the villages in my realm would continually overflow with peace, like foam overflowing a mug of warm ale.

  —Erden Geboren

  Guildmaster Wallachs led Averan, Binnesman, and the wylde out the back of the guildhall to a cobbled square bordered on one side by shops.

  Here, draftsmen designed the works to be created while young wrights cut the timbers and master carvers did the detail work. Averan was surprised to see two blacksmith forges for the smiths that fashioned the carvers’ myriad tools.

  In a finishing shop where pieces were stained and varnished, four burly men were loading wooden barrels into the back of a wagon. The team was already in its traces. The odors that arose from the wagon were noxious—the barrels were filled with spoiled linseed oil, denatured alcohol, poisonous lac, bags of salt crystals, and colored powders that she didn’t even recognize. All of them seemed to be ingredients for various types of varnishes and wood preservatives. The woodcutters were carting off virtually anything that they hoped might poison a reaver.

  “Are the other wagons gone?” Wallachs asked.

  “Aye,” one of his men muttered. He wiped an arm across his sweaty face.

  “Leave the rest,” Wallachs told the laborers, indicating the poison. “Go save your families.”

  The workers leapt from the wagon. Binnesman and Wallachs sat on the driver’s seat. Averan and the wylde climbed in.

  As they left the stable, Averan could hear a distant roar, like the pounding of the sea. The reavers were coming.

  She tried to judge her distance from the reavers by sound alone. Over the past two days, she’d become good at it. “They’re maybe three miles out, I think. They’ll be here in five minutes, maybe less.”

  Her words seemed to have caught Wallachs by surprise. “So soon?”

  “Maybe less,” Averan emphasized.

  Wallachs glanced at Binnesman for verification. The wizard arched a brow. “Less than that, I’d say. The reavers are racing full tilt.”

  Wallachs snapped his whip over the heads of his mounts, whistled and shouted. The horses erupted from the stable, went charging up the hill.

  They’re slow, Averan realized. So slow.

  These weren’t force horses. They were common animals, and big. Pulling logs and heavy loads over the years had strengthened them. But even with a light wagon racing at full speed, they’d be hard-pressed to outrun a reaver.

  So Wallachs went stampeding south along the road, shouting, “Clear the way,” when anyone dared stand in front of him. “Five minutes. In five minutes the reavers will be here!”

  Only then did Averan begin to see the danger. Heading east of town, where workmen’s cottages lined the dirt road, she still saw people everywhere. Many were emptying their houses, packing goods onto horses. One old woman quickly tried to pick an apple tree clean. Another young mother was grabbing laundry off a drying bush while her children tugged at her apron strings.

  Dogs yapped at the wagon as it passed.

  The road climbed a small hill, and for a couple of minutes Averan could see all of Feldonshire spread out below her. To the northwest the Darkwald was a brown blot along the silver waters of the Donnestgree. To the south lay a dozen hamlets in the folds of the hills. Boats plied the river, floating downstream on a glimmering road. Everywhere on the east of town, the highway was black and cluttered with travelers. Many of them were folks from Shrewsvale and villages to the west. They raced across the country on horse, on wagon, on foot.

  Beyond them, three miles away, a cloud of dust rose in the hills where the reavers raged. From up here, the sound of their advance was louder, a continuous thunder.

  People screamed across the miles.

  “They’re all going to die,” Averan whispered. She climbed to the back of the wagon and stared out, feeling helpless.

  She’d thought that she and Binnesman had done some good. They’d given the people all the warning that they could. But it wasn’t going to be enough.

  “Not all of them,” Binnesman said. “We’ve saved some. Perhaps many.”

  But as the buckboard topped the hill, she saw the reavers’ front ranks charging over a distant rise. Wagons and people fled before them.

  A man’s legs would not carry him fast enough. Hiding would do no good. Men were less than mice before the reaver horde.

  Gaborn’s troops fled in a long column, their armor flashing in the sun. They headed south into the hills, helpless before the onslaught.

  Binnesman pulled Averan back. “Come away,” he warned. “Watching doesn’t do any good.”

  But it does, Averan thought. Watching made her angry, and anger made her strong.

  On a bald hill above Feldonshire, Gaborn tried to decide whether to make another stand. Hundreds of commoners had ridden up here on horseback. Most were young men who bore bows or spears. They were eager to prove themselves, hoped to earn the Choosing. Thus, Gaborn’s small army had begun to swell.

  Still, he could do nothing for Feldonshire.

  Below him lay his last hope: a stream cut through a narrow defile, and would provide some small distance between men and reavers. Farmers had built stone walls to keep their sheep from wandering into the ravine. Perhaps a hundred local men had taken position behind the eastern wall, and now stood with bows ready.

  The reavers advanced on Feldonshire.

  Too few people had left the city. Gaborn’s men could see the peasants down in the valley, still loading food and wagons. Their hearts went out to the commoners preparing to die down there.

  “Milord?” Skalbairn asked.

  Gaborn warned, “Stay back. We can’t do any more good. The cover is inadequate, as anyone can see.”

  Gaborn dared not tempt fate. He knew that he could not turn the horde.

  Skalbairn’s men chafed at his command.

  Beside him, Baron Waggit was breathing heavily, almost unable to restrain himself from riding down into the valley, to join the doomed men. The minutes stretched interminably, though the wait was short.

  Nearly a mile below, the reavers marched in the Form of War. The ground trembled from their passage.

  He could not stop them.

  When the reavers neared the far side of the ravine, the hundred archers rose up and let loose a volley of arrows.

  Few men had bows powerful enough to penetrate a reaver’s hide at a hundred yards. Fewer still had the skill to use them effectively at such a distance. Yet three or four men managed to make kills before the reavers retaliated.

