Wizardborn (70 page)

The most enigmatic of reavers is the “fell mage,” the leader of an attacking horde.

Hearthmaster Magnus contended that they are a separate species from other reavers, while others suggest that powerful leaders always rise from within the ranks of sorceresses.

It is of course tempting to assume that something as malign as a reaver horde would have to have a leader. But I often wonder if even the eyewitness accounts of fell mages are not faulty. In what respect does a “fell mage” differ from any other large sorceress?

And since the last eyewitness documentation of a fell mage leading a reaver horde is nearly 1400 years old, I wonder if it is prudent to discount the notion completely.

Rather, I suspect that reavers form a loose society that is ultimately leaderless.

—
Hearthmaster Valen, of the Room of Beasts

Guildmaster Wallachs's wagon rounded a corner too fast, slewed as if it would leave the road. They'd left Feldonshire, and as she topped a hill Averan spotted two disreputable warehouses on the flats below. Hides stretched on racks in the sun outside one building identified it as a tannery.

Wallachs slowed his wagon, whistled to some men loading barrels outside the tannery. “Reavers will be here in five minutes. Get to safety!”

The men left off loading their barrels and Wallachs was off again. The horses heaved with every breath, and they frothed now. Wallachs shouted as he sent the whip whistling over their tails.

Wallachs eyed the second building as he passed. Averan could smell the pungent, greasy odor of lye soap cooking.

After that, there was no true road. No cottages bordered the Stinkwater, not even the lowest hovel. Here on the east of town, the only businesses had been those that smelled so bad that no one would want them near.

To the west of town the land had been rich and fertile, covered with cottages and gardens, orchards, vineyards, and fields of hops and barley.

But here even the ground seemed defiled. The land flattened out. During the winters, rain would swell the Stinkwater Ponds, flooding their banks. In summer the water receded, leaving a yellowish-gray crust where almost nothing could grow. Coarse grass thrust up from sandy patches along with a few black, stunted trees that were so twisted they might never have been alive.

Averan could smell the Stinkwater, a stench like rotten eggs.

The ponds, green with scum, boiled out of the ground not far ahead. A thin haze rose up from the steaming waters. A dozen wagons were there, with twenty or thirty men offloading barrels.

Wallachs drew near, shouted, “How do you fare?”

“We've got enough lye in there to eat the flesh off your bones,” one man shouted, “and with all the turpentine, I'd not get a flame close to it for any woman's love!”

Averan looked at Binnesman's face. He seemed unprepared for how large the ponds really were. They looked larger down here than they did from up in the sky. Each one covered several acres. Kegs of poison floated in them.

In the distance, the earth thundered as the reavers approached. Binnesman's countenance was pale.

“By the Powers,” he whispered, “I can't heal those waters—not in an hour, not in a day!”

Wallachs grunted and nodded, as if his suspicions had been confirmed. He shouted to his men. “You've got three minutes to clear the ponds. The reavers are coming!”

He snapped his whip over the ears of his team, and raced ahead.

“The road gives out just east of here,” Wallachs apologized to Binnesman in a worried tone. “Not more than a mile, and you're in the woods.”

He left much unsaid. If the reavers came after them, there'd be no place to run.

“A mile should be far enough,” Binnesman said. “Take us to yonder rise, and let's see what happens.”

Wallachs urged the horses on, and the buckboard bounced mercilessly over the bumpy trail, rattling Averan's teeth. Behind them, a cloud of dust rose from where Feldonshire had stood, and the faint screams drifted over the plain.

Averan's stomach knotted. The horses were tiring. They couldn't keep up this pace for mile after mile. Even if the road had kept going, the horses couldn't.

Now the wagon rolled up a small knoll where a few black trees thrust from the sparse grass. From there, Averan could see the hills above town and look out over the Stink-water.

She'd seen the ponds before from the sky. Up high, they looked like three bright green gems with white edges. But she knew that it was just a trick of the light.

Now the wagons pulled away from the ponds, with men whipping their horses. Broken barrels bobbed on the water, spilling scum. The steam rising from the ponds' surface made them look like bubbling cauldrons.

Averan's heart pounded. They had barely stopped, when the reavers crowned the hill above Feldonshire, stampeding for the Stinkwater.

The horde thundered across the plain, teeth gleaming wickedly in the sunlight. For hours they had been running in the Form of War.

Now they broke ranks. The largest and greediest blade-bearers surged ahead, making for the ponds.

But even half a mile from water, most reavers sensed something wrong. Many rose up on their back legs, philia waving madly, and drew back from the stench. Others merely slowed, stalked forward cautiously.

A few thousand reavers, so crazed that their senses were gone, galloped forward and threw themselves into the ponds, dipping their heads down deep in the water, then throwing them back up as they drank in a strangely birdlike fashion. They crowded together, cheek to jowl, a solid mass of gray leathery hides and flashing teeth.

It was a horror to watch.

Behind the reaver horde, Gaborn's knights advanced over the hills.

With the breaking ranks and their loss of hope, many reavers floundered. They dropped and lay insensate, unwilling to move.

Knights on their force horses raced to take them while they were down. Their silver mail flashed as horses wheeled and turned, darting after the slowest gray reavers. Through half-closed eyes, the knights reminded Averan for all the world of silver minnows in a pool, flashing in the sunlight as they struck at a bit of food.

