Brotherhood of the Wolf (74 page)

But the reavers did not attack Carris.

They dismantled hamlets that had grown over the centuries. They plundered fortresses and converted the stones to their own purpose. They tore up roads and gardens.

But the reavers did not attack. So long as the blade-bearers blocked the only road in and out of Carris, no man could hope to flee that way or sally forth to attack. But then so long as the reavers did not storm the castle gates Roland felt… mollified by the arrangement.

As the day wore on, he was able to forget the creeping sense of menace and horror of the morning, the cries of Raj Ahten's foot soldiers as they were carried to their deaths. He dared hope. For long hours as the day wore on, the men on the walls held remarkably silent. By noon they began talking animatedly, easily.

The shore party had been gone for hours, and would surely return soon. Who could blame the men if they did not hurry back to Carris?

But minute by minute, hour after hour, men scanned the waters, and saw no boats return from the east.

45
FRAIL KING LOWICKER

Until a week ago, Myrrima had never been more than ten miles from home, and as she rode through Fleeds, she felt as if everything she'd known were slipping away.

Myrrima had left behind her family, her country. The land was changing subtly as she rode south. First she passed through the plains of southern Heredon, into the canyon lands of northern Fleeds, and now she was moving farther south. Here, the plains were richer and more fertile than
back home, a bit more wet. She did not recognize some of the trees at the roadside, and even the people were different. The sheep men of Fleeds were often shorter and darker than people at home, the horse clans taller and more fair. Cottages were no longer made of mud and wattle, but of stone. Even the air smelled different, she thought, though it was hard to tell, given that she had an endowment of scent from a dog.

Most of all, Myrrima had left herself behind. She had the strength of three men in her arms now, the grace of four, the stamina of her dogs, the speed of five.

She'd never been so cognizant of her own power.

Yet she felt an unsettling sameness to her. In her heart she still loved in the same way, still felt her own inadequacies. Even with her new endowments, Myrrima felt impotent. Though she was a wolf lord, she felt all too common still.

She did not know whether Borenson would welcome her on his quest south, but by nightfall she hoped to reach Carris and present herself to him. She hoped he'd think she'd earned the right to accompany him to Inkarra, though she could not pretend to have his skills in battle.

But her encounter with Lord Pilwyn had left her shaken, uncertain. What kind of enemies would she find in Inkarra? How could she hope to fight them? Endowments would not be enough to fight wizards like the Storm Lord and his kin.

At Tor Doohan, Myrrima found everything in disarray. Gaborn's knights were strung out for miles. Some were just reaching Tor Doohan, while a passerby told them that Gaborn himself had ridden south an hour ago.

A knight rode out of the shadows of the great white stones that circled the crimson pavilion and addressed Iome. “Your Highness, His Majesty King Orden bade me inform you that he has had to ride on to Carris in great haste. He left this letter in my care.”

Iome read the letter, sniffed the paper to make sure that Gaborn's scent was upon it, then wadded it angrily and stuffed it in her pocket.

“Bad news?” Sir Hoswell asked. “Can I do anything to help?”

Iome glanced at him distractedly.

“No,” she answered. “My lord is in great haste to reach Carris. He bids us hurry. We won't be able to rest the horses long if we are to catch him before nightfall.”

“Is it wise even to try, milady?” Sir Hoswell inquired. “You've ridden over four hundred miles since dawn yesterday. Even your fine mount cannot easily bear such punishment!”

It was true. Sir Borenson's force horse had been plump when Myrrima set off for the south, but in the past two days it had lost seventy or eighty pounds of fat.

The lords of Rofehavan fed their force horses special diets when traveling in haste, using a mixture called “miln.” Miln consisted of rolled oats and barley coated with dried molasses, often with alfalfa or melilot thrown into the mix. For a horse, miln was a heady pleasure, and a force horse fed well on it could run for hours, while a horse fed on grass alone was said to have “legs of straw,” for they would not hold the mount long.

But even miln would not allow a force horse to race endlessly. Myrrima's mount had three endowments of metabolism. With so many endowments, a few hours of rest would seem like a day to the beast, allowing it to recuperate.

“Gaborn is racing his horse,” Iome objected to Hoswell.

Hoswell shook his head. “It's not my place to counsel the Earth King,” Hoswell said, “but Gaborn knows the danger he's riding into. Half of the mounts he's driving to Carris will die at this pace.”

“We'll take two hours' rest,” Iome said to Hoswell. “We can feed the horses here, and carry extra miln to keep them along the way until we reach Beldinook.”

Hoswell looked at his own mount. It was in far worse shape than Iome's mount or Myrrima's. The beast had been skinnier than these in the first place, and so had been hard-pressed to keep pace with the stouter mounts. Myrrima
knew full well that when Hoswell objected to the pace of the ride, he objected mostly for the sake of his own beast.

If the horse lived to reach Carris, it would most likely be in poor condition for battle. Nor would it carry a man far in case of a forced retreat.

“So be it,” he said heavily. He leapt from the mount and led his horse to the stables, intending to give it as much rest as he could. With it he took the palfrey from the Inkarran assassin.

Myrrima watched Hoswell go.

“Why do you give him such a black look?” Iome asked. “Is there something between you?”

