Lord Raj Ahten himself gave a shout, reigning in his stallion, and such was the power of his call—for he bore endowments of Voice from hundreds and hundreds of people—that his words carried clearly even this high on the citadel, even blowing on the wind. He sounded kindly and pleasant, belying the threat inherent in his deeds.
“King Sylvarresta, people of Heredon,” Raj Ahten called, his voice as fair as the tinkling of a bell, as resonant as a woodwind. “Let us be friends—not combatants. I bear you no malice. Look at my army—” He spread his arms wide. “You cannot defeat it. Look at me. I am not your enemy. Surely you will not force me to squat here in the cold tonight, while you dine beside your hearths? Throw open your gates. I will be your lord, and you will be my people.”
His voice sounded so pleasant, so brimming with reason and gentleness, that had she been on the walls, Iome would have found it hard to resist.
Indeed, in that moment, she heard the gears to the main portcullis grind, and the drawbridge began to lower.
Iome's heart pounded. She leaned forward, shouting “No!” astonished that some of her fool subjects, overwhelmed by a monster's glamour and Voice, were doing his bidding.
Beside her, King Sylvarresta also shouted, ordering his men to raise the bridge. But they were far from the gates, so high up. The sound of Orden's shout was muffled by the visor on his helm. He pulled it up to call more clearly.
In keeping with her own feelings of anger, down at the gates, Captain Derrow let a bolt loose at the Wolf Lord. Derrow's bolt flew with incredible speed, a blur of black iron that would have driven through any other man's armor.
But the speed and strength of Raj Ahten outmatched him. The Runelord simply reached up and caught the bolt in midair.
Such speed. Raj Ahten had done the unthinkable, taking so many endowments of metabolism. Even from here, she saw that he must move five or six times as fast as a common man. Living at such speed, he'd age and die in a matter of years. But before then, he might well conquer the world.
“Here now,” he called, sounding reasonable. “We'll have no more of that.” Then with great force, with a sound of gentleness that slid past all of Iome's defenses, Raj Ahten commanded, “Throw down your weapons and your armor. Give yourselves to me.”
Iome leapt to her feet, found herself grasping for her poniard, ready to toss it over the walls. Only Gaborn's hand, which reached to stop her, kept her from dropping the weapon over the wall.
Immediately she regretted it, saw how foolish it had been, and she glanced at her father, afraid at how angry he might be. She saw him struggling, struggling, to keep from tossing his own warhammer over the tower wall.
For half a heartbeat she stood, terrified of how her people might respond to Raj Ahten's voice and glamour, fearing that those closer to the monster would be fooled.
With a shout, as if in celebration, her people began tossing bows and weapons over castle walls. Swords and fouchards clattered on the stones beside the moat, along with helms and shields. The ballistas on the south wall crashed to the water, raising a plume of spray. From here, the sound of her people cheering was almost deafening, as if Raj Ahten had come as their savior, not their destroyer, and in that moment, the city gates opened wide.
Several of House Sylvarresta's most loyal soldiers began to struggle, hoping to close the gates. Captain Derrow swung his steel bow as a weapon, fending off townsmen. A few warriors with great heart but lesser gifts never made it from their posts at the walls. As soon as they shouted in defiance, those standing nearby grabbed them. Brawls broke out. Iome saw several of the city guards get tossed over the walls to their deaths.
From here, Iome could not see the beauty of Raj Ahten's face. From here, surely the wind diminished the sweetness of his voice.
From here on the castle wall, even though Iome could comprehend how her city was lost, she could not quite believe what she saw with her own eyes.
She was stunned. She found herself shaken more than she could have imagined.
The drawbridge came down. The portcullis lifted. The inner gate opened.
Without one enemy loss, Castle Sylvarresta fell.
Amid cheers, Raj Ahten rode into the inner court, just inside the great wall, while Iome's people tossed aside the carts and barrels that littered the area, and chickens flew up out of the Wolf Lord's path.
How could I have been so blind? Iome wondered. How could I have not seen the danger?
Only moments before, Iome had hoped that her father and King Orden would be able to withstand Raj Ahten.
How simpleminded I am.
From beside her, Iome's father shouted, calling across the distance, calling for his men to surrender. He did not want to watch them die.
The stiff evening wind carried away his words.
In shock, Iome glanced at her father's face, saw him pale and shaken, beaten, beaten, and utterly hopeless.
My father's voice is as dry and insubstantial as ash blowing in the wind, Iome thought. He is nothing before Raj Ahten. We are all nothing. She'd never imagined this.
Raj Ahten leaned forward in his saddle, moving ever so lightly. From so far away, his face was no larger in her field of vision than a sparkling bit of quartz sand glittering on a beach; she imagined him beautiful. He seemed young. He seemed fair. He wore his armor more lightly than another man might wear his clothes, and Iome watched him in wonder. It was rumored that he had endowments of brawn from thousands of men. If not for fear of breaking his bones, he could leap the walls, slice through an armored man as if slicing through a peach.
In battle he would be nearly invincible. With his endowments of wit—drained from hundreds of sages and generals—no swordsman could take him by surprise. His endowments of metabolism would let him move through the courtyard, dodging between startled guards, an unstoppable blur. With enough endowments of stamina, he could withstand almost any blow in battle.
For all intents and purposes, Raj Ahten was no longer even a human. He'd become a force of nature.
One intent on subduing the world.
He needed no army to back him, no force elephants or shaggy Frowth giants to batter down the palace gates. No nomen to scale the walls. No flameweavers to set the city's roofs aflame.
They were all minor terrors, distractions. Like the ticks that infested a giant's fur.
“We can't fight,” her father whispered. “Sweet mercy, we can't fight.”
Beside her, Gaborn's breath came ragged, and he moved so close that Iome could feel the warmth of him beside her face.
Iome felt disconnected from her body as she simply watched the events unfold below. People were running to the courtyard, trying to press close to the new lord, their Lord, who would destroy them all.
Iome feared Raj Ahten as she feared death; yet she also found that she welcomed him. The power of his Voice made her welcome him.
Prince Gaborn Val Orden said softly, “Your people don't have the will to resist. My regrets to House Sylvarresta—to your father, and to you—for the loss of your kingdom.”
Thank you,” Iome said, her voice weak, far away.
Gaborn turned to King Sylvarresta. “My lord, is there anything I can-” Gaborn was looking at Iome. Perhaps he hoped to take her from here, to take her away.
Iome's father turned to the Prince, still in shock. “Do? You are but a boy? What could you possibly do?”
Iome's mind raced. She wondered if Gaborn could help her escape. But, no, she couldn't imagine it. Raj Ahten would know she was in the castle. The royals were marked. If Gaborn tried to free her, Raj Ahten would hunt them down. The most Gaborn might accomplish would be to save himself. Raj Ahten did not know that Prince Orden was on the grounds.
Apparently, King Sylvarresta reached the same conclusion. “If you can make it from the castle, give my regards to your father. Tell him I regret that we won't hunt together again. Perhaps he can avenge my people.”