Brotherhood of the Wolf (66 page)

Blind men and women danced close together, careful not to step on one another's toes, while the deaf and mute romped to a merry jig. Witless fools capered madly.

Myrrima stood a moment just inside the gates gazing into the courtyard, baffled.

One old blind fellow sat cross-legged on the ground nearby, eating tarts and drinking from a jug of wine. He had weathered features and stringy hair.

“Why are they dancing?” Myrrima asked. “Hostenfest ended two days ago.”

The blind man smiled up at her, proffering his bottle of wine. “Tradition!” he said. “Today we revel, for our lords go to war!”

“Tradition?” Myrrima asked. “Dedicates always do this when their lords go to war?”

“Ayuh.” The fellow nodded. “Have a drink.”

“No, thank you.” Myrrima was perplexed. She'd never heard of this tradition. On the other hand, in all of her life, Heredon had never gone to war.

She looked up at the keep, with its sandstone chambers to house the Dedicates, its broad walls and the watchtowers above.

Once a man entered this place, he forsook the wider world—until either the lord or Dedicate passed away. Myrrima had seldom considered before how this place became its own separate world, untouched by outside affairs.

Amazed, she saw that some Dedicates were now dancing.

“Will this go on all day?” she asked.

“Ayuh,” the blind fellow said. “Until the battle.”

She wondered. “Ah, I see…. Today, if your lord dies, your sight will be restored. What better reason to celebrate?”

The blind fellow gripped his wine bottle fiercely, as if it were a cudgel, and snarled, “What a rude creature you are! We celebrate because today
we
”—he thumped his chest for emphasis—“are going to war. Today, my lord Groverman will use my eyes, but I would gladly fight at his side if I could.”

He sloshed wine onto the ground. “And by this libation, I implore the Earth: may Groverman come home victorious, to fight another day! Long live Duke Groverman!”

The fellow raised his wine bottle in the air and took a long swig, toasting the Duke's health.

Myrrima had spoken thoughtlessly. She understood that she had insulted the fellow, but she'd meant no harm.

Near one wall, in the shadows apart from the revelers, Myrrima saw Iome encircled by three dozen peasants, men and women of various ages and backgrounds. They held hands and circled slowly as Iome spoke. In the background, two minstrels played a soft march on flutes and drums. It was an ancient tune.

Myrrima recognized immediately what was happening. When a warrior sought endowments, he went to the facilitator, who kept a list of all those who had ever offered to act as Dedicates. The facilitator would then gather candidates, and because it was imperative that the Dedicates offer themselves freely and completely, the warrior often
would need to speak. He'd tell the candidates of the need that drove him, promise to serve well if granted endowments, and offer support to the Dedicates and their families.

Thus Myrrima was not surprised to hear Iome speaking intently: “I ask not for myself alone. The Earth has spoken to my husband, and warned that the end of the Age of Man is upon us. Thus if we fight, we fight not for ourselves, but for all of mankind!”

One man in the circle called out, “Your Highness, forgive me, but you're not trained for war. Might my endowment not serve another lord better?”

“You're right,” Iome countered. “I have some good training with the saber, and if I had an endowment of brawn, I could bear a warhammer as well as any man. But I don't pretend that I'll fight with great training and skill. To fight with great speed is as deadly as to fight with great skill. So I'll want metabolism instead.” There was a gasp of surprise from the potential Dedicates.

“Why? Why would you want to die young like that?” one older woman in the group asked as she plodded along slowly in the circle.

Myrrima pitied Iome. Myrrima had never engaged in a ceremony like this. She doubted that she could do it. She knew she didn't have a way with words. She'd never be able to talk a stranger into giving her the use of his or her most precious attribute.

“I carry the King's son within me,” Iome explained. “Yesterday when the Darkling Glory came to Castle Sylvarresta, it sought the child's life, not mine. If I carry him to term, the Prince will not be born until midsummer. But if I take enough metabolism now, I can deliver in six weeks.”

Good girl, Myrrima thought. All of the potential Dedicates could see what she wanted. Iome would become a warrior, give her life to buy a life for her son. Iome's love for her child might sway these people.

The old woman stared at her intently and broke from the circle, taking a step inward and bowing on one knee. “My
metabolism is yours, and your child's.” But the others continued circling, asking questions.

Someone tapped Myrrima on the back. She turned and looked up into the face of one of the largest men she'd ever encountered. He threw a shadow that could darken a small crowd, and he looked as if he'd more likely be seen carrying a horse about than to have it carry him. He was a woodsman by the smell of the pine on him. He wore a leather vest with no shirt underneath, so that she could see his muscular chest. He looked to be in his midthirties. He grinned down at her, his bearded face filled with awe. “Are you the one?”

“Which one?” Myrrima asked.

“What killed the Darkling Glory?”

Myrrima nodded dumbly, unsure how to speak to someone whose face revealed such awe.

“I sawer it,” the fellow said. “Flew right overhead, it did. Blackened the sky for miles. Never thought anyone could kill it.”

“I shot it,” Myrrima said. She realized that she was clutching her bow defensively, holding it close to her breast. “You'd have done the same if you were there.”

“Hah! Not bloody likely.” The big man grinned. “I'd have turned tail and still be running.”

Myrrima accepted his compliment. He was right after all. Most men would have run.

