Wizardborn (32 page)

Any archer who cannot draw, aim, and loose ten arrows in the space of a minute must be demoted to the ranks of the infantry.

—
Standing Decree in Heredon

Myrrima's heart pounded. Her arrow struck the bony plate of the reaver mage's head. The shaft shattered under the impact.

She fumbled for her quiver, quickly drew an arrow to the full. Her legs felt weak, as if they'd give out beneath her.

Even with her endowments, the reaver's spell made her eyes burn as if they had lye spilled in them, and there was a buzzing roar in her ears. She felt as if she were spinning.

Her hand shook as she drew aim.

She let the arrow fly. It slammed into the monster's eyeless head, buried itself in the scarlet sorceress's sweet triangle.

It did not kill her instantly.

An arrow didn't have the bulk of a lance. Shooting this monster with an arrow was the equivalent of plunging a needle into a man's brain. It would kill him, but not as fast and effectively as a heavier weapon might.

The mage roared and crouched back. She raised her crystalline staff, aimed it. A cloud of darkness, like a living shadow, hurtled from it, and Myrrima leapt aside. There was a roar, as if a huge stone had crashed to earth.

Suddenly Hoswell was at Myrrima's right. His bow sang,
and a second arrow plunged into the sorceress's sweet triangle.

The monster roared in fury, and raised her arms to attack, but then wheeled as if to flee and collapsed to her belly. Air hissed from her posterior vents in rapid bursts, similar to the sound of a human panting.

Myrrima glanced back, saw the path that the reaver's shadow blast had taken. The ground was crushed and broken, the grass sheared at its roots for yards around. She did not doubt that the spell would have shattered every bone in her body.

More reavers rushed into the fray, crawling over the dead. Myrrima leapt to her feet, drew a shaky aim at a blade-bearer.

“Take your time,” Hoswell shouted as he drew on a monster to their left.

She let the arrow fly. It found its mark. The reaver lunged backward, as if looking for an easier meal. It would be dead in seconds.

“Good,” Hoswell said.

Hoswell sprinted forward, into the thick of the reavers' lines. Many of the monsters reacted to the humans' charge merely by running faster, trying to escape through their deeply furrowed trail.

Myrrima glanced up and down the battle lines. Everywhere knights had come off their horses, and many of them now were leaping into the ranks of the reavers, armed with nothing but their courage, their endowments, and their battle-axes. She saw Gaborn's standard to the north. He fought with the green woman at his side.

Myrrima followed Hoswell down into the gully, and they stopped to shoot a pair of reavers on the trail.

With her endowments, everything seemed to happen in slow motion. She knew that the reavers were charging at twenty miles per hour, but to her it seemed as if they came at only a brisk walk.

She loosed an arrow, missed again.

“With your endowments,” Hoswell said, “you can afford
to miss. If a reaver charges you, just run away.”

His assurances had a calming effect. She drew an arrow, took aim. The monster was rushing at her, and it filled her vision as it reared overhead. It gaped its mouth. Crystalline teeth flashed like molten daggers.

She dropped to a crouch, managed to fire up through its soft palate, then leapt backward as the beast kept charging on.

Her heart hammered as the reaver collapsed. But now her heart was not pounding in fear so much as in the thrill of the hunt.

Killing blade-bearers seemed easy. She felt tempted to grab Borenson's warhammer and leap into the fray, but resisted the impulse. She was gaining confidence with her bow.

But with monsters like these, any mistake would be her last.

   24   

The wealth of nations lies not in gold or arms, but in the vigilance of its people.

—
Rajah Farah Magreb, High King of ancient Indhopal

It is amazing what an old man can learn in half a day if he keeps his eyes and ears open.

Three miles behind the battle lines, Feykaald glanced at the charging mounts, saw the Runelords of Rofehavan sweep into the reavers' flanks.

He'd stayed back with the carters and rode beside the wains that bore the king's lances and food. One wagon in particular held his attention: Gaborn's treasure wagon. It had a flat bed like others in the caravan, but this one had a tarp tied over its trunks—and guards to watch it.

He knew that the wain carried treasure of some kind. It might be as insignificant as clothing and jewels from Iome's household, but he hoped for something better.

Now, as the battle raged, the carters stood atop their wains to get a better view. Most of the guards for the precious wagon had gone to join the charge, and only a pair of them remained.

Feykaald rode along behind the wagons slowly, so as not to attract attention. He needn't have feared. Gaborn's charge this morning was the stuff of dreams, the kind of thing that children only heard about in wild tales.

The guards stood watching the battle, riveted.

As he passed the wagon, Feykaald reached down with
his cobra staff and pulled up a tarp, to get a peek at the boxes.

His heart hammered.

He saw only the corner of a box. It was made of cedar from Indhopal, instead of oak from Rofehavan.

Feykaald had supervised the packing of that box himself. He knew its contents: Raj Ahten's forcibles.

Feykaald could not suppress a smile. He dropped the tarp, continued riding past the wain. One guard glanced back at him. Feykaald nodded toward the battlefield. “It goes well, neh?”

The guard turned away.

Five boxes beneath the tarp. Five boxes—nearly twenty thousand forcibles! Gaborn still had half of his master's treasure!

Feykaald briefly considered trying to murder the two guards and flee with the boxes. But he dared not even entertain the thought.

Gaborn knew when his Chosen were in danger.

Feykaald would have to come up with a better plan.

   25   

A keen blade, a fierce dog, a bold wife—these things are good.

—
Adage from Internook

Borenson rolled to his knees and began to crawl over the rough stubble. He could see nothing, could hear only the vague din of battle—the screams of horses, the hissing of reavers as they pounded over the plain.

He scrambled forward, struggled to hold his breath. The reaver mage's spell made his ears more than just ring; he'd lost his balance, and could do little more than crawl.

His eyes burned like fire. Tears rolled from them. His sinuses ached as if he'd inhaled scalding smoke.

The pain was excruciating. He'd smelled curses like these at Carris, but he'd never taken one full in the face, fifty feet downwind from a mage.

Borenson clambered through the stubble as doggedly as he could. He reasoned that if he was going to be the target of a reaver's wrath, at least he would be a moving target.

After a few yards, he exhaled his burning lungs, swallowed a fresh breath. The stench had lessened, yet even now it was too much. He vomited his breakfast into the grass and struggled on.

Ten yards farther, he put his sleeve over his nose, tried inhaling again. The stench seemed to cling to his lungs like pitch. It brought racking coughs. He staggered up and ran.

Is this how my father died? he wondered.

He felt a terrible pity for the man.

In less than a minute he turned, blinking at the battle lines, fiercely wiping tears from his face with the back of his hand.

He strained to see. He'd reached a small rise, a hundred yards from the reavers' trail. Everywhere up and down the battle line, Runelords fought reavers tooth and nail. Few of the knights had lances. Most had dismounted and now rushed in to fight with battle-axes and warhammers.

The lords had decimated the reavers' western flank. Many reavers fled east to escape the slaughter.

At the rear of the reaver lines, frowth giants roared as they waded among the enemy, swinging huge staves, knocking the reavers' legs from under them. Runelords then dispatched the wounded beasts.