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.
59
Brotherhood
I have learned that my kingdom has no borders.
And that all men are more than mere subjects—they are my kinsmen, my brethren—and therefore deserving of my devotion.
I find that I grieve the loss of strangers as I would grieve the loss of my only child.
Skalbairn sat on his charger as Gaborn studied the reavers. Skalbairn could see the wheels of the lad’s mind turning as he considered how to best the reavers. The reavers were stalking toward Feldonshire.
The boy had no time to plot any elegant strategies. The main force of his cavalry held the hill to the west. But if Gaborn raced to them now, he would have to skirt the reavers’ lines. By the time he reached his men, the reavers would be into Feldonshire, hunting.
“Gentlemen,” Gaborn said firmly. “I believe we can stop the slaughter before it begins—but only at great cost.”
Gaborn looked up at the hundred men who had ridden with him, staring each in the eye. “I’m for the Underworld, and cannot lead the charge. And any man who rides now must consider his life forfeit. Will you ride?”
The lad was serious. Skalbairn had never seen an expression like Gaborn wore now. There was suffering and pain in his eyes, and sorrow in his brow, and a consuming need.
Skalbairn’s blood went chill. As a child he’d dreamt of being a warrior, and in his fondest dreams he’d imagined that an Earth King would arise someday, and Skalbairn would fight at his side.
But he’d never dreamt of it like this. The Earth King never asked him to die.
There was a moment of silence from the lords. Skalbairn knew that his men would ride, but none wanted to be the first to speak.
“In the world to come,” Skalbairn inquired, “may I ride beside you in the Great Hunt?”
“Aye,” Gaborn said. “Any man who rides now will ride with me then.” It was an empty promise, Skalbairn knew. Not all men rose as wights.
Skalbairn spat on the ground. ” ‘Tis a bargain, then!”
A cheer rose from the men at Skalbairn’s back. Some drew their war-hammers and beat them against shields, others waved their lances.
The only man who did not cheer was Baron Waggit, who sat silently on his mount, thinking. It was a capacity new to him, Skalbairn reasoned, an unfamiliar tool.
Gaborn raised a hand, warning them to silence.
“We’ll need a diversion,” Gaborn said. He drew a hexagon on the ground. “You’ll break into three squadrons. We’ll send fifty men on a charge here to the left, another fifty to charge to the right. As the reavers’ move to attack, it should thin the line here at the front. A small force of men on fast horses can race through the lines and lance the mage.”
“Milord,” Skalbairn asked, “may I volunteer to strike the blow?”
The lad’s face was pale. He took a deep breath, nodded.
Skalbairn was sure then that he would die. Marshal Chondler said, “I’ll ride with him, as should any man of the Brotherhood of the Wolf.”
With that, a third man made the offer, Lord Kellish, and Gaborn nodded, and said, “That’s enough.”
Gaborn stared evenly at the hundred Knights Equitable who were going to ride into battle, said in a solemn tone, “Thank you. I’ll need each of you to fight like reavers now.”
Gaborn pulled out his warhorn and said, “The left wing charge on my command, two blasts quickly. The right wing will go on one blast long. Skalbairn, I’ll ride with you part of the way.”
Skalbairn and the knights quickly dismounted, checked their girth straps. Not every man had a lance, but every man wanted one. He quickly checked his charger’s hooves. The heavy war shoes were all in place. The leather bindings for its barding were tight.
For years, Skalbairn had lived as a moral failure. For years he had believed that only death might bring him some release.
He pulled off his purse, looked up at Baron Waggit. The young man sat on his horse, looking grim and thoughtful. He was big, handsome in a brutish sort of way, with a color of blond hair favored back in Internook. He wasn’t riding into battle, and that was good. He knew that this fight was beyond him. Maybe he’d never be a warrior. He’d make a fine farmer, or perhaps someday go back to the mines. With any luck, he’d live to a ripe old age. Right now, that was all that Skalbairn wanted from the man.
Damn it, Skalbairn thought. A day ago we all thought him a fool, and now he’s wiser than all the rest of us put together.
“Waggit,” Skalbairn called. The young man turned, his pale blue eyes piercing in the midmorning sun. “Some gold. I’d be grateful if you’d take it to my daughter, Farion. See that she’s well cared for.”
Waggit considered the request.
Skalbairn felt certain that if Waggit saw the girl, he’d feel for her plight. Waggit knew better than any man the world his idiot daughter was trapped in. He’d recognize her virtues and her goodness. His daughter was as kind as she was simple, and her smile was as infectious as a plague. She’d never make another man a proper wife. She could do small chores—bring in firewood or pluck a chicken for dinner. All she needed was a good man, capable of loving her. He’d need to be a patient man to care for her, to buy goods at the market, and help her rear her children—one forgiving of her weaknesses.
Skalbairn whispered to the Powers, Let him be that man.
Waggit nodded. “I’ll give it to her.”
“May the Bright Ones protect you,” Skalbairn said softly.
Skalbairn climbed on his horse, spurred the mount down the slope, leading the way. There was no more time for niceties.