Wizardborn (46 page)

Iome stood among the silver-barked birches at the edge of the wood, waving in return.

Myrrima had a strange view of her then. It seemed right for Iome to be there in the woods, as natural as berries on a holly tree. There with the golden limbs hanging above her head, wearing her traveling robes of green, with a son growing in her womb and horses at her back, Iome looked a proper wife for an Earth King.

Iome waved farewell to Myrrima and Borenson. She felt miserable. Gaborn wanted her to be safe, protected. He wanted what was best for her.

But right now, she felt very much alone.

Her friends were riding to Inkarra. Gaborn planned to go to the Underworld. And she… would go where she was told while the world collapsed around her. She yearned to do more.

Iome had Sergeant Grimeson call the guard together and they headed east with the guards and wagons.

The golden plains soon dissipated, replaced by lands so rich that they remained green even at the last of summer, and great oaks pocked the fields. Cottages began to dot the landscape, and stone fences lined the highway.

People were soon everywhere, and as Iome's horse raced by, more often than not the farmers with their pigs or sheep or wagons would hardly have time to recognize her, much less doff a hat or bend the knee.

So their party was continually followed by cries of “Was
that the queen?” and “Look, quick, there goes the queen!”

By late afternoon, Carris was but an evil memory. The aroma of living wheat fields supplanted the smell of dead grass; lordly pear orchards where starlings soared in riotous clouds were exchanged for the gray soot; the lowing of cattle as they grazed in the fields replaced the cries of children.

Iome felt invigorated.

Grimeson named the villages and cities for her as they passed, and sometimes would point out an ancient battlefield or spot of ground where history had unfolded. She soon realized that this unsightly little man had a fine head on his shoulders, and was cordial enough. But she wondered why Gaborn had chosen him to be her escort.

As evening gave way to night, Iome kept wishing to stop for a real meal at one of the inns that they passed. Time after time, she would smell the delicious aromas of ham cooking in a bed of leeks, or chicken savories, or warm bread fresh from the oven.

But the need was on her, and so she rode like a gale through the night, until, as Runelords do, she slept in the saddle, passing through a dream with a cool wind in her face, her hair flying.

Under starlight they rode, until one of the guards said, “Milady?”

Iome blinked her eyes as she woke.

They came to a stop on a rise, and the dark ocean spread before them in every direction. Iome had never seen an ocean, had never smelled the bitter tang of salt so strongly mingled with life and decay. She had not conceived how endless its horizons would be.

Ahead lay several small islands, all spanned by elegant bridges made of white stone that were almost indiscernible from wisps of cloud in the moonlight.

She saw stretched out above them the soaring towers at the Courts of Tide, like silver spears taking aim at the horned moon.

   38   

Wizards never infringe upon the affairs of common men. It's just that common men sometimes get entangled in the affairs of wizards.

—
The Earth Warden Binnesman

As afternoon dimmed into night, Averan watched Gaborn and various lords gathered in the council. They all sat on rocks and stumps that they had pulled into a circle near the creek. The reavers had been up on Mangan's Rock for nearly three hours, roosting there like crows. The sun slanted toward the horizon, and a cool breeze wafted out of the mountains, carrying with it the scent of pine.

The Rune of Desolation that the reavers formed was only just beginning to take shape. Many scarlet sorceresses had been slain in the march, along with the glue mums, so that this construct was growing slowly. But the sickly design was evident, and foul-smelling smokes rolled off the hill as if bubbling from a cauldron.

Still, Averan had to wonder. From Battle Weaver's memories, she knew that Battle Weaver had been sent here precisely because she had mastered the Rune of Desolation. Other reavers might duplicate portions of the rune, but each sorceress knew only a small piece of the whole.

Gaborn's men still held the plains in a vast circle. The reavers' smoke burned a man's sinuses and made his eyes water. It was bad enough so that the frowth giants moved their camp well upwind of the rock. Yet there was still no
sign of the blasting that had destroyed crops for miles around Carris.

To Averan, that seemed proof that the reavers were destined to fail at duplicating the rune.

But Gaborn was worried. He wanted the rune destroyed, and he wanted the Way maker.

He huddled with dozens of lords: Skalbairn, Sir Langley, Queen Herin the Red, Duke Groverman, Jerimas, and dozens of others. They raised loud voices and planned to assault the rock.

Averan sat quietly at the edge of the circle.

There was a thrill of expectation in the air, the sense of a rising battle. “I say we take artillery to them,” Skalbairn was saying. “We put ballistas south of the rock, and shoot the reavers down until they retreat. Then we send Runelords up the cliffs on scaling ladders.”

Gaborn looked evenly at Skalbairn. “I told you before: artillery won't work.”

“Of course it will work!” Skalbairn argued.

“The king's right,” Jerimas said. “The reavers would just throw rocks back at us. There's no getting at them.”

