Wizardborn (30 page)

The knights all laughed in an uproar, and someone shouted to Myrrima. “Is it true?”

Myrrima blushed a deep crimson and tried to stifle a laugh. “He's a liar. There's only two. They're perfect, but
enormous.
It's amazing that he can even walk. I fear that he'll become bowlegged!”

The knights all erupted in raucous chortles and sniggers. Some knight called out, “Did you hear that, Sir Sedrick? Perhaps the wizard can help you with your
little
problem!”

Sir Sedrick's eyes grew wide, and he bellowed, “What? I haven't got no
little
problem!”

The laughter grew louder.

Myrrima hid her face behind her hand, seeking to conceal her embarrassment.

Sir Borenson waved graciously toward Binnesman, as if inviting him to take a bow, though Gaborn felt sure that the knight merely wanted to divert attention from himself.

The wizard smiled and nodded, with a dubious grin.

The knights erupted in cheers and shouts of laughter. Gaborn could not help thinking of Wizard Hoewell. He'd fought hard to discredit Binnesman so that he could gain a teaching post in the Room of Earth Powers. Hoewell might well be a worthy wizard, but he'd never summoned a wylde, and he'd certainly never managed to grow new walnuts on a man.

Gaborn looked over at Binnesman and said gleefully, “You're going to be famous!”

Moments later, Skalbairn finished riding up from the south with a pair of scouts. “Milord,” Skalbairn shouted as he reined in his horse. The warlord's charger was running fast. It skidded for the last forty yards, came to a halt so close to Gaborn that his own mount danced back nervously. Skalbairn's eyes shone with excitement.

“Milord,” he said, “the reavers froze their asses in the snow last night, and they still haven't thawed. The sun
didn't warm their burrows enough to rouse them until well after dawn. Even now they're sluggish, trudging at half-pace. We only await your orders.”

Gaborn felt inside himself, wondering. He was tempted to attack, yet sensed danger. The reavers were not to be trifled with.

“Milord,” Skalbairn demanded, “may we charge?”

Gaborn could sense layers of danger, like the peels of an onion. Many men here could die if he chose to attack.

But I am the Earth King, Gaborn thought. It's my duty to protect my people the best way that I know how.

The reavers were weak, had lost the fell mage that led them. They marched south along the very track from which they'd come, like ants following a food trail. He had the whole day to hunt. His knights were eager. The weather was excellent, and the terrain along much of the way would be perfect. In all of history, he had never heard of a lord attacking so many reavers in the open. Perhaps never again would conditions be so favorable.

But he wondered at the losses. How many brave men might fall? He could get no clear sense of the answer. It would depend on his tactics. In the long run, could he afford the losses? What battles would he face in the coming days?

With every moment, he felt that he was marching closer to the world's doom. Men here would die today. Iome would soon face danger. Tens of thousands in Carris. And after that, the world.

Borenson spoke before anyone else. “Damn it, Gaborn, don't you dare hold us back! Are we men here? Are we men at all?”

Gaborn looked at his old friend.

Skalbairn said in a rush, “Milord, I cannot honestly assure you that if you order us to withhold, all men will obey. Many of the lords below are sworn to a new order, the Brotherhood of the Wolf, and acknowledge no one as their master.”

Gaborn knew what he had to do. “Gentlemen,” he said.
“There are thousands of reavers down there, heading for the Underworld. I will not have them return in a week to scale the walls at the Courts of Tide. There must never be another Carris!”

He felt an electric thrill go through the group.

“Will you lead a charge?” Skalbairn asked.

His people needed an Earth King—a strong lord, and wise, riding out of the mists of time. Binnesman had warned that he must not fight unless he felt backed into a corner, but there was more than one way to get cornered. He was in a precarious situation. Lords on his borders were watching for any sign of weakness. Men he had Chosen only yesterday had foresworn themselves.

He needed an overwhelming victory.

Most of all, he needed to find the Waymaker.

So men would die today, good men. Gaborn would spend his friends. He pointed to the dark serpent that rumbled across the golden plains. “We'll kill them all.”

   22   

Our enemies are trained to show no fear. In Mystarria we shall teach our men to
have
no fear.

—
King Therongold Orden

As soon as Gaborn announced that he would attack, he climbed down from his saddle and tightened the girth straps on his mount.

Borenson did the same. When a force horse was charging at ninety miles an hour, a knight couldn't risk even the slightest slippage.

Borenson took some deep breaths. He felt nervous on this charge. He had a good eye and a steady hand with a lance, but it had been years since he'd made a charge with so few endowments. He had only one of brawn, one of grace. Without stamina he was a “warrior of unfortunate proportion.” His hands felt numb. The sound of men grunting and horses pawing the ground seemed unaccountably loud. Not for the first time he marveled at how fear could make sight and smell and hearing so acute, yet leave the hands and feet feeling numb and cold.

Gaborn asked Averan, “How far can a reaver see?” Borenson leaned close to hear the answer. For ages it had been a question of much speculation.

