Wizardborn (50 page)

Please me, a voice whispered in his ear.

For a second, Anders felt desperate. He'd sought to serve the wind, hoping that it would serve him in return. To some degree it did. Now, he saw that it could turn on him at any moment. He was in its thrall, would either
do
its bidding, or be discarded.

The cold wind pummeled him, slashing at his thin robes and tunic like a blade. It pierced his heart.

He suddenly stood tall and let the coldness seep into him. “Come, my warriors,” he whispered. “Come.”

The wind had been blowing from the south all day. Now the wizard on the weather vane of the highest tower turned and pointed to the west.

The wind beat down with a new ferocity.

Presently, Anders could hear sounds in the streets, the patter of tiny feet, the squeaking of small voices. He looked down in the deepening shadows, saw dark shapes darting across the cobblestones.

A terrier leapt out, barking, grabbed one of the small
beasts. It shrieked in pain as the terrier broke its back.

But the rats continued to rise up from beneath the city. They scuttled out of drains and sewers, came leaping out of barns. They scurried down from trees and crawled up from beneath rotting floors. They went racing over the rooftops in furry little packs, flowing out the castle walls in a dark tide, casting off dank turds in their wake.

Here and there in the city below, a woman would cry out as she discovered a pack of rats scampering beneath her feet.

People would talk about it for days, Anders knew, the mysterious exodus of rats. But he needed them, the dirty little beasts, with their penchant for spreading disease.

They fled the city under the cover of darkness, traveling east with the wind.

Anders whispered softly to the south, “Iome, come home. Your land needs you.”

He had hardly finished when his wife came up to the tower. “Are you going to stay here all night? You have guests, you know.”

King Anders smiled.

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Farion is the Queen of Slumber. She rewards good children by leading them into fair realms of dream, and punishes the wicked by directing them along dark paths into the lands of the twisted phantasms.

To win her favor, a child who has been bad may leave a piece of fruit or a sweet by his bed.

—
A myth from Ashoven

Stars smoldered in the cold heavens above Mangan's Rock. Sunset was gone an hour ago, and still the reavers sat on their pile of stones, casting their spells.

Wains filled with supplies had arrived from Castle Fells, and Gaborn's army was well fed for the night. Many lords lay in their bedrolls, taking the first real slumber they'd had in days.

Everything seemed quiet, yet Gaborn sat beside his campfire, poised, pensive. He could sense danger approaching his perimeter guards.

Baron Waggit, who was acting as a sentry, called out to Gaborn from the edge of his campfire, “Milord, Skalbairn says that there's something you should see.”

Immediately Gaborn came alert, sensing for danger. Yes, he could feel trouble brewing along the perimeter. He got up, with his Days in attendance, and followed Baron Waggit. The big man's yellow hair shone like silk in the starlight, and his back looked broad enough to ride. Watch fires burned steadily in a ring around Mangan's Rock, every two hundred yards.

Sounds carried pretematurally in the cool night air. Gaborn could hear the rasping of the reavers' breath, as if the monsters had crawled closer in the darkness. Smoke still roiled from the top of Mangan's Rock, and blue lights crackled around the Rune of Desolation.

As Gaborn followed, he spotted other sentries out on the plains in their pale livery, starlight reflecting from arms and helms.

He came upon Skalbairn. The big High Marshal had saddled his mount, and stood in the darkness bearing a lance in one hand, the reins of his horse in the other. He gazed longingly over the plains. Marshal Chondler stood watch at his side. They were nearly a mile from the base of Mangan's Rock.

Chondler was whispering, “You are either the bravest man I ever knew, or more of a fool than I'd have given you credit for.”

“He's no fool,” Waggit boomed. “You have the word of an expert on that.”

Skalbairn slapped the baron on the back in a friendly greeting.

Gaborn strode up behind the men. “What's going on?”

“A reaver, Milord,” Skalbairn said. “A monstrous big one, behind those rocks. I want to kill her.”

Gaborn followed his gaze. Behind three humped rocks, a scarlet sorceress ambled on the valley floor. The huge creature glimmered softly, her entire body covered in fiery runes. She circled as if in a daze, dragging her rear legs like one wounded. She was less than half a mile off, about midway between the men and Mangan's Rock.