“There has to be a way,” Queen Herin offered. “What if we built large siege towers, attacked from downwind? We could draw the towers in fast, using force horses. We might gain some element of surprise.”

Gaborn shook his head sadly. “The Earth warns against it.”

So he had said of every plan that the men propounded. The Earth did not grant him leave to act.

If only he could summon an earthquake, Averan thought, as he did at Carris. I'd see the reavers shaken from their perches, the whole hillside sliding into ruin.

But Gaborn could not summon earthquakes or world worms anymore. He could not even come up with a plan of attack. Always the Earth's counsel was the same: no.

Averan glanced up, found Gaborn gazing toward her, as if hoping she would come to his rescue. Averan leaned forward, wrapped her hands over her head. She felt as if it
were crammed to bursting. Memories still rushed into her, even though her mind was full. It was as if she'd devoured a huge feast, and now sat torpid, bloated, and kept shoving snacks down her mouth.

She had a sudden vivid vision of the nesting site of the Soft Stone Clan where Keeper had hatched, down where the rocks were warm from magma. She recalled cutting her way out of a leathery sack at birth by using her egg tooth, only to be attacked by one of her older siblings while still weary from the ordeal.

Keeper had wrestled with his sister, ripping off a hind leg as she fled. It was a hollow victory, for Keeper would have been better nourished by his sister's corpse. Still, the leg provided him with his first real taste of flesh, and he fashioned the broken bone into a weapon, which he used to stab the next few hatchlings. He tore off the sweet musk glands beneath their forearms for nourishment, and ate their brains so that he quickly grew strong and wise.

Keeper's memories were macabre, fascinating, although sketchy. She remembered haunting fragments of incidents: reavers desperately placing huge stones to form a conduit so that magma rising around them would shoot up to heat an underground lake.

The discussion had hit a lull. In the background there was a yelp and the sound of a staff smacking flesh. Beneath the fallen oak behind them, Gaborn's captain was still training the wylde. He'd shown her how a Runelord could use a staff to vault over the head of an enemy. Now he taught her how to whirl her staff to engage multiple attackers. Even without endowments of brawn, the green woman matched his expert maneuvers.

A voice of reason suddenly spoke up. It was Jerimas. “We've been talking for hours now, and each time we come up with a plan, Gaborn says that the Earth forbids it. Are we sure that we even want the reavers off that rock?”

“What do you mean?” Skalbairn said in his deep voice. The huge warrior was sitting on a stone, sharpening his battle-ax. He tilted his head to hear the answer.

“I mean,” Jerimas said, leaning forward eagerly, so that his long silver beard nearly swept his knees, “that Averan tells us that the reavers are suffering from thirst. Once they come off that rock, they're likely to head for the nearest drinking water—the water they left in Carris. Perhaps that's why the Earth warns us against attacking.”

“Aye,” Queen Herin said. “I'm all for letting them sit up there till they dry up like jerk.”

“We can't wait,” Gaborn said. “I have greater worries than Carris. I need the Waymaker.”

“For what it's worth, I don't think they'll go back to Carris,” Averan said. “The mountains were too cold last night. They'll be afraid to try them again.”

“The weather has turned,” Skalbairn reasoned. “It won't be that cold tonight.”

“The reavers don't know that,” Averan said. “The weather is a mystery to them. To them, weather is just something that happens.”

Old Jerimas said, “If the reavers feel too desperate, it may be that once they come off the rock, they'll simply attack in full force. We must leave them an escape route, a way that looks safe.”

“Agreed,” Gaborn said. “We'll give them an open road to the south—for a while.” The wilds of Mystarria to the south were scarcely inhabited. Keep Haberd had been one of the largest fortresses, and now it was gone. “But I'd still like to know what can get them off the rock.”

Averan glanced up. Everyone was looking at her expectantly. She shook her head. “I don't know. I can't understand what they're doing up there. Only Battle Weaver knew how to build the Rune of Desolation.”

“They learn fast,” Gaborn said. “Perhaps this new leader is feeling confident.”

“I'll tell you what can get them off that rock,” Skalbairn said to Averan. “Fear. They have to be more frightened of staying up there than of leaving. What is it that reavers fear in the Underworld?”

Averan dredged up what images she could. There were
lots of things. She recalled one reaver that had stepped on a creature that burrowed in the ground. It was long, with a thin tail that poked up. The tail had pierced the reaver's foot, and the small creature had injected its eggs.

Battle Weaver had used a spell to burn the eggs, but the wound was too deep, and the eggs were already in the reaver's blood. Thousands of parasites soon began hatching in the unfortunate reaver, so that it had to be cast into a pit.

There were other denizens of the Underworld that reavers feared or respected.

But one thing came to mind more than others. “Smoke.”

“Of course,” Skalbairn said. “Smoke in a closed tunnel. It would kill reavers as fast as it does men.”