Brotherhood of the Wolf (75 page)

No, Iome suspected that Lowicker's daughter would not surrender, but instead would press the attack. She might be on the hunt for anyone caught in her lands.

Gaborn had hoped that Lowicker would spend hundreds of thousands of troops in his defense. Now it looked as if Gaborn might have to fight through them.

Iome sighed, looked from Myrrima to Hoswell, and said in a firm tone, “We'll need extra food for ourselves and our mounts.”

Myrrima was not prepared for what she saw when she reached Kriskaven Wall. The courier in Fleeds had said that Gaborn had defeated Lowicker's ambush. He had not mentioned that the Earth King had cursed and blasted the wall.

Nor did Myrrima realize that Lowicker would still be alive. The three riders reached the wall and found Lowicker pinned to the ground a hundred yards on the other side, with a dozen of Gaborn's knights in attendance.

A spear had been thrust through his belly, pinning his
torso to the ground, and a banner affixed to the spear named Lowicker as a regicide. Lowicker's arms and legs had been hewn off and dragged away, so that only the stump of a man, all still dressed in kingly apparel, lay in the hot sun.

But Lowicker had so many endowments of stamina that he had not yet died. Only a king or one of Raj Ahten's Invincibles, a man with many endowments of stamina, could have survived such mutilation. Blood had pooled about him, and flies swirled around in a swarm. But with so many endowments of stamina, the horrid wounds had begun to heal swiftly.

Myrrima felt astonished to see him lying in agony, still clinging to life. She doubted he could last long, knew for a fact that he must yearn to die.

Such was the penalty prescribed for those who had committed regicide. As they rode near the site, Myrrima gasped involuntarily, for she recalled that Sir Borenson was also a kingslayer, and by rights, Iome could have demanded this penalty from him.

The scent of blood in the air was cloying, now that Myrrima had an endowment of scent from a dog. It smelled surprisingly enticing.

As they reached the spot, King Lowicker turned his head and watched Iome, sweat dripping from his brow. He took one look at Iome, and King Lowicker began to laugh. “So, Spawn of Sylvarresta, have you come to gloat?” Lowicker asked. He spoke painfully.

Iome shook her head. “Give him a drink, at the very least,” she commanded one of the knights in attendance.

The Baron shook his head. “It would only prolong his suffering, Your Highness. Besides, a creature like this—he'd give none to you.”

She fixed the husk of King Lowicker with a gentle look. “Would you like water?”

“Ah, she feels sentiment for the damned,” Lowicker snarled. “Do not pity me. I want it less than your water.”

Myrrima could not believe that Lowicker could be so cold, so hard, even now when he faced death. Yet she'd
seen that look of contempt on other faces. At Castle Sylvarresta, when the city guard had caught thieves looting as the Darkling Glory came, she'd seen such expressions on the faces of hardened criminals, men who had hidden from the Earth King lest he look into their hearts and know them for what they were.

Now she saw Lowicker's dilemma. While many kings might search Gaborn out, hope to ally themselves with him and thus save themselves and their people, other kings would be like this—like Lowicker of Beldinook and Anders of South Crowthen—men so corrupt that they felt no choice but to strike out at Gaborn.

Lowicker knew himself to be corrupt beyond all hope.

“I pity you anyway,” Iome told him.

Lowicker cackled insanely. Tears began to cut streams down his dirt-crusted face. Obviously his pain coupled with the hot sun was affecting his mind.

What an evil man, Myrrima thought. He deserves no pity, yet Iome offers it. He deserves no water, yet Iome would give it.

“Your Highness,” Sir Hoswell asked after a long moment, “shall I do him?” He dared not use such an indelicate word as “kill.”

Myrrima thought that Iome would consent, would give in and kill the man now, release him from his pain.

“No,” Iome said, suddenly furious. “That's what he hopes for.” She spurred her horse past Lowicker, and Myrrima felt a thrill of relief.

46
A HERO BY NECESSITY

In the west tower of Duke Paldane's Keep, Raj Ahten stared from the windows and studied the workings of the reavers.

For now, he was biding his time. His shore party had not yet returned from the east side of the lake, and so he still did not know for certain whether they could flee the castle by water. The fact that they were so long overdue suggested to Raj Ahten that the shore party had been slaughtered to a man.

In the back of his mind, he knew that Gaborn's troops would be heading to the aid of Carris. Perhaps even the Earth King himself would come do battle with the reavers, and he imagined the satisfaction watching that fight might bring.

Raj Ahten was here with Paldane, the men who had served as Wits to King Orden, and Raj Ahten's counselor Feykaald. His three flameweavers stood at his back before a roaring blaze in the hearth, peering into the smoke and the writhing flames. They were drawing the heat into them, trying to regenerate their powers, but they were so drained, Raj Ahten doubted they'd be able to fight for the rest of the day. He dared not engage the reavers until the flameweavers could stand beside him.

After dawn Raj Ahten had quickly set up formations for defending the castle gates. Yet the reavers merely ignored them, continued to build.

“What are they up to?” Raj Ahten wondered aloud. “Why don't they attack?”

“It may be that they fear to try a frontal assault,” Duke
Paldane ventured. “But they dig well, and might tunnel into the castle, like monstrous sappers.”

The reavers had obviously come here for a purpose.