The fellow nodded, as if too shy to speak. She could tell that he was none too bright. “You'll need a new bow,” he said.

She glanced at her bow, wondering if she'd damaged it. “What do you mean?”

“You'll need a steel bow,” the fellow said, “'cause I could crack that one in two, no problem.”

Then she understood. Her reputation—however undeserved—preceded her. This monster meant to give her an endowment of brawn. Many a knight would have gladly paid fifty gold eagles for such an endowment, ten years of a workman's wages. By the Powers, he was big!

“I see,” Myrrima murmured in wonder. She dared not say that she thought his admiration undeserved, for if she had the brawn of a man like this, she suspected that she could become the kind of hero he believed her to be.

Several other peasants standing at this big fellow's back rushed forward. And Myrrima had a second realization. The knot of people waiting at the gates had all been waiting for her. They'd come to offer endowments.

Unlike Iome, “Heredon's Glory” did not have to talk them into giving her their finest attributes.

40
TALES OF MADNESS

Daylight found Gaborn deep in the lowlands of Fleeds. The northlands had been hilly, filled with shepherds' cottages and narrow roads bordered by stone fences. Huge rocks crowned with twisted pines had stood along the road like ancient sentinels. The starlight fell over the countryside as heavy and palpable as if it were silver coins.

Gaborn had not dared ride hard in the darkness, no matter how great the danger he felt arising at Carris, and so the vast majority of his troops kept pace through the night Though he had begun to receive endowments, a fall from his horse could break his neck as easily as it could any other man's.

Yet even as he rode, he felt himself swelling, growing in power. He'd taken less than an hour to receive endowments at Castle Groverman. He'd taken one each of brawn, metabolism, grace, and stamina. Then he'd fled, leaving Groverman's facilitator to find others willing to Vector endowments through his new Dedicates.

He'd warned the facilitator that he'd need forty endowments
by nightfall, and the facilitator had promised to have it done.

So as he rode that night, he grew more refreshed with each passing hour. He grew stronger, faster.

Though the deed repulsed him, he could not deny that the taste of evil was sweet, and unwittingly on one occasion he even found himself wondering, If Raj Ahten sought to use forcibles to become the Sum of All Men, could I not do the same?

Yet he cast the thought away quickly, for it was not worthy of a king.

He rode now with the wizard Binnesman at his side, along with five hundred lords out of Orwynne and Heredon. Gaborn had provided a fast force horse so that his Days could accompany the party.

At dawn Gaborn gazed down from a hill trail that looked over the rolling plains. A cold sun dawdled on the horizon, and a hazy mist hovered over the fields of Fleeds.

In preparation for a race over the plains, he stopped to water and feed the horses by a placid finger lake where wild oats and purple vetch and golden melilot grew thick. The icy water was marvelously clear; fat trout swam lazily among the humped stones beneath its surface.

Yellow larks sang in the willows beside the road; at his approach they flew up like sparks from a smith's grindstone.

“Feed and water here for fifteen minutes,” Gaborn called out. “If we race, we can reach Tor Doohan within the hour. From there we'll strike south quickly, in hopes of reaching Carris by midafternoon.”

Gaborn was raising the time scale. The sense of impending doom at Carris was becoming overwhelming, and the Earth bade him to strike.

“Midafternoon?” Sir Langley asked. “Is there some great hurry?”

Carris was so far away that no messenger could have brought him any news that was less than a day stale. But Gaborn surprised them with some. “Yes,” Gaborn admitted.

“I believe that Raj Ahten is at the walls of Carris. Five minutes ago, my messengers were in mortal danger…. The feeling passed for a moment. Yet now once again I feel a staggering sense of danger rising around my Chosen messengers there.”

The lords began talking to one another loudly, discussing strategies. Raj Ahten was notorious for taking castles quickly. Few believed that Carris would hold out through the day. If it did, then chasing him off might be an easy matter.

But no one believed that they'd find him crouched before the walls of Carris.

The consensus was that if Gaborn laid siege to the castle, he would likely be successful in the short term. But how long could he sustain such a siege? With Raj Ahten's armies spilling across the borders, the Wolf Lord would not have to wait more than a week for reinforcements. Which meant that Gaborn would either have to attack Raj Ahten in his stronghold quickly, or stave off armies that came to give him aid.

Either way, Gaborn might well be setting the stage for a battle of epic proportions.

It all sounded so simple. Lords from all across Rofehavan would gather to his banner. Already he had Beldinook and Fleeds, the Knights Equitable, Heredon, and Mystarria. With so many troops, taking Raj Ahten should not be hard. In fact, Gaborn almost hoped that Raj Ahten did take Carris, for it would leave him trapped, like a rat, there on the peninsula.

Yet Gaborn still felt deeply troubled. He felt death stalking every single man and woman in his retinue. There would be a battle royal at Carris, and it would not wait for a week. He feared that Raj Ahten was setting some sort of trap.

He worried that even with Lowicker's aid, and the aid of Fleeds, he would not gather enough troops to do battle.

Gaborn went to the edge of the lake, hoping to be alone with his thoughts. Little yellow posies sprouted between the
rocks at the shore's edge. He plucked one, stood holding it. As a child he'd always thought posies to be such treasures, though now he saw how common they really were.