“Nothing,” Myrrima said. Hoswell was Lord of the Royal Society of Archers, a master bowier who had spent years in the south, studying the making of hornbows. He was a man of sound reputation, in the good graces of the King. Myrrima did not want to have to confess that she detested the man.

Myrrima sat astride Borenson's big warhorse and fought the urge to continue south now. Iome must have noted her mood.

“Gaborn begged me to stay here in his note,” Iome confessed weakly. “He does not think the road ahead will be safe. He says that he fears that ‘Doom lies upon Carris,' and even now the Earth bids him to strike and flee with equal fervor. He's confused. I thought I should warn you.”

“He's probably right,” Myrrima agreed. Iome sounded as if she felt unsure what to do. “Milady,” Myrrima said. “If you wish to stay here, I understand…. But I'm not riding to war at Carris. I hope to accompany my husband to Inkarra. I
must
take the road south.”

“You sound driven,” Iome said warily. “I fear that you will never forgive me.”

“Forgive you, milady?” Myrrima asked, surprised by the Queen's tone.

“I'm the one who sentenced your husband to perform his Act Penitent,” Iome said. “Had I known that I was driving you south, too, I'd not have done it. Perhaps I should lay
aside the quest. … It's a hard thing I've done.”

“No,” Myrrima said. “It was a generous thing. You've given him a way to earn forgiveness, and in Mystarria I've heard that there is a maxim: ‘Forgiveness should never be given—it must be earned.' I fear that in my husband's case, he cannot even forgive himself until he has earned it.”

“Then I hope he can earn it, with you at his side,” Iome said. “You have a warrior's spirit. I'm surprised that no one noticed it sooner.”

Myrrima shook her head, glad to change the subject. She'd always been strong of will, but she'd never seen herself as a warrior—not until a little over a week ago.

“It's said that when the Earth King Erden Geboren was crowned, he Chose his warriors. I know full well that Gaborn Chose me in the market of Bannisferre on that first day we met. Even though neither he nor I knew that he was the Earth King. He thought me brash and said he wanted me in his court, but he was really Choosing me.

“But do you know what I was thinking when he Chose me?”

“What?” Iome asked.

Myrrima hesitated, for she'd not told this to anyone, had not even recalled the thought until now. “I was thinking, even when I saw him standing there at the tinker's booth, all dressed like some fop of a merchant prince, that I would fight for that man. I would die for him.

“I'd never thought that about a man before. The notion gave me the courage to take his hand, though he was a total stranger.”

Iome was bemused. “Gaborn told me how you met, how you took his hand there in the market. He saw it as only an attempt at seduction, a poor woman looking for a good marriage.”

That was true, but now Myrrima recognized that there was also something more. Myrrima tried to express the odd notion that was growing in her. “Maybe Gaborn did not Choose me, so much as we Chose each other. Last week, you mentioned that one could not be so near his creative
powers without wanting a child. I … there's more to him than that. Ever since we've met, I look at the earth, and time and again I'm stunned by its beauty—by the yellow of a daisy, or the blue shadows cast by rounded stones, or the rich smell of moss. He makes me feel more awake and alive than ever before. But there's something else: He makes me want to fight.”

“You're a frightening woman, Myrrima.”

“I told you that I'd understand if you wanted to stay here. I know that it will be dangerous in Carris. But I want to go,” Myrrima said, hoping Iome would understand.

“Neither you nor I have enough training to go into battle—yet,” Iome warned. “It wouldn't be wise.”

“I know,” Myrrima said. “But that doesn't stop the craving.”

Iome bit her lip, spoke thoughtfully. “I think … that your intentions are good. As a Runelord, you should act upon them. With your stamina you can work ceaselessly; with your brawn, you can strike mighty blows. Our people deserve our best efforts.

“But it frightens me, Myrrima. You have been given so much so quickly. I would not want to see you get killed.”

Myrrima's mount bent low. The ground here below Tor Doohan was beaten, hardly a blade of grass left, but Myrrima's mount snatched at a few blades of clover close to the ground.

“We'll ride fast,” Iome promised. “Maybe we can reach Carris before sundown.”

“You're too kind, milady,” Myrrima said, climbing down from her mount. She stood a moment, stretching her legs.

Two hours later, as they were having a meal at an inn, a courier brought word from the south: Lowicker of Beldinook had sought to ambush the Earth King, and had been defeated at Beldinook's border.

Iome reeled from this ill news.

Lowicker had promised to ally himself with Gaborn, had promised to send knights to ride at his side. Lowicker had
promised to lead his own troops against Raj Ahten, and to provide supplies for Gaborn and his knights.

What would happen now that Gaborn had slain the King of Beldinook? One by one, Gaborn's allies were fading away. It was nearly two in the afternoon. King Orwynne had died about this time yesterday while fighting the Darkling Glory. Now Lowicker had turned traitor and been slain.

With Lowicker dead, his daughter would either have to go to war with Gaborn or offer terms of surrender. Gaborn was in such a hurry that he would want neither.

Whether Lowicker's daughter offered battle or reconciliation, Gaborn would merely have to ride through her lands.

It might be dangerous to continue on to Beldinook. Gaborn's knights would be spread thin between here and Carris. Gaborn and a few hundred men were racing toward Carris, probably never more than a dozen in a group.

With his ranks spread thin, Gaborn's men would be in no position to fight. Indeed, they offered fine targets for Beldinook's wrath.