Brotherhood of the Wolf (56 page)

Trembling from cold, Roland lay with his back to the stone and closed his eyes. It was cold, terribly cold, and he would have slept soundly except for the cold.

He managed to doze in brief snatches, sometimes disturbed by nothing more than the wind or someone bumping against him as they stumbled past in the dark. Once, he woke to hear some nearby fellow with a lute plucking an endless bawdy ballad such as a jester might fancy.

He listened to it only distantly, half-asleep. The song spoke of a running feud between two men in the King's Guard, and the various embarrassing and dangerous tricks they played on one another.

Roland was not really listening as the tune spoke of a young squire who made a tryst to meet a girl at a pond after dark, only to have his nemesis manage to get the young squire assigned to other duties. Afterward, the nemesis
went to the pond himself, under cover of darkness. Roland came fully awake when he recognized a name….

“Then comes the squire, to catch Sir Poll:
and it ain't a bass he's kissin' in the fishin' hole.
For Poll's got the squire's lass,
and he's making quite a splash,
with his naked little ass—Uh-oh!
Diddly-oh!
Ain't it funny how the story grows?”

Though Roland came fully awake, he suddenly realized that he'd missed most of the song, for in the next verse, Squire Borenson leapt into the pond and chased Sir Poll “Without any luck, whilst quacking like an angry duck.”

The good squire cornered and stabbed the “foul” Sir Poll, “And his fondest wish was to gut him like a fish.”

But the trollop in the pond managed to “nurse Sir Poll back to life, and become his nagging wife.” Each stanza of the ballad ended with the chorus, “Uh-oh! Diddly-oh! Ain't it funny how the story grows?”

Roland glanced up to see Baron Poll's reaction. The old fellow took it stoically. There was nothing he could do, after all. Bards were historians, and songs about living lords could only be sung openly by the King's consent. Thus, both Roland's son and Baron Poll had displeased their King enough so that as part of their punishment, their deeds were left open to the “scorn of bards.”

Roland silently wished he'd been awake during the whole song. When Baron Poll had said that Roland would likely hear his story at the mouths of minstrels, Roland hadn't taken him seriously. Normally, only the most craven enemies of the King were so ridiculed.

But then another thought struck Roland. “Ain't it funny how the story grows….” Now Roland had come into the story, and maybe someday the bards might sing a verse about him.

Roland finally felt so cold that he made his way back to
the baker's tower, where the heat of the ovens and the smell of baking bread tantalizingly wafted up from below. But far too many men lay there for him to comfortably squeeze in.

He returned to Baron Poll, who said, “Can't find a warm place to sleep?”

Roland shook his head, too weary to answer.

“Here's how you do it,” the Baron said. He escorted Roland back to the baker's tower, and Baron Poll growled, “Up, you slackers! Back to your posts, you lazy dogs, or to a man I'll throw you from the tower into the drink!”

He aimed a few timid kicks, and in no time at all, dozens of men were scurrying from the warm tower. Baron Poll then bowed to Roland and gestured in a servile manner, like some chamberlain eager to ingratiate a visiting lord. “Your bed, sirrah.”

Roland grinned. Baron Poll was a trickster.

Roland lay down next to the warmth of a chimney, his teeth still chattering, and found it almost too hot. Baron Poll went back to his post. Soon, men began sneaking back to sleep next to Roland.

He lay hoping that sometime before dawn he'd get warm enough to sleep.

But half an hour later, men began to shout when a city to the south was put to the torch. Roland looked up, saw the Baron and other warriors gazing off, the firelight reflecting from their eyes. But he was too tired to watch the flameweaver's show, and he reasoned that if a huge wave of fire did come sweeping toward the castle, the safest place he could be was down there, hidden behind the stone.

Moments later, he heard a deep rumbling sound that filled the whole sky for sixty seconds. The walls of Carris trembled beneath him, and he could feel the tower sway. People screamed in terror, for Raj Ahten had destroyed Longmot, Tal Rimmon, and other castles by the power of his Voice, and everyone imagined that it was happening to Carris now.

Yet as the rumbling subsided and Carris still held, Roland
felt intense relief that lasted for only a few seconds. For immediately the rumbling was followed by the shouts of men on the nearby walls: “Trevorsworthy Castle is down!” “Raj Ahten has come!”

Roland climbed up, and gazed to the south where everyone pointed. There a city burned, flames leaping high into the sky.

Trevorsworthy Castle, four miles to the south, was not nearly as large as Carris, was not even manned, yet Roland had not been able to miss seeing it earlier in the day. It stood on a hill and had risen like a beacon from the fog. Now the hillside roared in an inferno, great clouds of smoke roiling up into the night, while flames licked at them.

In that light, Roland could see what remained of the castle: a heap of stone and a couple of jagged towers and sections of wall. Dust rose from the castle, and even as he watched, a tower leaned over like a drunkard and crumbled in ruin.

Carris had not been the focus of the attack. Trevorsworthy had. Roland ran back to his post.

“Well,” grumbled Baron Poll, “at least he's given us fair warning.”

“What do you mean?” Roland asked.

“I mean that Raj Ahten's men have been forced to race at least eighteen hundred miles in the past two weeks, and he knows he can't run them any farther.” Baron Poll spat over the castle wall. “So he wants a nice cozy place to lay up for a few months, and Carris is the best that Mystarria has to offer.”

“So he wants to take the castle?” Roland asked.