  Blade-bearers hurled stones, then leapt through the ravine. Mages blasted with their staves.

  Some of Feldonshire’s archers raced for their horses. A few lucky ones ran fast and lived. But most of the commoners died by the droves.

  Then the horde was beyond the ravine, into the borders of Feldonshire itself.

  Reavers knocked down orchards in their path, smashed cottages that had stood for centuries, demolished fields and flocks.

  People fled—peasants running as fast as their legs could carry them, mothers with babes in their arms and children in tow.

  Their screams rose above the thunder of the reavers.

  Those that ran clear of the reavers’ path would live. Those who failed would never fail at anything again.

  The blade-bearers at the front fed on sheep and peasants until they could stomach no more. Then they regurgitated their meals and moved on, feeding anew.

  Gaborn felt numb. To the west, Langley’s knights rode behind the reavers, slaughtering the laggards. The men’s lances were all broken, so they resorted to horsemen’s war-hammers.

  But to the east, peasants and wagons darkened the road. The highway through town served as a bottleneck for those who fled. People shouted in terror but could not move fast enough. At least ten thousand people still remained in the reavers’ path.

  One of Skalbairn’s men peeled off from his ranks, came riding up from the valley below. When he drew near, he raised the visor of his helm. It was Marshal Chondler.

  “Good news!” Chondler cried. “The reavers couldn’t keep the pace. We rid ourselves of thousands in the hills!”

  No one cheered. The warrior looked over his back, to see why the others stared. His smile turned to a scowl.

  “Milord,” Chondler asked. “What can we do?”

  Gaborn did not answer for a moment. In the past hour, he had considered every option—archery barrages from the hillsides, charges with lances, holding fast behind the stone wall and braving the worst that the reavers could bring against them. All paths led to disaster. Only one answer sufficed.

  Gaborn whispered angrily, “Stay out of their way. Kill any that fall behind.”

  A part of him refused to believe that this could ever happen. He was the Earth King, and could still hear its voice. He’d felt certain that in his hour of greatest need, the Earth would respond. Yet now he watched the slaughter, and could not stop it. Most of all, he mourned the sick and wounded still trapped beside the river. Their fate was sealed.

  Now the reavers neared the heart of Feldonshire. They slowed as they pushed over cottages and shops, took a few seconds to ferret people from their hiding holes and gobble them down.

  Gaborn reached out with his senses. Many of his people had fled. Some were on the far side of the river to the north. Others had gone south into the hills. The reavers’ course would lead straight through Feldonshire. His people to the north and south should have been safe.

  Yet Gaborn felt a rising danger, even for those who had left the reavers’ path. It could mean only one thing. Once the reavers reached the pools at Stinkwater, they would swing back to hunt the people of Feldonshire.

  Yet something even more profound had happened. Gaborn reached out with Earth senses. The Earth warned him that now the danger had risen tenfold. The world’s peril had increased. Gaborn wondered what might have changed.

  Then he felt it. Raj Ahten was gone. Gaborn could only surmise that the reavers in Kartish had killed him. With his death, everything seemed ready to fall apart.

  Gaborn felt staggered.

  Chondler watched the reavers spread their decimation and argued, “Milord, I’m sworn to the Brotherhood of the Wolf. I’ll not stand here idle while people die.”

  Gaborn shook his head sadly, tried to make the man understand. “You see their formation? If you attack their lines, the front ranks will retreat a few steps while those at your side move up. Then the arms of the star will swing round and close on your position, circling you. You’ll die!”

  “All men die,” Chondler said. “I’m sworn to protect mankind.”

  Couldn’t he see? Couldn’t he see that Gaborn acted in their best interests?

  “Damn you, Marshal Chondler,” Gaborn shouted. “What do you think I’m trying to do? If you go down there, the reavers will have you and destroy Feldonshire anyway.”

  “I’m sworn—” Chondler began to say.

  Gaborn drew his sword ringing from its sheath. “For mankind,” he said solemnly, “and for the Earth.” Around him, the men of the Brotherhood of the Wolf cheered.

  Chondler stared at him in surprise, unsure how to take this. The king would join the Brotherhood of the Wolf? Was he renouncing his kingdom?

  Gaborn knew that his deed put Chondler off balance. But in his own mind, he was only reaffirming the commitment he’d made to his people long ago.

  He looked out over the crowd. “So, good sirs, it’s a fight you want?” he asked. “I assure you, this battle has only begun.”

  58

  THREE KILLS

  The most enigmatic of reavers is the “fell mage,” the leader of an attacking horde.

  Hearthmaster Magnus contended that they are a separate species from other reavers, while others suggest that powerful leaders always rise from within the ranks of sorceresses.

  It is of course tempting to assume that something as malign as a reaver horde would have to have a leader. But I often wonder if even the eyewitness accounts of fell mages are not faulty. In what respect does a “fell mage” differ from any other large sorceress?

  And since the last eyewitness documentation of a fell mage leading a reaver horde is nearly 1400 years old, I wonder if it is prudent to discount the notion completely.

  Rather, I suspect that reavers form a loose society that is ultimately leaderless.

  —Hearthmaster Valen, of the Room of Beasts

  Guildmaster Wallachs’s wagon rounded a corner too fast, slewed as if it would leave the road. They’d left Feldonshire, and as she topped a hill Averan spotted two disreputable warehouses on the flats below. Hides stretched on racks in the sun outside one building identified it as a tannery.

  Wallachs slowed his wagon, whistled to some men loading barrels outside the tannery. “Reavers will be here in five minutes. Get to safety!”

  The men left off loading their barrels and Wallachs was off again. The horses heaved with every breath, and they frothed now. Wallachs shouted as he sent the whip whistling over their tails.

 

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45 46 47