The knights brought down a few hundred reavers, then wheeled their chargers south to a small hill nearly a mile and a half away. They formed ranks there. Lances bristled as they aimed at the sky. Local farmers and merchant boys rode up to meet them, swelling their ranks to thousands.

Closer to hand, the reavers that had reached the Stinkwater and drunk the most began to die. Muscle spasms caused them to flip to their sides, kicking dust in the air as they spun.

Those that drank only a little drew away from the fouled water after a swallow or two, and simply heaved the contents of their stomachs onto the ground. They groped about, almost too weak to move.

By far the vast majority of the reavers merely retreated
from the ponds and stood, dazed with dehydration. Their philia drooped in exhaustion, hanging from their heads like dead vines. The rasping of their heavy breathing filled the air, becoming a dull rumble.

Dozens of reavers began to trudge in aimless circles, no longer cognizant of where they went.

From the south, a hundred force horses came charging over the plains out of the wooded hills. Gaborn led them, riding with Knight's Equitable, as if to race the wind. He'd circled the reaver horde. Now he rode up toward Averan on the hillock. Skalbairn rode with him, along with Baron Waggit and many other knights.

Gaborn nodded at Averan and leapt from his horse, gazing west at the reavers. “What's happening?” he demanded. His countenance was grim, determined.

“Their run to water has left them broken,” Binnesman answered. “I suspect that over half of the horde has succumbed.”

“Not quite half,” Gaborn said. “I estimate nearly forty thousand reavers left in the horde.”

“They're dying,” Averan added. “They won't make it back to Keep Haberd.”

“I think,” Wallachs said hopefully, “I think we've done it. I think we've won!”

Averan watched Gaborn as he licked his lips and stared hard at the reavers. Eventually they would all die, and Gaborn would lead her to the Waymaker. There she would feed, and learn the path to the One True Master.

“We haven't won,” Gaborn told Wallachs. “They may die, but not without a fight.”

Even as he spoke, a great hissing erupted among the center of the horde.

A mage rose up high on her legs, began casting her scent far and wide. The glowing runes on her body glimmered in the sun, and her staff suddenly blazed like white lightning.

Three Kills was her name. In Averan's memory, she was young and fearsome, easily the most cunning mage in the
horde. Only her relative youth and small size had kept her from leading the band before. Three more reavers rose up, faced Three Kills and began hissing in return.

“What's happening?” Gaborn demanded.

“It's an argument between lords,” Averan said. “They often argue.”

“Which one is their leader?” Gaborn asked.

Averan was astonished by the question. It was so obvious. “The one with her butt highest in the air. See how the others keep theirs lower? She'll kill them if they don't.”

Gaborn watched them so intently that Averan felt guilty for not being able to tell him more. He went to the lip of the hill, drew his warhammer and planted it in the ground, much as Binnesman did his staff. Then he held the handle, and peered at the reavers, as if trying to read their thoughts.

If I had the senses of a reaver, she knew, I'd be able to smell what they said. I'd know what they were arguing about.

But she only knew that an argument like this might last for an hour or more.

The sunlight seemed so bright, so painful. As the reavers held their council, Averan half closed her eyes.

Down in the valley below, Three Kills's argument ended abruptly. A rival raised her tail slightly, and Three Kills leapt, thrust her crystalline staff through the sweet triangle of her adversary. There was a dull explosion, and the sorceress's head ripped into ragged chunks.

She had had her say.

Now Three Kills snatched gobbets of her brain, while others in the horde ripped out the sweet glands below her legs.

The remaining reavers drew back, began rushing about, taking up new formations. They separated into nine camps, each led by a scarlet sorceress, each in the Form of War.

They turned and began stalking east, spreading to the north and south as they went. It was a distinctly odd maneuver for a reaver.

Reavers lived in tunnels, and tended to walk in single
file through the Underworld—head to tail. That way, orders could be relayed backward easily.

Spreading their forces went against the reavers' most fundamental instincts. More than that, the horde was heading downwind. They wouldn't easily be able to smell adversaries in front of them.

“What are they doing?” Gaborn asked. “Is this what I think?”

Averan began shaking. She could see it all so clearly. The nine armies would create a front perhaps eight miles wide. Already Gaborn's troops on the far hill recognized the danger and began to retreat. “You're right. The reavers know they're going to die,” she said. “But there are a lot of people in Feldonshire. They'll hunt down as many peasants as they can. After that…”

“They'll keep hunting,” Gaborn said. “I can sense ripples of danger everywhere. They'll circle and head downriver, through city after city until they reach the Courts of Tide.

“Averan, how can I stop them?”

The reavers loped off to the east.

Averan thought quickly. Each time they'd killed a leader, the new mage had changed tactics. Even now, the other sorceresses questioned Three Kills's wisdom. She'd led them to water, only to find it poisoned. The reavers were on the verge of mutiny.

“You must get rid of Three Kills …”

“Of course!” Gaborn said. But he'd lost sight of her. “Where is she?”

“The middle formation,” Averan answered.

His face paled. She knew that he was considering strategies, counting the potential cost. He looked grim, lost.

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