“Of course! If he wanted these castle walls down, they'd be down. Mark my words, he'll be offering us terms of surrender within the hour.”

“Will Paldane accept?” Roland asked. “He said we'd be down to knife-work by dawn.”

“If he doesn't surrender,” Baron Poll said, “then just listen for that sound Raj Ahten makes. When you hear it, take a running leap and throw yourself off the castle walls, as
far into the water as you're able. If the fall doesn't kill you, and a rock doesn't land on you, and if you don't drown, you just might make it.”

Roland was stunned.

He waited for a long hour, until the sky in the east began to lighten in the cold of dawn.

Roland never saw Raj Ahten draw near the castle, though he saw the work of his flameweavers.

A brilliant glow arose beneath the fog, as if a great fire raged on the ground, but that glow moved forward steadily from the south at the pace of a walking man. Accompanying that glow, Roland could hear the creaking of harnesses, the occasional slap of a shield against a breastplate, a man's cough or the yap of a dog.

Raj Ahten's army moved toward Carris almost sullenly, and the troops at Carris accepted them with similar reserve. Duke Paldane and his counselors labored up the stairs above the castle gate, a ragtag band. As they reached the top of the gate, so that Paldane himself could see out over the fog, he shouted, “Archers, make ready! Artillery, take aim!”

Yet Raj Ahten's progress was undeterred. When the great light reached the causeway west of Carris and suddenly stopped, Roland waited expectantly for Paldane's artillerymen to open fire, or for Paldane to shout some command.

Instead, the glow beneath the fog intensified, as if the sun itself blazed there for several long moments, until at last pure rays of light began to pierce the opal mists. Roland lifted his arm to shield his eyes. The light burned the magical fog back for a hundred yards in every direction.

There at the end of the causeway sat Raj Ahten on a gray Imperial charger, while two flameweavers blazed beside him, pillars of living fire, naked but for the flames that wreathed them.

Raj Ahten wore a simple footman's helm and a shirt of black scale mail under a golden silk surcoat. He looked tired, grim.

Roland found that his heart was racing, and his breath
came fast. Raj Ahten was the most handsome man he'd ever seen, more glorious than any he'd ever imagined, and completely unanticipated. Roland had expected a man who would be monstrous in form, cruel and deadly.

Yet Raj Ahten seemed to embody everything that Roland had ever hoped for in a lord. He appeared bold and imperious, powerful yet capable of great kindness.

He had only to open his mouth, and he could bring down the walls of Carris, as he had so many other castles in the past week.

If he is going to kill me, Roland thought, I wish he would do it now and get it over with.

No one shot from the castle walls.

An army rode at Raj Ahten's back. Roland could only see the front ranks protruding from the line of fog. Two dozen frowth giants stood like living walls, their faces grim and troubled. Huge black mastiffs at their feet bristled behind red-lacquered leather masks. Raj Ahten's Invincibles formed ranks behind, men with dark armor and round brass shields that reflected the light of the flameweavers as if they were hundreds of glowing yellow eyes.

For a moment, no one spoke. In a stern tone, Paldane called, “If it is battle you want, then come against us! But if you hope to find refuge in Carris, you hope in vain. We will not surrender at any cost.”

33
EARTH DREAMS

As Gaborn reached the top step of the landing to his room, he stumbled in the darkness and fell to the floor.

He'd never stumbled and fallen in his life, not that he could remember. Born as a prince among Runelords, he had been endowed as a child with grace from a dancer. It
aided his flexibility and sense of balance. Always in the past he'd landed on his feet no matter how far he'd fallen. He'd been granted endowments of brawn to give him greater strength, endowments of stamina to let him work tirelessly into the night, an endowment of sight to let his keen eyes pierce the darkness, an endowment of wit so that he knew every uneven step in every castle he'd ever walked.

Wearily, he climbed up and made for the bedroom Groverman had provided. At the top of the stairs, he said goodnight to his Days.

A boy lay curled on the floor in front of his door. Gaborn wondered if the lad served as a page for Groverman, though he couldn't imagine why the boy would be sleeping at his door. Gaborn carefully stepped over the lad.

To his surprise, in the room he found Iome asleep. She lay abed with five pups snuggling against her. One of the pups looked up at him and barked querulously.

A single candle burned in the room beside a bowl of washwater. The washbowl had been sweetened with rose petals. Clean riding clothes were draped over a chair. The room smelled pleasantly of roast beef, and a silver platter bearing food sat on a table, as if the feast an hour past had not been enough. A small fire burned in the hearth.

Gaborn looked at it all, realized that Jureem must have been here. No chamberlain had ever served Gaborn quite so well. The fat servant was always underfoot, yet seldom in sight.

Gaborn had hardly had time to speak to Iome tonight. Though she'd said he looked decrepit, she herself had looked overworn. He was glad that she slept. She'd need her rest. In two hours he'd ride for Fleeds.

He did not bother to remove his dirty ring mail and clothes, just lay down beside Iome.

She rolled toward him, laid a hand over his neck, and came awake. “My love,” she said. “Is it time to ride?”

“Not yet. Get some rest,” Gaborn said. “We've got two hours to rest.”

Instead, Iome came fully awake. She climbed up on one elbow, studied his face. She looked pale, worn. He closed his eyes.

“I heard about the Blue Tower,” Iome said. “You can't get all the sleep you need in two hours. You must take some endowments.”