“How did she get there?” Gaborn asked.

“We saw her climbing down the cliff,” Chondler said. “She was about a hundred yards up when she slipped and fell. Since then, she's been wandering all over the field, much as you see her now.”

Gaborn considered attacking, felt inside himself. The notion aroused a sense of near panic.

“Leave her,” Gaborn said. “She's not as helpless as she seems.”

“Ah, if only I had a ballista out here,” Chondler said, “I'd plant a bolt through her gizzard.”

“We have ballistas,” Gaborn told him. “They came on the wains about an hour ago.”

Chondler and Waggit looked at each other gleefully. Gaborn felt inside himself… yes, it would be safe to get in range of the monster. He urged, “Go get the ballistas.”

Chondler and Waggit hurried off into the darkness, leaving Gaborn alone with Skalbairn.

“You've taken a liking to Waggit,” Gaborn observed.

Skalbairn grunted. “He's a good man, I think. Perhaps good enough for the likes of my daughter, Farion. I've long thought that she'd need a kind man, someone who will not condemn her for her weakness. She's a bit simple, you see.”

Gaborn said nothing.

“You know,” Skalbairn said, nodding toward Chondler, “that man may serve you yet.”

“You mean he doesn't now?”

Skalbairn shook his head. “He's sworn to the Brotherhood of the Wolf. He doesn't completely trust your judgment. He thinks you … too much a gentleman.”

Gaborn chuckled at the notion.

“He's serious, milord,” Skalbairn said. He related Chondler's tale of the charitable mother and her grasping son, then said, “Chondler claims that there is only one virtue, milord: moderation. And even that is not a virtue when practiced to excess.”

“By his argument,” Gaborn countered, “I should account myself worthy so long as I give as much as I steal, or tell the truth as often as I lie.”

“He'd say that a good man gives
more
than he steals,” Skalbairn said, “and rescues
more
than he butchers.”

“That seems a damned convenient argument.”

“Very convenient,” Skalbairn said. “It saves the mind a good deal of contemplation and assuages much guilt.”

Gaborn felt angry. He saw Chondler's points: men do
train themselves to see their vice as virtue; and a virtue carried to excess can become a vice.

But Gaborn believed that wrongs were more solid, like rocks jutting in a harbor. Any man of conscience could steer the course between them. To do anything else led to guilt and suffering. Chondler's arguments were not merely circular, they seemed contrived to deceive. “What do you think about this?”

“I can't very well fault you for your kindness,” Skalbairn said. “After all, I am the recipient of your generosity.”

“I was wrong to Choose Raj Ahten,” Gaborn said. “I see that now. Was I also wrong to Choose you?”

Skalbairn shook his head. “I don't know. Obviously, I wouldn't think so. You saved my life six times yesterday in the battle for Carris. I'm in your debt. Í intend to repay you.”

Gaborn looked at the man. He stood holding his lance, gazing out toward the scarlet sorceress on the plain. A falling star flashed through the heavens above Mangan's Rock, blazing a trail of light.

During the height of the battle yesterday, Gaborn had sent warning to many people, so many thousands of times, that he could not guess how many lives he'd saved.

Out in the fields behind Skalbairn, there was a sudden
whunk
—the sound of falling dirt and stones. Gaborn turned, saw a plume of dust rising. Not a hundred yards west of a watch fire, the ground had caved in, leaving a gaping hole some thirty feet wide.

“What's that?” Skalbairn shouted.

Instantly, Gaborn realized what had happened, why the feeling of portent around his guards kept rising. The reavers were digging underground, trying to flank his men! But they'd tunneled under a rock that could not hold.

He saw their plan. Averan had said that none of the reavers here could build a Rune of Desolation. The reavers had stopped because they were thirsty, terrified, and desperate.

Now he suspected that she was right.

A plan blossomed in Gaborn's mind. “Strike,” the Earth said. “Strike now!”

“Blow retreat!” Gaborn shouted. “Get our men away from the watch fires. Have our troops form up by the creek.”

Gaborn turned and raced into the darkness. “What?” Skalbairn called, “are we going to flee?”

“No!” Gaborn shouted. “We're going to attack. I know how. I should have thought of it before. “We have seen wonders today. Wait a moment, and I will show you one more.”

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