“It depends on the reaver,” Averan answered. “For most of them, about from here to that tree. The howlers see a little farther, the glue mums hardly see at all. Far-seers can do better.”

“Far-seers?” Gaborn asked.

“There are none in this horde,” Averan assured him.

“About two hundred and fifty yards, then,” Gaborn said, yanking his girth strap tighter. “Can they count our numbers by smell?”

Averan shook her head. “I don't think so. Our world is so strange to them—so full of new scents. Every man smells so different from another. But if you put a bunch of them together—I don't think so.”

Gaborn glanced at Skalbairn. “The wind is steady from the east?”

“It has been so all morning,” Skalbairn said.

“Call your troops back,” Gaborn said. “We'll charge the reavers' rear flank from downwind. By the time they see us, we'll be upon them.”

Gaborn leapt on his horse as Skalbairn pulled out his warhorn and blew a short riff, ordering his troops to regroup.

Myrrima had been riding beside Borenson. She dismounted quickly and strung her bow. Her face was pale with fear.

“You can't kill a reaver with that!” Borenson said.

She looked up at him, anger in her eyes. “Why not? All I have to do is hit it in the sweet triangle hard enough to bury the arrow a yard.”

“Can you even
hit
a reaver?” Borenson asked. He could tell that she had taken some endowments, but it wasn't just endowments that made a warrior. One needed skill in battle.

Several men in the crowd guffawed. The angry look Myrrima gave him suggested that if he didn't shut his mouth soon, she'd nock an arrow and practice on him.

With that, Gaborn spurred his mount forward and his Days rode at his side. Myrrima leapt on her own horse and charged after him, drawing an arrow from the quiver at her back. Binnesman and his wylde rode beside them.

Borenson was gathering up the reins when Iome grabbed his elbow and whispered, “A word to the wise, Sir Borenson. Your wife has many endowments of her own now. How do you think she got them?”

“She said you gave them to her—a gift,” Borenson said.

Iome offered a wry smile. “She
earned
them with that bow of hers. She saved me and Binnesman and the lives of everyone else at Castle Sylvarresta. She slew the Darkling Glory, and I have paid her twenty forcibles for her service.”

Borenson felt sure that Iome was waiting for his jaw to drop, but he didn't give her the satisfaction.

Instead he offered in a casual tone, “Such things are only to be expected from a wife of mine.”

Iome smiled. “No doubt she can roast a fine piglet, too.”

Borenson laughed and climbed on his horse, raced downhill. He left only the wagon of forcibles and its guard behind, accompanied by the spidery old Kaifba Feykaald. He passed the frowth giants that loped steadily over the grass, their mail jangling like the chains to ships' anchors. They smelled strongly of sour fat and carrion.

The hooves of the horses thundered over the ground through stands of golden alders toward the bright plain. Grasshoppers, fat from eating all summer, leapt away from the horse's hooves. Yellow butterflies dipped here and there in the grass. Overhead, the sky was a blue bowl, and the wind felt brisk in Borenson's face.

Borenson wondered about his wife. She hadn't told him that she'd slain the Darkling Glory. He knew how hard it was to keep one's mouth shut about such things.

He felt sheepish. He'd killed a reaver mage in the Dunnwood, a small one that wasn't even so powerful as a scarlet sorceress, and dragged it home for his wife. It seemed a paltry prize now.

In the past few days, the world had turned upside down. He'd lost all his endowments, while she gained as many.

But he'd never imagined when he met her in the market at Bannisferre that Myrrima would someday slay a Darkling Glory, a beast of legend that he'd never even seen. He'd never imagined that she would take a bow and charge into the ranks of a reaver horde. He'd never imagined that she would want to accompany him to Inkarra.

Perhaps, Borenson thought, she's trying to earn my respect.

But, no, even that seemed wrong. Myrrima wasn't some drooling pup, eager to please. She had a toughness that did not so much beg for admiration as command it. She was that tough, right down to the core of her soul.

Borenson felt as if he were falling into a trap. He had told Myrrima himself that love was part attraction, part respect. He'd felt attracted to her from the moment he'd met her. And right now, he was feeling a whole lot of respect too.

A trio of gree whipped overhead, blacker than bats, writhing on the wind. The reavers thundered over the grasslands beneath a cloud of the winged beasts. From a distance the reavers had looked like a great gray serpent. Closer up, with the way that air vented from their abdomens, now the snake could be heard to hiss as if in anger.

Out on the plains, Skalbairn's army rode back to join with the Brotherhood of the Wolf.

Borenson worried about his mount. He'd not have bought such an uncouth animal. The piebald mare had an endowment of brawn, one of grace, and two of metabolism, but she kept fighting the bit.

As he neared the reaver horde, the mare tossed her head and shied away. She'd ridden in battle with reavers before. He needed a steady mount, one that trusted him enough to charge a reaver close so that he could bury a lance in it. The mare fought him, tried to race away from the horde.