But for the moment the reavers did not seem interested in taking the castle. Perhaps they were not fully aware of the danger that his men presented. It even seemed remotely plausible to Raj Ahten that the reavers had forgotten that the castle was here; they were after all strange creatures that danced to a pipe that no man could hear.

He glanced toward Bone Hill. The fell mage worked there near its crown, glittering from the fiery runes tattooed on her carapace. Once, her massive head swiveled toward the castle, but then she resumed her work.

Perhaps the fell mage felt secure with her minions guarding the plains. The land was now pocked with openings to subterranean caverns, laced with moats, decorated with that stinking rune that covered the hill. He studied Bone Hill, secure behind its barrier of hardened mucilage, partially wrapped inside its cocoon.

The glue mums had quit towering the walls higher. Raj Ahten suspected that the fell mage's curious defenses might be complete.

Was it merely a coincidence that they came to this place, now, where Raj Ahten planned to face the Earth King? Raj Ahten wondered. Could it be that they prepared this battle-ground for the Earth King?

It seemed more probable that their plans had nothing to do with any of them. The reavers seemed content to ignore Raj Ahten and his armies, as if he were beneath their notice.

Raj Ahten shook his head in dismay. For the past hour he had been assaulted by strange and distressing emotions for reasons that he could not quite understand.

I should not be dismayed, he reasoned. I am the most powerful Runelord to grace the earth in millennia. My facilitators in Indhopal have drawn brawn and stamina from thousands of subjects, have taken grace and wit from thousands more. A sword driven through my heart cannot slay me. I should not feel apprehensive.

Yet he did. In recent months, he had begun to believe that he was invincible, that he was on the verge of becoming a creature of legend, the Sum of All Men—a Runelord so charismatic that he would no longer need forcibles to draw attributes from his Dedicates. He hoped to become a Power, a force of nature, like the Earth or Fire or Water.

Daylan Hammer had accomplished it in days of old, if legend spoke true.

Raj Ahten had stood on the brink of attaining that distinction; until ten days ago it seemed that nothing could hinder him. Then old King Mendellas Orden had stolen his forcibles.

Surely if the reavers knew that a man like me confronts them, Raj Ahten thought, they would fear me.

Raj Ahten glanced toward the foul rune that the reavers were shaping at Bone Hill. The stink of it had become appalling, and now the odor hung above the hill in a spiral of brown haze.

Death emanated from that place. Raj Ahten felt the pain and rot and decrepitude. To even look at it made the eyeballs twitch, want to turn away. Dim lights flickered beneath the roiling smoke, like the phantom ghost lights that formed when gas bubbles rose from a swamp. It seemed to Raj Ahten that the whole rune was precariously close to bursting into flame.

I feel dismay. Somehow, that rune is the key.

The reavers focused too much attention on it. Their mages swarmed the hill, patiently digging great trenches so that the odd rune took shape in bas-relief, then decorated it with their stench.

Raj Ahten had endowments of scent from thousands of men. He breathed deeply. It was not a single odor. He could detect myriad undertones and flavors. It was a complex medley: a bouquet of rot, of moldering flesh, mixed smoke and death and human sweat, a rich symphony teeming with competing smells. He felt as if he were almost on the verge of revelation, of recognizing the entirety of it.

Certainly the reavers had come to Carris for the sole purpose of shaping that rune.

Reavers scurried about on the rune's walls, and one of them slipped, causing a slide. To Raj Ahten's delight, part of the rune collapsed. Reaver mages raced to build it back up, hold it together, and spray the protuberances with new scents.

The rune was tantalizingly close. A child with a hammer could knock it down.

On a sudden impulse, Raj Ahten slammed a mailed fist through the window of the Duke's Keep, stood for a moment and inhaled the subtle texture of odors coming from the rune.

Raj Ahten closed his eyes in concentration. As he inhaled deeply, he became aware that some scents did not translate simply as smells. Instead they assaulted the emotions. Yes, dismay was the scent that he smelled.

He'd never considered the possibility that a scent might arouse an emotion.

The sour sweat of someone who toiled near death. Raj Ahten tasted the scent, and felt with it that man's despair.

Smoke, and agony. The salty taste of human tears. The greasy scent of charred flesh, and with it another smoky odor: fields of crops rotting under a blight.

Decay. A corpse bloated like a melon to the point of bursting.

Despair and terror assailed him. The coppery scent of blood, a woman's broken water, and decay—a mother giving birth to a stillborn child. Fatigue.

The sour taste of old skin. Loneliness so deep it was an ache in the bones.

After a long moment, Raj Ahten smiled and almost laughed in pain. He recognized that complex scent now: It was a symphony of human suffering, the tally of all mankind's misery.

“It's an incantation,” Raj Ahten realized. He startled himself by speaking aloud.

“What?” Duke Paldane said, staring hard at him.

“The rune,” Raj Ahten said. “It's an incantation written in scent—an incantation to call a curse upon mankind.”

He suddenly yearned to dash the rune and its makers into oblivion, to drown the thing in water and wash it clean.

Yet he doubted he could accomplish that feat. The reavers were too wise to give him access to his objective, too powerful to be defeated so long as they comprised such vast numbers. A cocoon blockaded much of his path to the rune, although a trail had been left for the workers.

Raj Ahten had to try.

“The reavers may build,” Raj Ahten said, “but we do not have to let them build in peace. I may not be able to take that hill, but I can surely spoil their party.”

47
WAITING FOR SAFFIRA